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#they remind me of some michael pictures that looks exactly like this

tismrot · 7 months

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AZI’S ROLE IN CROWLEY’S FALL, more meta (guilt, angelic hierarchy, etc)

I saw a long meta post about Azi feeling responsible for Crowley falling (but Tumblr bugged and I can’t find it again) and I’m here to expand on that.

Yes - Azi feels guilty because he’s done so many worse, more indulgent things than Crowley ever did in Heaven. It’s likely that Crowley doesn’t even know exactly what he did - he hung out with the wrong people and asked questions, he says, but that sounds more speculative hindsight to me. He’s vague because he actually doesn’t know. I think it was simply his attitude; his refusal to mask his disappointments and opinions. While one question might have runneth his chalice over for the Metatron and God, he was always on his way to damnation.

Aziraphale knew this, since we know they knew of and cared for each other before Crowley’s Fall. The extent of their relationship is unknown, because Crowley seems to have some soap opera amnesia, just like Jim - to be fair, trauma can do this to you. Make you not remember your ‘childhood’.

The thing is, Aziraphale can get away with everything Crowley couldn’t because FIRST of all, Crowley was the archangel Raphael. He was up there with Gabriel and Michael. One sassy question from him and all of Heaven might crumble. Aziraphale, on the other hand, is just a principality, an angel tasked with suggesting humans - predominantly prophets - do good/God’s will (literally, look it up). The lowest order. In office terms, Crowley is the bosses’ favorite creative director, while Aziraphale is a street salesman trying to make you subscribe to some shitty phone plan. It doesn’t really matter if Aziraphale asks questions because nobody cares what he thinks anyways. He is only allowed miracles that help him sell phone plans, metaphorically. Raphael’s miracles create galaxies, literally.

SECOND of all, neither the Metatron nor God are omnipresent or omniscient. Not even in Heaven, but certainly not on Earth. We saw the spy photos of Azi and Crowley throughout time. They don’t have any clue about Earth and rely on the same type of intel the spies on the benches in London send their respective governments. Most, if not all of Aziraphale’s transgressions happen on Earth. Heaven doesn’t really know Aziraphale does anything worse than eating sushi and occasionally bumping into a dude who they later, after the not-apocalypse, learn is Crowley. Remember how Gabriel didn’t recognize Bildad? Yeah. The spy photos of Azi and Crowley throughout time was, to Heaven, pictures of Azi and *some guy*.

Why does Aziraphale, with his low rank and limited miracle abilities, feel guilty? For the same reason you felt guilty when the bullies bullied your friend and you just stood there. You couldn’t have stopped the bullying, you might have just gotten hurt yourself - but due to your own immaturity and fear, you did nothing. Aziraphale is always afraid of Falling, not just because of Hell or sulphur or damnation, but because Falling reminds him of his cowardice, and that if he had done the right and good thing and stood up to the bullies, him and Crowley could have been traumatized, but honest lovers for 6000 years. He HAS to fear Falling, because deep within him somewhere, if he doesn’t fear the Fall, he might WANT it too much, because it would allow him to be with Crowley.

EDIT: Crowley might enjoy watching Aziraphale indulge in earthly pleasures not just because of the whole “evil” temptation demon-thing OR because he’s desperately in love… He might also enjoy watching Aziraphale eat and drink because he knows Aziraphale can get away with it, and wants him to have good things? Maybe.

WHO WOULDN’T FALL FOR BILDAD?

#crowley #good omens fandom #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 2 #ineffable spouses #innefable husbands #crowley edits #ineffable divorce #ineffable husbands #crowley good omens #good omens meta #good omens fic rec #good omens tv #good omens season 3 speculation #good omens theory

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internet-sadass · 1 year

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please write more michael langdon smut im beggginggg. maybe hozier's work song inspired???? i just need simp michael plsssss

There's Nothing Sweeter Than My Baby (Grunge!Michael x Reader)

Blurb: Michael gets a chance to worship you in the best way possible

Warnings: smut, oral (female receiving)

A/N: thank you so so much for requesting something! I'm sorry i didnt get round to this sooner!! Hope you enjoy some simpy Michael smut, apologies for how badly I suck at romantic shit (I'm aromantic so it doesn't exactly come naturally to me).

It had been 2 weeks since Michael had last seen you, what with you being busy with university and your badly paid copywriting internship. He understood, of course, that he didn't get his girlfriend all to himself all the time and that you had many commitements of your own to attend to. Knowing that didn't make the empty space in his life that your presence usually filled any easier to accept or deal with.

Leaning back against the pillows on his bed, he checked his phone yet again, both to look at the time and see if any messages had come in from you. Two more hours and then he could see you, the one person except for Ms. Mead, who he actually gave a shit about. He'd been planning this day for the past three days. After all, he didn't normally have the house to himself, which meant he could spend some real 'quality' time with you without the fear of being caught. His hand and the cute pictures of you in lingerie only went so far in terms of satisfying him. Besides, pictures aren't the same as feeling your body pressed against his, hearing your moans and sighs, and being physically inside you.

"Fuck." He mumbled, realising his little daydream about slipping his fingers into your velvety pussy and making you moan his name was beginning to send blood rushing to his cock.

He didn't want to ruin what was coming later on by messing about with himself now. In an attempt to distract himself, he grabbed his headphones off the nightstand. Skipping through his playlist, he landed on Work Song by Hozier. Turning back to the book he had been reading, he passed hours listening to every song that reminded him of you, whether it be because it was a song you'd recommended to him or because there were traces of you in the lyrics.

*** "J-jesus, what's gotten into you!" You managed as Michael kissed down your neck, your feet not even through the doorframe.

He pulled back, a look of mock offence on his face.

"I havent seen you in two weeks, Y/N. That's too long for me not to go crazy when I finally do see you." He resumed kissing your neck as you closed the door behind you.

Noticing that Ms Mead's car was absent, you started to piece together the other reason Michael was unable to leave your body alone.

"Empty house?" You asked, stifling a girlish giggle as you connected the dots. So that's why he told you to (politely) hurry your ass home from class.

His response was an 'mm-hmm' as his hands traced the contours of your waist and hips. It felt like he was touching you for the first time again; your body was both a familiar and unfamiliar landscape beneath his hands. His lips moved from your collarbones to your mouth, drawing you in for a long overdue kiss. Melting into his touch, you pressed your body against him, feeling the beginnings of an erection press against your thigh.

"Excited to see me, hmm?" You teased in a sultry whisper, drawing back from his hungry lips.

"I'm fucking starving for you, dove."

The nickname gave you butterflies, even if it was the hundredth time he'd lovingly called you that.

"Let me taste you. I've missed you so fucking much, just let me show you how much." His low tone couldn't hide the eagerness in his voice, the pure need to worship you in the best way he knew.

You pressed your lips to his again, signalling without words that you consented to his offer. In one swift motion, Michael lifted you up, hands cupping your ass, and carried you to the leather sofa, lowering you down onto it. Falling to his knees, he pushed your skirt up, grateful that you were wearing something so accessible.

His breath was hot against your thighs as he peppered them with kisses, his mop of blonde hair tickling your skin as his lips edged closer and closer to your core. You'd never seen him this eager to have you, not even when both of you were insatiably horny. Even then, he paced himself, never rushing foreplay, always making sure your pleasure came before his. This time, he was already tracing the outline of your slit through your panties with his tongue, moaning under his breath as he did so. The tip of his tongue nudged your clit, applying just the right amount of pressure to make your thighs tense up on either side of his head. Fingers replaced his tongue, rubbing careful circles on your clit before dipping down to rub your slit. A short moan escaped your mouth.

"You missed me too, hmm?" Michael managed, forcing himself to talk rather than bury his head between your thighs and eat you like your pussy was his first meal in a week. His cock was fully hard, painfully pressing against the rough denim of his ripped jeans. As much as his sex drive told him to fuck you into the couch, he wanted this to be about getting you off, not just him.

Two fingers looped around the hem of your panties, pulling them down your legs and to your feet. Michael held them up as if he was admiring them. Red cotton with black lace trim, his favourite pair of yours. They were stained with a damp patch, a streak of your creamy arousal. Making eye contact with you, he licked your slick off the fabric, savouring your taste and scent.

"Fuck." Was all he managed when he stopped his display of self-indulgence and slid the panties into his jean pocket.

No sooner had he pocketed his prize, he turned his attention to your exposed cunt. He felt heat creep onto his cheeks, as if this was the first time he'd ever seen your sex. Looking up at you the entire time, he dragged his tongue up your slit in a broad, slow lick. Your hand grasped his hair, making him gasp. He repeated the action, this time dipping his tongue inside you, flicking it, feeling the silky flesh of your pussy. You moaned again, placing one leg over his shoulder, opening your sex up to him, inviting him to devour you in the way you knew he wanted to.

"You really are starving." You mused, beginning to get breathless as Michael assaulted your pussy with licks, sucks, and kisses.

"Of course I am, I haven't tasted you in so long. And there's nothing sweeter than you." He whispered, lips shining with your slick.

Returning to your now puffy lips, he grasped your thighs, pressing his mouth against your cunt, eating like a starved animal. Every so often he would moan to himself, getting off to the way your cunt twitched when he swirled his tongue around your clit and the various curse words and moans that fell from your mouth. He could feel you climbing closer and closer to your climax; your hand gripping his hair tighter, pressing his face into your needy pussy, whimpering his name, begging him to keep going. Obliging to your demands, he used two fingers to press up into your spongy insides, pumping in and out of you, his mouth still on your clit, sucking and kissing it.

"Oh...fuck, I'm so close, Michael. So fucking close." You groaned out, head lolling back against the sofa. The pressure building in your lower body was almost unbearable as Michael continued to bring you closer and closer. It was such an intense high, you'd never managed to get yourself this desperate to cum. Whether it was the lack of sex for the past few weeks or the fact your boyfriend was so devoted to devouring your pussy, you didn't know and frankly didn't care. All you knew was that Michael was really showing you how much he missed you in the most selfless way possible.

A few more pumps of his fingers and a swirl of his tongue made you come crashing down from your climax, a loud moan leaving your mouth, nails digging into the leather of the sofa as you clawed at it. Thick, creamy cum leaked around Michael's fingers, coating them and dripping onto the sofa.

Michael himself had cum, his boxers a sticky mess and a trickle of his seed running down his thigh. His legs were shaking from his hands-free release. Licking your cum off his fingers, he sat up on your sofa, pulling you onto his lap. The two of you caught your breaths, panting almost in unison.

#michael langdon #michael langdon x female reader #american horror story #x reader #cody fern #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon smut #ahs smut #michael langdon x you #ahs #grunge!michael langdon #grunge!michael x reader #michael langdon imagine #grunge!michael langdon x reader smut #ahs imagine

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zippiestdraws · 5 months

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Choking Curiosity Ch 18

Michael Myers x ftm reader

Read on ao3

Laurie picks up on the last ring sounding out of breath.

You frown towards the phone. “You good?”

“Yeah, I just had to run up the stairs to reach the phone.” She breathes out. “So, you want to talk about yesterday?”

It’s less of a question and more of an expectancy with a verbal cringe.

“Mhm” you grimace, remembering. “Was he always like that? Because I can’t imagine you wanted to work with someone so…”

You blank on the descriptor. Perky. Flirtatious. Touchy.

“-Pushy.”

You can hear Laurie’s twitch over the phone “Ugh, He wasn’t like that when we met. He actually sounded smart, like an investigative reporter, ya know?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d send him over if he was creepy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He came over while I was decorating outside a couple days ago and said you sent him, for like, an interview and stuff.” You gently remind her.

“I didn’t do that.” Her tone was grim, but your brain quickly rationalizes it for you.

“Well, it’s not like he couldn’tve just found the house on his own after talking to you, so it’s not that bad.” It wasn’t great either, but it’s easy to accept.

There’s a pause before Laurie responds.

“Hmm, maybe, but I still don’t like how he treats this like a game.”

You open your mouth to reply but she cuts you off in a fury.

“-use you as bait? Is he crazy?-”

“-Yeah, I didn’t like that very much. I mean, how does he expect me to-” you interject but then look around and speak softer like someone might hear. “Get a picture with his mask off?”

“Exactly. The shape wouldn’t take its mask off if it was on fire.” She sounded annoyed and angry, so you’re glad she couldn’t see the reaction on your face.

You draw a blank on what you were going to say next as the weight of her words hit you. The image of Michael’s face under the mask floats into your mind followed by a seeping guilt. The heat of attraction and shame burns across your cheeks as you spit something out to keep the conversation flowing.

“Do you- do you think we could pull it off?”, before you even finish your sentence you’re shaking your head and clarifying yourself with a stutter. “I mean, like physically take it- the mask- off, but I guess it could be the same thing if we could get away with it at all? anyway…”.

“Geez, you need to take a breath. But…I know how you feel. How scary the idea of seeing him again is after what he’s done to you.” Her jesting tone softening with empathy.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” The resoluteness of her statement is jarring, and you agree almost too quickly.

“I know. I mean- I trust you and I could always get a taser, so…” you end with an awkward laugh.

You already know that you aren’t in any danger. Or at least much danger.

Laurie makes a disapproving noise at your confidence but doesn’t say anything further. You suspect that she wants to quip about a taser not working against the shape, but holding back so as not to scare you. Thinking back, if he can stop a bat with his bare hands and survive gunshot wounds, you don’t think a taser would stop him either.

You have to excuse yourself to get ready for work later, but with a promise to get together at some point. Just the two of you, no Jed.

Your hands pull at your hair. It sucks to have to deceive Laurie, but now it feels like betraying Michael. Talk about a rock and a hard place.

He wouldn’t take his mask off if he was on fire. But he took it off for you.

Your shift ends after the library closes, but you put the books you borrowed in your bag to return through the book drop. Michael’s room is a mess and you find the one you gave him underneath the blankets where he sleeps, luckily not too worse for wear.

He isn’t home, so you don’t know how he’d react to you touching his things, but a small fantasy plays in the back of your head as you step out the door to work.

You can’t help it- living together is intimate and every so often your mind will wander to that tight black t-shirt and soft pink lips. And your hands will wander when you hear Michael’s soft groans under the shower spray…

The nippy weather is enough of an excuse to shield your flushed face with your hands by the time you arrive for work.

***

A steady stream of shoppers keeps you and Quentin pinned to the registers while Dwight makes the rounds and maintains stock. By the looks of it, Halloween is still on, considering nearly every customer has snagged one of the bulk candy packs from the sale section.

Out of the corner of your eye you see a child run towards the candy aisle.

“Oh-hey no running!-'' your words don’t land. You, Quentin, and the child’s parent watch as the child runs gracelessly into the M&M's display. The child hits the ground first, followed by the crash of cardboard and chocolate 3 long seconds later. After the kid notices everyone watching, they begin to cry.

Dwight, appearing at the other end of the aisle, simply sighs and heads toward the broom closet.

Finishing the last transaction at your checkout and flipping your light off, you nod to Quentin-the two of you have an almost nonverbal understanding at this point- and start performing first aid on the cardboard M&M man.

Dwight returns with a broom and dustpan and scoops a split bag of loose candy into it, before stacking up the intact ones to pile onto a spare shelf.

As you work, Dwight looks in your direction once before making some conversation.

“Oh, by the way, you left early from the cookout…”, he states rather neutrally.

You sweat, it had just seemed like time enough had passed that it wouldn’t be brought up.

“yeah, sorry about that, I was a little nervous to drive home after it got dark. I got lost a couple times trying to find the place.” you’re glad he isn’t looking you in the eyes. Had he seen?

“No wait, sorry, I mean-”, he apologizes in return, “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad, I was going to ask cuz you missed it, David wants to throw a halloween party. Do you want to come?” Dwight stands and wipes his hands on his kakis.

You chuckle in relief, thinking of David, “you didn’t seem like the halloween type, but I’d love to. Where and when?” Laurie’s plan flashes in your mind after you reply, so you quickly tack on that you can’t make it on the 31st.

“I’m not! I had to have David promise not to jump out at me.” he looks exasperated. “Same place, on the 30th. Don’t worry, I have to work until six on Halloween, so I’m not going out either.”

He promises to tell you the time for it when he figures it out himself, and you head back up to the registers.

You stop, confused for a moment, when you see that there isn’t anyone up there. More specifically, Quentin isn’t at the register, but there’s only one person who seems to be waiting.

“Sorry about that, I hope we didn’t keep you wait-”

Brown curls, square glasses, beanie, smug looking face.

“Hmm~ hey (Y/n), fancy meeting you here.” Jed looks at you like you were exactly what he was waiting for.

“Yeah, hi…”, you log into the register to look anywhere but him, “I didn’t know you lived in the area.”

“Oh you know, I just had to pick up some stuff to get ready for the holiday, that’s all.” You look at his items. Bulk assorted candy, duct tape, trash bags, bleach. You swallow thickly.

“Now that I have you, is there any chance you’ve had a change of heart? I know you probably think you’re safe, but you never know what could happen.” He leans on the counter with his forearms and looks up at you with a pout as you finish the transaction. “I’m here to help you, (Y/n), but you act like you have some huge secret you’re keeping.”

You’re thankful that another customer enters your line and you don’t have much room for more than a ‘see you later’.

You finish your shift with a cold anxiety in the pit of your stomach and don’t look at Quentin whenever he returns.

*** Hugging your jacket close and looking behind you often, home doesn’t run up to greet you as fast as it should. Crossing the threshold suddenly drops the exhaustion of the day on your shoulders and you trudge up the stairs, wanting out of your work clothes an hour ago.

It takes a second to register in your brain, the sight of your bedroom door wide open with Michael in the middle of the room. Caught red handed (though, not literally) with his hands in your underwear drawer.

#michael myers #slashers #michael myers x reader #slasher x reader #male reader #trans writers #choking curiosity

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thislovintime · 1 year

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On recording together, post-1968...

Q: “Are you thinking about doing any recording in the near future? An album, perhaps?” Peter Tork: “I’d like to. I haven’t got any way of getting started. If you look around, you’ll see that you’re not exactly sitting in the luxurious mansion that someday who went through the money I did would be expected to be living in. As a matter of fact, I’m living pretty close to the bone right now. I’ve got my picture out in the Hollywood circles, and I’m getting some gigs. I’m thinking about doing some commercials. If I ever get enough money together, I’m going to go into the studio and make enough demos to get an album made. I’ve got some new material I’ve written, like ‘Ladies’ [sic] Baby,’ which would make a good album cut. If worse comes to worst, I’ll just make an album myself.” Q: “Have you considered Michael Nesmith’s Pacific Arts label? Your bass and his lead guitar supplemented one another superbly.” PT: “Michael at that time was somewhat of a reticent fellow. He had a hard time giving anything away, in terms of praise. He’s changed a lot. Before the transformation, he was a pretty begrudging fellow. He was not given to compliments. I have not come to know him very well since his transformation. I was thinking about getting him involved. If I have anything to show him, I’ll definitely get it to him. I hope he’s interested.” - Blitz!, May/June 1980

Q: “Being that your tastes were similar, and you both were the first to leave the group, why didn’t you form a group with Peter Tork?” Michael Nesmith: “I don’t like Peter Tork — never have liked him, I don’t like him as a man. I have to qualify that now: Me not liking somebody doesn’t mean that they’re bad people — he could do a lot of wonderful things for and to me. Not liking someone to me is a very gut reaction — a very visceral attitude. The first reaction to Peter was one of dislike. I don’t like him, I have never liked him, and I probably will never like him. I didn’t enjoy playing in a band with Peter, and I still don’t. Our tastes were much the same, our political beliefs were similar, our ideas of fun, pleasure, our intellectual capacity, our ability to talk to each other — we were very much alike. I have a great respect for Peter — his technical abilities on an instrument and the positions he took were well conceived ideas, always a posture with a motive, never emotional. I don’t like my mother. She happens to be a very nice lady — never done anything that would make me not like her — but I don’t. I like my wife.” - Hit Parader, February 1972 [previously posted here]

“It’s Mike and Micky you’ll hear [on backing vocals on ‘Milkshake’]. Thanks, guys, it made my day.” - Peter Tork, Stranger Things Have Happened liner notes

“Well, I have only the vaguest memory of coming close to recording for Michael’s label. I actually believe that nothing whatever was ever done. I’m not even sure I laid down a single track. Your letter reminds me that there was some indication of a potential project, but I think that’s about as far as it went. I have no direct info about Geffen’s dumping Michael’s label. He himself might be a better source. Check out his website, videoranch.com. Thanks for asking. Take care. Peter” - Ask Peter Tork, The Daily Panic, 2008

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ingravinoveritas · 1 year

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WOW AL does not miss a single thing! Good Omens 2 news date just came out and she’s already posting pictures of her promoting the show using a water bottle with the name on it. Also, GT. PLEASE PLEASE go look on her story RIGHT fucking now because she actually said that people have dmed her saying that she’s burning food on purpose for instagram content and she talks about it!! ALSO, radio silence from Anna for a while now and she decides to break the news with promo for Good Omens. I truly truly truly hope this isn’t some way relating to her being in the show. SO MUCH HAPPENING AMY PLEASE TALK ABOUT IT

Hi, Anons! I did indeed see all of the posts that you have mentioned, so yes, quite a lot going on today. I'm going to divide this response into two parts, first starting with the GO 2-themed Insta stories. Let's get the visuals up so we can discuss:

I know there's been some content over the past week or so that I haven't gotten to talk about--AL posting that terrible picture of her and Michael on May 1st barely an hour after Georgia had posted a new picture of David; a few days after that, Georgia posting a picture with Birdie and AL immediately following it with a picture of her and Mabli; and the weird pictures Georgia posted of David looking pissed off/annoyed after the RSC event--so I do apologize for falling behind a bit. But obviously this is all relevant to today's events, so here we go.

First of all, it seems pretty clear that these posts were planned and coordinated ahead of time. The water bottles, the sunglasses, even the striped shirts all seem deliberate and purposeful (one of my followers even suggested the black/white contrast may have been done to reflect Aziraphale vs. Crowley). The word "opportunistic" comes to mind, as well as marveling at (to quote @daziechane) AL telling people to stay hydrated "when she's the thirsty one."

But I think what you said is very interesting, Anon #2, in that Michael and David (and Ty/Peter) are not promoting the show, while Georgia and AL are. This certainly could speak to them not being it (which I hope is the case), as well as them showing off their 'consolation prizes,' so to speak. I particularly got that vibe from AL's post--a very "Look what I have that you don't" bragging sort of vibe, which I also usually get from her pictures with Michael--but mainly what it feels like to me is that Michael and David are busy having actual careers and don't need to constantly remind us how they feel about GO, whereas Georgia and AL are still trying to prove something.

It just feels desperate, and in AL's case, a bit stupid, as she didn't even mirror her camera when taking the picture, so the words on the bottle are backwards, and if this is meant to be PR/promotion, why wouldn't you be sure the writing is legible? Also, I'm not sure what Georgia is doing to the bottle, but I think we can safely say that David has less of a gag reflex than she does:

So, now let's go on to part 2 of this answer, which is regarding the videos Georgia posted about burning food. For those who haven't seen the video, you can watch it here:

I think it's worth noting that prior to the videos, she posted yet another picture of burnt food, so it seems as if the picture was just an excuse to post the subsequent videos.

I'm glad to know that other people have been calling her out for this, though. And the excuses she gave in the video seemed like exactly that--excuses for the fact that she is self-involved and can't be bothered to check on the food she is cooking. It also seems incredibly hypocritical to me that Georgia has previously reposted an Insta story about the cost of living crisis in the UK and the absurdity of spending money on the Coronation while people are going hungry, while having no problem wasting food herself.

Ultimately, my takeaway from the videos is that Georgia has and will continue to do whatever she has to for the sake of content, regardless of how hypocritical or tone deaf it comes across. But it seems clear that others have noticed what we all have, and I'm hoping that the willingness of folks to call her out will maybe--maybe--make her think twice before posting such content again. I'm not entirely hopeful, but, well...you never know.

As for Georgia/AL having Tumblr and seeing what we say, I honestly am not sure, though I tend to doubt it. My guess is that people are calling Georgia out on Instagram, where she can readily see it, and that's what spurred this response. (I'm 94% sure though that Michael did visit my blog once like four years ago when he was still heavily into the fandom, and that he sent me this Anon in response to a het fic I wrote about him.)

But Georgia and AL would have us believe they're too busy/too important to be caring what fans say, so if for some reason they have nothing better to do than wander over to Tumblr to read what people are saying, my take is that none of us can control what they do--we can only control what we do. And I'm not going to alter my blog or the honest conversations I try to facilitate on it just on the minuscule off-chance that one of them might be lurking.

So those are my thoughts on the events of today. Notable developments all, yet none of them hold a candle to the news of the GO 2 release date, and the wonderful new promo poster. It'll certainly be interesting to see where things go from here on out...

#anonymous #reply post #good omens #michael sheen #welsh seduction machine #david tennant #soft scottish hipster gigolo #georgia tennant #'there's wine in mine' because the press tour is impending #and soon the media will be back to shipping Michael and David #and not paying attention to her #at least she didn't use the 'CookingWithGeorgia' hashtag today #sigh #anna lundberg #discourse

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vroomvroommbtch · 1 year

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So it goes: Chapter 32 - MI x OC

Masterlist

Summary: A little trip to memory lane never hurt anybody, especially if the trip takes them to the place where everything started.

Pairing: Michael Italiano x fem!OC

Warnings: Some mentions of angst, some mentions of tears, some swearing and all the fluff you can get.

Word count: 6.7k

A/N: HI! Oh my god its been so fucking long. Really long and I feel terrible about it. Life has been nothing but a complete mess and to be the cherry on top my laptop decided to die BUT here we are back in business! Probably nobody missed this but I missed my problematic kiddos so much lol For the ones who asked for some happiness for dear little Maggie, here you have it. Now I’m just trying to not ruin Jas’ life for more than obvious reasons -RBR- and that’s why I’m holding myself. 😬 OKAY. Let me know what you think? Meanwhile I’ll be writing a Christmas thingy 👀. See ya bye! 🫡♥️

---

Part 32 - Death of a bachelor.

Since the day they came back together everything was so smooth that it was almost scary. Part of her brain was always waiting for something to go wrong, but every day she reminded herself that things didn’t have to go wrong. There was no reason for something to go wrong and in case something happened they could fix it. Maggie knew if they could fix the mess she made between them during the wedding weekend then they could fix everything, and that’s exactly how things were.

They didn’t have many problems, in fact, she could count them with one hand and she was pretty proud of them about it. Besides, when it happened, every single crisis was solved so simply that it looked like magic. But Maggie knew it wasn’t magic; it was simply her wonderful Michael and his incredible patience, which she thanked him and her lucky stars every single day for it.

The biggest problems they had were just two.

The first one was their relationship being public, which Michael solved by making it clear with an Instagram story. In one of his Q&As, someone asked him who was his favorite person in the whole world, to which Michael answered with a picture of Maggie with Olivia sitting on her lap while they were watching tv. The picture was accompanied by a little ‘Them’ on top of it, and right beside there was a tiny green heart. If that wasn’t enough, it was clear in the picture that they were home and Maggie was wearing a hoodie that was clearly his for the size. And if that wasn’t enough, the same weekend everything about them came to light, Michael decided to walk into the paddock with his arm around her shoulders, making sure nobody would bother her. After that weekend they didn’t even try to hide their love and their relationship. In fact, Maggie found herself sitting on Michael’s lap outside the Mclaren building after the Singapore race. He was the one who told her to sit there with him because there weren’t enough chairs, and that’s how they ended up cuddling together in front of the whole paddock for the first time under the Singapore sky. For some reason at the beginning, she was all worried about it, still not used to being with Michael in his work environment, but she got to relax after some kisses and whispers saying everything was going to be alright. Besides, her family was there, and they were all chatting and laughing while Olivia tried her first ice cream, and Jas complained about having to deal with a baby with a sugar rush and how Maggie and Michael were going to have to look after her.

The second crisis was a bit more complicated than the first one, and that one took even more cuddles and patience because it has nothing to do with people talking, but more with Maggie’s head and their relationship. She was with Jas and Olivia in their hotel room when she saw the story on his Instagram and felt the panic creeping inside her chest and taking over. That was one of the bad days when her mind was so loud that she couldn’t make it stop and something such as a simple question just triggered her. Michael answering that he wanted to keep working on motorsports or another professional sport if Daniel was taking a year off was what made her feel like the walls started to fall around her. They haven’t talked about it yet. They were too busy with life and everything that was happening that the conversation didn’t happen. Maggie didn’t ask either, thinking the answer was kind of easy, but she was wrong. Jas insisted it was nothing. As soon as Jas saw Maggie’s face changing while looking at her phone, her sister insisted there was nothing to worry about, especially knowing Michael and how he wasn’t going to risk them and what they had. ‘Y’know how he is. He wouldn’t buy a keychain without asking what you think about it, ciagot’ were Jas’ words as she held Olivia in her arms, checking if her fever was still there. That was the reason why the girls didn’t go to the track on Thursday as they normally would do. It was just another day of questions, interviews, and press for Daniel, so that included none of them having anything to do at the paddock. But the problem for Maggie was not seeing Michael until late that afternoon, which gave her too much time on her mind, which wasn’t nice.

She couldn’t read or draw because of the same reason, which made everything even worse. That was one of those days all she wanted to do was forget the world existed and hide under the sheets of the bed, and that’s exactly what she did. Since Olivia’s temperature was almost back to normal and considering Daniel texted saying he was almost done with work, Jas insisted it was fine if Maggie wanted to go back to her room and wait for Michael. Everyone who knew Maggie also knew that Michael was the only one able to make everything go away and calm her when everything was too much. Maggie also knew that Jas was right when she said Michael wouldn't decide anything without her, but even then, she couldn’t stop overthinking. Once in their room, Maggie tried to nap, but even that was impossible. Even when the pillow smelled like his perfume and lavender, the bed was cold, and she hated it. Not even the hoodie that she took from his suitcase was enough. She needed his arms around her. She needed Michael promising everything was going to be alright. She needed him and his kisses and his love.

Repeating it herself wasn’t enough, but she did it anyway until Michael finally walked into the dark room. She had no idea how much time passed, but she could see the sunlight slowly disappearing in the middle of the curtains. All she did while she lay down was focus on that as she took deep breaths to calm herself. But then she felt his arms. She felt his arms moving around her waist and that was enough to make Maggie melt against him. His chest against her back, their legs tangling and his chin resting against her shoulder were what finally made her let go of a breath she has been holding since she read those words. It was in the safety of his arms that she finally got to admit how terrified she was. Saying it loud didn’t take away the terrible feeling or the pressure on her chest, but it helped. Maggie still felt like someone was squeezing her heart but somehow a weight was taken off her shoulders as soon as she admitted it. She knew it was Michael sharing the weight with her that made her feel lighter.

When they went back together, when they sat and talked about them, and when they fix everything, they made a deal, and part of it included Maggie admitting when she had a bad day. It was part of Michael’s pleas for Maggie to talk to him because he couldn’t read her mind. He knew her. He knew her body like the back of his head, he knew her soul and heart, and he knew her better than anyone in the world, but he needed Maggie to let him in. He just needed one word to know, but beyond anything, he wanted Maggie to not bottle things up inside her. He just wanted one word to know, no explanation necessary if she wasn’t feeling like it. He just wanted her to let him know, just like he would do if it was the other way around. ‘Just say it and we’ll get in our bubble til you felt better’ was his promise, and he kept it. He always did and that day wasn’t the exception.

That day Maggie murmured that she was having a bad day and Michael said that he knew and that it was fine, but also asked her to turn around. Maggie couldn’t deny him that, so she did, hiding her face on his neck as Michael kissed her forehead and stroked her back. There was only one reason why Maggie wouldn’t be by Olivia’s side on a Thursday, so clearly Michael knew something was wrong.

It took her some deep breaths and some kisses on her forehead to say she saw his answer on Instagram. It took her even more to admit she fucked up by giving for granted and thinking it was obvious that he was going to take a year off too. Maggie felt stupid admitting how she imagined that since Dan was taking a year off, Michael was doing the same. She felt dumb as she apologized for not talking to him before even thinking it was an option, but then she explained she thought it was an available option considering he still had his client and his program and all his things. She knew she shouldn’t, but Maggie apologized for being so silly.

As soon as she was over with the apology, Michael asked for her to look at him. Holding as close as possible and looking straight into her eyes, Michael insisted there was nothing to apologize for and that he knew perfectly fine that her fear came from not knowing what was going to happen in the future. And there was again his superpower of knowing what she was thinking and expressing it in a couple of words when all she could do was ramble.

But he was right in that, Daniel taking a year off and Michael probably not taking one meant them going on separate ways, and it was the scariest thing in the universe. With tears that she couldn’t hold for too long, Maggie explained that the idea of not seeing them for too long was almost paralyzing. But there was something way worse than that and it was the fear of losing Michael again, and all that together was like a nightmare. None of them knew what was going to happen, but if Jas, Olivia, Dan, and even Blake were in Australia and if Michael went to work with someone else, that meant Maggie was going to be alone in London. She knew Lily was around, but her best friend had her life and she would travel for work from time to time. Michael’s sister was also in London, they adored each other, and Maggie knew she could count on her for anything she needed, but Nadia also had her life. And her family was in Dublin and even when it was a short flight away, it wasn’t the same.

On top of that, if Michael went to work with someone else and he traveled, Maggie wasn’t going to be able to go with him. She knew the privilege of going around the world with him was because of Jas and Daniel. They were family so going with them was normal. Being there to help them with everything and especially with Olivia was normal and logical and the reason why she left everything, that’s why it felt like the walls were falling apart around her. That was the only life she knew in the last three years, especially since Olivia was born. For the last couple of years it has been the five of them -and then the six of them- against the world. That was how things were supposed to be and Maggie felt like if she didn’t have that then she had nothing. She had no idea who she was without them.

After every single thought and fear left her mouth and mind, Michael made sure to replace them with nothing but love and understanding. He insisted what he said didn’t mean anything, because as Jas said, he wouldn’t decide something so big and important without talking to her first. Then he insisted that, even if Maggie forgot, he knew who she was. Between gentle strokes and sweet kisses, Michael whispered she was nothing but the most wonderful woman in the whole world, who also had the biggest heart that he had ever seen. He was finally able to make her smile shyly when he joked saying he had no idea how such a big heart could fit inside her chest and her tiny, perfect, beautiful body and that he was the luckiest man in the world to have her by his side.

The last thing Michael did was apologize. He insisted he should have known better, he should have imagined that was gonna make her freak out. He apologized again because, if she was the most wonderful woman in the world, he was the biggest idiot in the world. He shouldn’t have assumed anything. He shouldn’t have made her doubt, no when Maggie was his priority. No when Maggie was the first thing on his list. No when he had no idea what would he do without Maggie sleeping by his side, resting her head on his shoulder or holding his hand as the planes took off.

That afternoon Michael decided to leave work for later simply because his girlfriend needed him. Even if he had too many things to do, he decided to forget he was coach Michael to be just her Mike as he promised again and again that he would never decide without talking to her first. But mostly Michael promised that whatever happens, he would always go back home to her. ‘You’ll never be alone, sweetheart’ were his exact words as he dried her tears and kissed her pink cheeks. They sealed the problem and their deal with a soft ‘She’ll be apples’ that ended up giving Maggie the next tattoo on her wrist, wanting to carry it on her skin as yet another reminder of their love but also their promises. She wanted to be able to read it and see it with the rest of their tattoos on her arm, just to be able to read it in the bad moments like those.

All their problems seemed small after those two terrible days in their life. Nothing seemed as complicated as it could be, no when Michael was holding her hand. But even when it wasn’t that complicated, he was the one who thought it would be nice to take a weekend off, just the two of them away from everyone, even their family. Plus, there was nothing as good as taking those two days off while being in the USA.

Going to the States had always a special meaning for them. The flight was always filled with silly smiles and insisted jokes they would whisper in each other’s ears. It was dozens of memories of the first time they sat together in that plane and then even more memories of everything that happened in Los Angeles and Las Vegas. That was one of the reasons why Maggie liked to go to LA, and she was happy to be there with her family, especially considering this time they dragged David and Aoife with them. While Esmè and Andrè stayed back in Dublin with aunt Mimi, not wanting to slow down the kids on their free week, they all insisted David and Aoife needed some time off too, and none of them could say no to spend time with their kids considering how they could see them counted days a year. But the fact their parents were there was also the perfect excuse for them to have a weekend off, no worrying or taking turns to take care of Olivia. That's why Michael didn’t have to insist too much when he proposed to go to Vegas for the weekend and go back to LA on Monday. It took Maggie one second to say yes and then another to book a plane ticket and a hotel room, being nothing but excited about going back to the place where everything started for them.

She was nothing but an overexcited kid all week knowing it was happening, but then it turned into nothing but overwhelming nostalgia as they got into the plane. Three years earlier she was also on a plane, fresh out of a breakup and convinced there was no way Michael was ever gonna look at her. Three years earlier she was absolutely convinced that snuggling by his side and holding his hand was everything she was going to be able to do, but then he let her use him as a pillow so she would be more comfortable. Then they almost kissed, then they kissed and they slept together and fucked up more so many times it was impossible to count. But there they were, three years later and making it work.

If twenty-five years old Maggie with an unbelievable crush on Michael knew what twenty-eight years old Maggie was living, she wouldn’t believe it. She would never believe she dared to grab him to go dance at that club, that they did everything they shouldn’t have done, but mostly she would have never believed that they went through hell and survived to be back together. She would have never believed they were so in love and living together in London. Not even the twenty-eight years old Maggie could believe she was so lucky, but there she was, holding his hand once again as the plane took off and landed.

It took a lot of effort from her to not cry as she looked out the window of the taxi that was taking them to their hotel. It took even more for her not to cry when she looked at Michael, who was looking back at her with nothing but love in his eyes as a lazy smile adorned his perfect face. She knew that was his little happy grin knowing everything was alright in the world. It was the smile that always said he didn’t need more than that. It was the hand squeeze and the kiss on his knuckles that let him know she didn’t need much either, but it was the little tear rolling on her cheek that told Michael that she was so happy that she was crying because of it.

The afternoon was as happy as their morning arrival, but their night plans were Maggie’s favorite part of the whole trip. Michael had the wonderful idea to make reservations to go to the same restaurant they went to that first night they ended up together. He insisted there was no other place in Vegas that he rather go with her, and Maggie couldn’t agree more. They had the next day and the rest of their lives to go and try other places, but not that night.

His plan was also what got her the wonderful idea of wearing a blue dress that night. The one she wore three years ago was carefully kept in their closet back in London, so she dragged Jas around LA with the excuse of having a girls’ day to find a new one. It took her ten stores, three hours, two coffees, and a stop at a tea shop, but they finally found it. They found it and it was gorgeous.

Maggie couldn’t erase the smile on her face as she looked at herself in the mirror of the shop the first time she tried the dress and the same happened when she tried it again in the bathroom of their hotel room. She was never one to compliment herself, but she looked good. She looked maybe even better than good. She knew the dress was gonna leave Michael’s jaw hanging and that’s exactly what she wanted. Maggie wanted to leave him dying to fuck her against the first wall or surface he could find while she was still wearing it. She wanted to leave him speechless and even more in love with her. She also knew he didn’t need any of that to love her, but she wanted to make that night special.

But even when Maggie knew she looked good, she was nervous about it. She was nervous about going out of the bathroom. She was feeling the same little butterflies she felt all those years ago, knowing she was dressing to impress him, hoping back then that she could finally make a move. But this time Maggie couldn’t help but smile even more, simply because the man on the other side of the door was all hers and she was all his. She smiled because the silly nerves had no reason at all but they were there anyway.

“Grà? Can you close your eyes?” Maggie called out, opening the door enough to pop her head out and look at him. And for a second she forgot what her plan was because there was Michael, looking like a dream wearing a black shirt as he did all those years ago, making her feel even more nervous. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who had the idea of going back to their old outfits, which was nothing but hilarious. “And no, you can’t ask why. Just do it and don’t ruin the surprise”

“Oh, the desert air made her bossier. Are you gonna act like that later tonight too?” he asked with a silly smile on his face, buttoning up his shirt as he looked back at her.

“No if you don’t behave. Now close those pretty eyes of yours for me”

Holding his hands up as if he was surrounded, Michael finally obligated and closed his eyes for her. As soon as he did, Maggie stepped out of the bathroom, trying to be as sneaky as possible while walking on her tiptoes. Once she was finally in front of him, Maggie felt kind of silly. She had no idea why she asked him to close his eyes, but there she was, barefoot, wearing a blue dress, looking up at the man she loved. She couldn’t believe such beauty was all hers. She couldn’t believe he was her boyfriend and she couldn’t believe they were going on a date in Vegas after three years of everything starting there. She couldn’t believe that was her life, so for a second she forgot about the whole surprise thing and went straight to hug him, placing her hands on his back and a kiss on his chest as she rested her head right there.

She felt his arms around her body and then a kiss on the top of her head and that was enough to make her forget about the dinner reservation and the plans they had. Suddenly there was nothing to do except be there in his arms focusing on his heartbeats. Suddenly all she wanted to do was order room service and wait for it in bed. She even wanted to leave the blue dress and his black shirt forgotten on the floor as they got lost in each other, but she knew none of that was happening when Michael moved his lips away from her hair. “Baby what- Holy shit, you’re wearing a blue dress?”

“Mmhm. I still gotta do my makeup and do something with my goddamn hair but I wanted to show you first. Problem is now I don’t wanna let you go” Maggie shrugged, hugging him a bit tighter as she placed yet another kiss on his chest.

“Can I take a look at you?” Michael practically begged, moving his hands to rest them on her hips, stroking the blue material with his thumbs. And Maggie couldn’t say no even if she tried, so she finally took a step back, showing off her dress. The dark blue satin was hugging her body perfectly, just hanging from her shoulders gracefully thanks to the thin straps it has. It wasn’t short as the one she was wearing the night they started to see each other; this was just a midi length, but she knew what was going to kill him was the cowl neckline showing exactly what it needed to show. That and the ties on her back were going to be the death of him. Maggie knew it the second she saw the dress, that’s why she got it. That’s also why she decided to turn around, letting Michael see the whole thing.

“You like it?” Maggie asked all shyly.

“Like it? I love it. You look perfect. I mean, I prefer you naked, but you look breathtaking” he smiled, getting closer to kiss her before he kept talking. “You’re a fucking dream, sweetheart. You’re just- Fuck, I still can’t believe I’m so damn lucky to spend my life with you”

Maggie couldn’t help but smile and blush like a schoolgirl at her boyfriend’s words. The way he was just smiling happy because of her was something that still surprised her. Not that she could blame him considering she was most of the time thunderstruck and tongue-tied thanks to everything he was and did, but she was still surprised in the best way. She knew perfectly fine how models and pretty girls in general were always around in the paddock and at the parties and tried to call their attention, but Michael would always say none of them could ever compete with her. Even after three years, Maggie was still surprised and happy because Michael chose her to spend their lives together. “I know, I know, you can hardly wait to put a ring on my finger. Don’t worry, babe, one day it’ll happen” she joked, patting his chest with both hands before she tried to go back to the bathroom to do her makeup.

Or at least she intended to go to the bathroom and finally get ready, but Maggie couldn’t keep walking because Michael’s hand suddenly was holding hers, not letting her go far from him. “Why not now?” he asked looking down at her.

“That sounds a lot like a marriage proposal, sir” Maggie joked, smiling at him while she brought their joined hands to her lips, kissing his knuckles as she would do on every normal day.

The smile on Michael’s face was what told her that he wasn’t joking. The way he was looking at her was enough to let her know the question that left his lips was not a joke. He meant it. He meant every single word and he wanted to marry her. “Maybe it is. I had one last wish, remember? I used two so this is my last one. Marry me, Mags”

She almost forgot about their joke. She almost forgot about that first wish and the kiss they shared hiding back at the farm. She almost forgot about his shiny eyes full of unshed tears as he begged her to go back to him as they decided to temporarily part ways that gloomy day in London. She almost forgot he still had one last wish in his pocket but never in her life had Maggie imagined that Michael’s last wish was gonna be that one.

“Mike are you serious?” she asked in the softest voice, feeling the tears forming in her eyes before she could even realize what was happening. It was as if her brain couldn’t process what Michael was saying. She just couldn’t comprehend how after everything they went through; there he was proposing. There was no way she could be that lucky, so somehow her brain was saying it was nothing but impossible.

But just when Maggie was about to ask again, Michael kissed her knuckles and smiled at her. “Dead serious, sunshine. Give me one second”. With a kiss on her forehead, Michael let her hand go, going straight to their suitcases on a side of the room. It was her basic instinct wanting to run to him, but instead she just sat on the bed, looking at every single one of his moves. It felt like a weird movie in slow motion, but from a bag from his suitcase he took a black box that Maggie was convinced was from some of his fitness equipment. Then she realized how damn smart he was because there was no way she would ever open any of that. There was no way she would ever touch his work equipment, and Michael knew it. Every time he got something new she would just ask for what it was and then would never touch it, too scared to somehow break it and ruin it. Not that she was interested or anything at all, but fear was the main reason why she wouldn’t fuck it up with some of those very fancy and very expensive things her boyfriend had. So every single time she saw that damn box between his things, Maggie never asked, she just ignored it, never imagining that from inside it there would emerge a small emerald green box. Her hands went automatically to her mouth the second she saw Michael walking to her with it in his hand and she couldn’t help but cry when he kneeled right in front of her, grabbing her hand with his to uncover her face. “I had this for a long time. I got it way before our break. I convinced myself maybe it was too soon back then. But then I told myself I was an idiot 'cause you’re the love of my life and it was the right thing to do. I tried to wait for the right moment, but I fucked up letting you go instead. I should’ve asked you this instead of asking you if you wanted time off from us. I know I fucked up that day, but I love you so much, sweetheart-”

“Hey, no, you didn’t fuck anything up” she interrupted him, holding his face between her hands so she could look straight into his eyes. “There’s no way you could ever ruin anything. You just make everything better. You make me better, and you know it, babe”

“I love you more than anything in the world, do you know that?”

“I know. I’d say I love you more but I’m not fighting you right now. I know you love me as much as I love you, so it’s perfect”

“Good, 'cause I mean it. I meant every single word every single time I said it. I’ve been in love with you since I first saw you in that video Dan sent me all those years ago. I love you and I’ll always love you cause there’s no way I could ever stop it. So, I’m gonna ask you again and in the right way cause that’s what you deserve. Margaret Byrne, my little sunshine, would you please marry me?”

On any other normal day, Maggie would have stayed looking straight into his eyes, simply because she loved that shiny brown color with her whole heart. She loved it so much that she always joked saying she would get the code tattooed if she ever found the same color in the Pantone palette. But that night something distracted her from one of her favorite views, and that was Michael’s hands moving between them.

Maggie looked down and suddenly there was the perfect ring inside the already pretty green box. Along a delicate silver band there were twelve small white diamonds and right in the center was the biggest and focal stone, which was a round cut diamond, exactly like she wanted it. It was perfect, it was everything she ever dreamed her engagement ring would be and what made it better was that Michael picked it up for her.

But the best part wasn’t the ring, the best –and her favorite- part was her favorite hands holding it. Her favorite part was her favorite eyes shining full of love, happiness, hope, and illusion as they were fixed on her waiting for an answer. Her favorite part was the man of her dreams and the love of her life declaring his love for her and proposing to spend their life together. There was nothing she wanted more than that. There was nothing she wanted as badly as growing old with her big boy beside her. Damn, there was no other way she would want to do it, so that was going to be the easiest answer of her life.

“I love you forever and more than anything in the world so yes, I’m marrying you” Maggie nodded as the smile on her face grew bigger while the tears kept streaming down her face.

In three years they shared an uncountable amount of kisses. From some with nothing but lust and passion to some wet with tears and tinted with sadness, they kissed in every single possible way that existed. But that night they kissed and it was as if the universe proved to her once again she was nothing but wrong because nothing compared to that kiss. Nothing compared to the perfection of their lips sealing their new deal. Nothing compared to the sensation of kissing Michael that day. Nothing ever compared to the happiness of hugging and being held by her future husband while they tried to keep kissing between tears, giggles, and smiles. Nothing was as good as them together in every single possible way.

It felt like a dream to see Michael taking the silver ring out of the box. It felt surreal to feel the cold metal as he put it on her ring, fitting perfectly because clearly, that man wasn’t going to fuck it up with the size. It felt like a damn fairytale to see the man she loved kissing her hand and the diamond ring over it, right before kissing her lips once again, making it impossible for Maggie to stop giggling.

“Thank you for saying yes, sweetheart” he whispered against her lips, stroking her cheek with his free hand because Maggie wasn’t letting him go.

“I should thank you for asking me, to be honest” she joked, kissing his lips once more before she looked down at their joined hands. “God, it's so fucking gorgeous. How can you be so handsome and good and sweet and smart and on top of that have good taste for engagement rings?”

“I know what my wife likes” Michael shrugged, finally getting up from his place on the floor to sit on the bed right by her side, but instead, Maggie sat right on his lap. “I got it after you flew to Dublin during lockdown. It was the first night without you home. I was just sitting on the couch, fucking heartbroken, scrolling down Instagram while I waited for you to tell text me you were home and suddenly it was there looking at me. It was perfect so I had to get it cause I knew it was the right one for the right one. I’m just really sorry it took me so long to ask you”

She could hear the little hint of sadness and melancholy when he mentioned that terrible day. Even her heart felt heavy when she remembered the tears, the sadness, the hugs, the goodbyes, the terrible flight, and then the first terrible night without Michael. She remembered perfectly the pressure on her chest and the desperation as she got inside her cold bed knowing perfectly fine Michael wasn’t going to join her. She remembered everything perfectly well, but she just decided to take a deep breath and just try to leave it all behind, especially in a happy moment like that. All she wanted to think about at that moment was them, their love, their happiness, and that gorgeous diamond that from that day lived in her left hand.

“You did it and that’s it. Time doesn’t matter” she smiled, lacing their fingers together as she stroked his cheek and jaw with her free hand. “Damn, I’m gonna be your Mrs. Italiano” she giggled, still not believing what was happening.

“You can pick the last name you want as long as you’re my wife” he smiled, moving his hand to her neck, stroking her skin with his thumb as he held her in place, keeping her near with his fingers tangled in her hair.

His lips ghosting over hers got her whimpering in no time, leaving Maggie nothing but bewitched as she waited for his next move. Then his fingers running through her scalp got her moaning in such a way it was pathetic. Michael had her in the palm of his hand, and Maggie was nothing but ready to do whatever he asked. She was ready to comply and obey every single one of his words no matter how crazy or insane it was because that’s how in love she was with him. But then in a second of sanity, she remembered that they were supposed to go out. They had plans and reservations and now a reason to go out and celebrate, and she was still just wearing her dress and not even half ready. “I need to get ready, babe” she whispered against his lips.

“Marry me” Michel repeated.

“I already told you yes, babe”

“I mean marry me tonight. Vegas is where everything started so why not?”

Michael wasn’t joking. Maggie knew those eyes like the back of her hand, so she knew he was completely serious. He wanted them to marry that same night and God, how badly she wanted to say yes. There was nothing she wanted more, but for more than one reason it was a bad idea. “Cause I want a normal wedding. Beautiful, sunny Perth, our family, and friends, a cute white dress that would make you tear up cause you can’t believe how beautiful I look. Then I want you getting under that dress and even fucking me right there in some bathroom in the middle of the reception. Besides, we don’t have witnesses and we need two and-“

She could have gone on and on with the reason, but she was cut by Michael and yet another kiss. But this time it wasn’t just softness, this was nothing but love and need and passion, and Maggie couldn’t help but moan as their tongues moved together. She needed to go get ready but she couldn’t help but move on his lap and place both her knees on side of his, getting their bodies as close as possible. They needed to go, but there was nothing she wanted more than to take his shirt off his body and beg him to fuck her right there and then. Instead, Maggie kept her hands on his neck and back, trying to hold onto something. She needed to hold onto something to not think about how Michael wanted to elope, how he was touching her legs and ass under her dress, how hard he was, and especially how wet she was.

“Marry me” Michael insisted, smirking at her, knowing that evil grin and his fingers running around her skin would convince her in no time. And to make it even worse, he moved from her lips to her neck, leaving a trail of kisses all over her jaw until he reached the spot he wanted. “Just say yes. We go get dinner and then we get married. Just you and me. We said fuck the rest, so fuck ‘em”

“I know you’re stubborn but please don’t be stubborn now. Remember our first night together? I told you Jas was gonna kill us for sleeping together and you told me it wasn’t as bad as eloping so let’s not fuck it up doing it. I love you and I really wanna marry you yesterday, but I don’t want everyone getting mad at us again, grá” Maggie explained, using the last sign of logic she had in her brain, even when Michael was doing a beautiful job turning her insane between kisses, licks, and bites on her neck.

And to make it even worse, she could feel him smiling against her skin as he moved one strap slowly off her shoulder. “I said that? What an idiot. I should’ve asked you to marry me that night instead of saying something so stupid”

“Too late for that. Besides I’m already your fiancé so there’s no point in regretting what we didn’t do, or that’s what a smart man told me more than once” Maggie smirked, too proud to be using his own words against him.

“Did your fiancé tell you that he can make a call and move the dinner reservations to a bit later?” Michael asked, moving the other strap off her shoulder, letting her dress fall from her chest.

And while it happened, Maggie didn’t even try to cover herself, she just let it happen as she moved her hands between them, first unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt and then letting her fingers wander down to his pants. “I mean, I saw him doing magic before, so I wouldn’t be surprised” she shrugged, moving just enough to deal with the zipper and the single button that was getting in the way of what she really wanted.

“Good, 'cause I wanna see what my future wife’s wearing under this pretty dress” Michael affirmed, finally getting rid of her dress to leave it forgotten somewhere on the floor.

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@jamminvroomvroom @starlightoctavia @dr3lover @monte-carlando @brightlightsinlife @a-distantdreamer @callsign-hollywood @honeybadgercomeback

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elvendara · 7 months

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MYSME FICTOBER DAY 8/JUMIN WEEK DAY 4

@mysme-fictober & @juminweek2019

Michael's Edition

8 October 2023—BOO! Jumin Week—Acts of Service

Jumin held the phone between his shoulder and cheek, trying not to let it slip.

“Just…I don’t…ahh…” the phone fell to the carpeted floor. He picked it up in frustration, letting go of the fake spiderweb he had been trying to stretch across the bookcase. “This is ridiculous, why did I even think I could do this?”

“Settle down Jumin, you can. Also, what was that muffled sound? What are you doing exactly?” Saeyoung asked through the phone speaker.

“Trying to pull apart this stupid web while still listening to you. I only have two hands you know.” He said.

“Uh, you know you can put the phone on speaker right?” Saeyoung joked.

“Oh, right.” He felt like an idiot. Hitting the speaker button on the phone he set it down on a side table. “OK well, what do I do after I finish with the web?” he asked.

“Change out the bulbs in some of the lamps, you got the purple bulbs right?”

“Yes, I bought everything on the list you sent me.”

“Really? Wow, you really are going all out aren’t you?”

“It’s Lillie’s favorite holiday, so I want to make it special, and I don’t want her to lift a finger this year, I just want her to enjoy it for the entire month.”

“You could have just paid someone to do it, you’re filthy rich after all.” Saeyoung laughed.

“That wouldn’t be the same. I want to do the work and see the look on her face.” He was aware that it likely would look much better if he hired someone to decorate, but, he knew Lillie well enough to know that she would love it all the more because of his effort. Though he hadn’t thought he would be fighting with fake spiderwebs.

“I think I can handle placing the items in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement, however, I might need help again in setting up the fog machine for the cauldron.”

“Sure, I’m here all day! Sounds like you have things well in hand.”

“Indeed, if I require more hands, I’ll simply ask my security team. Thank you again Saeyoung for the support and suggestions.”

“Any time! Make sure you take pic…uh, that Lillie takes pictures!” he laughed.

Jumin grunted as he hit end call on the phone. He’d gotten better at taking pictures, it wasn’t his fault that the stabilization on his phone was finicky.

He was meticulous in his arrangement of the décor, not a single surface was without a Halloween item. With Saeyoung’s help, he’d even been able to create an actual bubbling cauldron that wouldn’t create and environmental hazard in the apartment.

Hours, he had been working for hours and the setting sun outside reminded him that Lillie was due to arrive home soon. He checked his watch and saw that he had only minutes. He turned off any lights whose bulbs hadn’t been changed, turned on the cauldron, and lit the candles. Fairy lights were strung throughout the decorations giving the areas a ethereal quality. The scent of pumpkin spice and apple cider wafted through the room as well. Satisfied, all that was left to do was wait.

It didn’t take long before he heard the rattle of the front door, hiding behind it as it opened inwards he held his breath for his love’s reaction.

He heard Lillie inhale as the scenery caught her attention. She took a few steps inside, her head scanning the entirety of his labor. Quickly he slammed the door closed and jumped at her with a loud “BOO!”

Lillie screamed and turned, her hand already balled into a fist before noticing that it was her beloved.

“Jumin! You scared me!” heart racing she doubled over in relieved laughter.

“I’m sorry my love, I couldn’t help myself.” He enveloped her into his arms and held her close as her heart regained equilibrium. “Do you like it?” he asked as he released her.

“Like it? I love it! How much did it cost to do this? You know I would have decorated myself.” She said, but her smile never left her face.

“Oh, well, the cost was only in supplies, I decorated.” Jumin said, running a hand through his thick black hair, a grin on his face. “Took several hours, but it was well worth it to see your reaction.”

“You…you did this? All by yourself?” she asked, turning to her husband, golden brown eyes wide.

“Saeyoung helped with some of the more intricate items, but I set it all up on my own. I just wanted to surprise you. I know how much you love this holiday and how hard you worked last year. I wanted you to just be able to enjoy the season this year and concentrate only on your costume for the party.”

“Party?”

“Absolutely, I think having a Halloween party here would be quite entertaining, don’t you?”

“Oh yes! That sounds wonderful!” Lillie threw herself on her husband and held him close, tears of joy filled her eyes and a wide smile plastered her face. “I can’t imagine being any happier than I am right now! Just…I…the thought and effort you put into all of this has me in tears. I love you so much Jumin.”

“I love you too. And I would do anything to see that radiant smile on your face for the rest of our lives.”

They kissed.

#mysme fictober #mysmefictober2023 #day 8 #BOO!#Jumin Han #Juminweek #juminweek2023 #day 4 #Acts of Service #JuminXLillie #I stand by that ending!

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pastelwitchling · 2 years

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Michael Guerin Week Day 5

Michael had always loved music. Until Alex had come along, he’d never even considered having a favorite kind. And then Alex sang for him, and nothing else compared. The only problem was that Alex knew Michael loved music just as much, and so he insisted every chance he got that Michael sing for him.

And yet, much like Neil Patrick Harris never got caught in a bad picture in How I Met Your Mother, Alex had never been able to get Michael to sing a single note.

“My voice sucks,” he’d said blatantly. “I just got you. I’m not risking a divorce now.”

To which Alex would scrunch his nose, probably in an attempt to seem annoyed, but he’d end up looking so cute that Michael would grab his face and smother him with kisses instead.

Sometimes Alex would settle for Michael’s kisses, sometimes it took a more handsy approach, and sometimes, he stayed true to his military resilience and remained relentless in his pleas.

“Just one song!”

“No.”

“One line!”

“No.”

“Hum for me then!”

“Not gonna.”

Such was the case one particular night as their conversation during dinner led, once again, to how Michael never sang, and Alex begged until they were on the couch, the TV on and playing some rerun of Indiana Jones.

Alex slumped on the couch, facing Michael. “You played for me at our wedding!” he complained.

“Exactly,” Michael shrugged a shoulder. “And you didn’t need to hear me sing then either, did you?”

Alex worked his jaw, glaring at Michael. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

“Something ugly.”

“Like what?” Michael demanded, smirking as he faced Alex. “What could you possibly say to get me to sing?”

Alex’s gaze was intent. Any other time and Michael might’ve noticed the intensity there. “You won’t like it.”

“Won’t like what?”

Alex swallowed, as if bracing himself. “This is your last chance. Sing one song for me, or . . . I say it.”

“Say what?”

Alex huffed, and his glare faded to something truer, sadder. “That after your hand first healed, I wasn’t the one you played in front of.”

Michael faltered, all trace of humor gone.

Alex looked down, cheeks red, ashamed. He tugged on Michael’s sleeve. “Y-You owe me this one thing.”

Michael’s shoulders fell. He probably should’ve been angry or annoyed or hurt, but all he could feel was warmth and love. All he could hear was Alex’s sorrow and pain. “Baby . . . is that what this is about?”

Alex settled into the couch with a sigh, hanging his head back and staring at the ceiling. “Maria got to hear you first . . . Bonnie was the first person you ever taught a song to. . . . I hate that there’s so much of you I didn’t get first. I hate that I’m . . .” he scoffed, all the self-loathing and embarrassment Michael knew he felt in that one sound. “Not special.”

“Not special?” Now it was Michael who turned to face him. “Are you kidding me? Alex, you know why music means so much to me? Because it’s our first good memory together. Music’s how we met.”

Alex looked to him, his eyes glassy. “Really?”

His voice cracked, and it echoed in Michael’s heart. He knew how much he hated any reminders of what Alex and Forrest had done together, how Forrest had helped Alex in a way Michael never could just by being a little more patient for him. He hated that feeling, he hated the insecurity that threatened to overwhelm him sometimes, and he hated more than anything that Alex felt an inkling of that.

He took Alex’s hands in his. “At first, music was just a way to quiet the noise. Then it became a part of me because it reminded me of you. When you were all I wanted and I couldn’t have you, or I thought I couldn’t, I turned to music. I didn’t play for the first time to Maria, and I didn’t teach Bonnie a song. I just wanted to play music because it was the closest thing I had to you. You think I knew or cared who else was around?”

Alex huffed a wet chuckle, wiping his eyes with his forearm. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“Not even close.” Michael leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I think you’re cute.”

Alex smiled, and rested his head on Michael’s shoulder, hugging his arm. “And if you ever do feel like singing?”

“You would be the only one I’d ever sing to, Private,” Michael promised quietly. “No one will ever get all of me like you do.”

***

To my favorite cowboy, now and forever, always ❤

#mgweek22 #guerinweek22 #michael guerin #alex manes #malex #malex fic #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #michael vlamis #tyler blackburn

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 1 year

Text

And Eat It, Too - Chapter Twenty: Apotheosis (The End!)

Once upon a time, a man named Jonathan Sims did not kill the world for love of Martin Blackwood.

Once upon a time, a man named Jonathan Sims decided to have his cake and eat it, too.

>>> NOW ON AO3!

APOTHEOSIS:

1. the perfect form or example of something

2. the highest or best part of something

3. elevation to divine status: DEIFICATION

(Masterpost including playlist)

CHAPTER TWENTY

No one expected it.

He doesn’t know why. He’d been thinking of running for some time now, at this weird party in the middle of the night.

But no one thought he’d actually do it. They really do believe he owns you already, he thinks, and that just makes him run faster.

“Jon!” Elias shouts. Fairchild is laughing and someone is coming after him and—

Nope. Jon is through, slams it shut, and is very happy to see it disappear.

“Ha!” he says. Turns.

The Corridor is broken.

His heart stops, or feels like it does. One straight hall stretches before him, no turns in sight.

Most of the lights are gone. A few flicker at odd intervals, just enough to encourage movement.

There are no pictures. There are no mirrors.

The place smells like death. Jon would know; he’s breathing very fast.

“Michael!” he shouts, and begins to run.

There are no turns.

His feet sound wrong, every step weird, and he hopes that means the Distortion is still working, hopes that means—

Oh. He did not have a moment of disorientation upon arrival.

Is that because he’s grown? Or is it because…

“Michael!” he roars, pouring power into it, trying to will the knowledge to find it.

The Corridors shake.

Jon stumbles, almost loses his footing. Did he hurt it? Was that what that was?

The Corridor continues on, unending. Lights flicker in the distance.

Jon steels himself doubly, and runs.

This isn’t working.

It’s as impossible as the Corridors that can forever turn right, twisting into themselves without a terminus.

Panting, Jon stops.

This isn’t the way to find Michael.

See, damnit, he tells himself, and closes his eyes. Focuses.

Finds the Beholding, finds the thread, the flow inside him, the constant searching gaze that brings its own flood of power.

Grips it with both hands and pulls.

When Jon opens his eyes, he sees the place as if it’s fully lit.

Ahead of him is a loop. It goes straight, but it doesn’t; a trap, a trick, the Distortion playing games, the only one it has left.

It’s a weak game. It still plays it. That’s who it is.

What it is, Jon reminds himself, and turns around.

The Corridor loops in a straight line in both directions, unending.

Knowledge pours in, clear and cold: it wants me near as it dies, but doesn’t want me to watch it happen.

That hurts, so much, to realize.

No, he thinks, as static rises in his ears, you will not hide from me.

He looks down.

The carpet begins undulating slightly as if made of water in a light breeze, and Jon stares, and Jon does not blink, and then the damn rug parts like the Red Sea.

It’s not a door, exactly. It’s a door-shaped hole, leading into blackness.

Michael is down there, and Jon knows, and without thinking it through, he steps right in.

The regret is instant and brief.

He lands hard, jarring and clacking his teeth together.

This place is entirely lightless. Featureless.

The air isn’t air here. It’s thick. He can push it through, exhale and inhale, but it requires work.

The gravity isn’t right. It works; it’s consistent, but it’s too high.

He has no idea where he is, and does not give a damn about finding out.

Michael lies ahead of him, and Jon can see it, no matter the lack of light.

It looks pale. Draped there, its boneless self mimicking peace, but it seems to be breathing hard, and that can’t be right, and Jon wonders what other process is going on there that makes it… swell and shrink that way.

What it’s doing here, he has no idea. Its hair has gone straight. That scares Jon more than anything else he’s seen.

“Michael?” he asks, moving closer, and coughs; it’s hard to speak, his vocal chords not designed for this viscosity.

“Hello, Archivist,” it says, and its voice is just… there.

Not in his head. Not under the floor. Not from Mars at all.

Jon kneels beside it.

He doesn’t know what to do.

There’s a wail rising in him, bottlenecking alongside a growing rage, and both are making his throat feel weird and his eyes feel weird and his heart ring with pain as if made of bronze and battered.

“I don’t understand, Archivist,” says Michael, and its long, sharp fingers twitch against the unseen floor.

“What don’t you understand?”

“I should be happy,” it says. “Look—you are crying.”

Jon slides his hands under it, pulls its head into his lap. “Happy… because I’m crying?”

“My revenge,” says Michael.

Jon strokes its hair. He understands. “But it didn’t work that way, did it?”

“No.” Michael turns its head toward his touch. “I don’t understand.”

Tell me what to do, he keeps asking, pulling, commanding. Tell me how to fix this.

Silence.

Oh, the Eye is there. He’s not cut off—feels very connected to it, in fact. But it is devouring his misery, and seems uninclined to interfere.

The wail in Jon’s chest grows. It might just burst out of him, like shattered bone.

Michael sighs. The breath is cold on Jon’s hands.

“Why?” says Jon. His throat tightens. “Why is this happening?”

Michael laughs.

It doesn’t do anything. Go anywhere. It’s just a laugh. “Your predecessor did this. This was… never going to last.”

“But… you told me before. This happens, sometimes. People become you. It doesn’t just… go away.”

“I have been distracted, Archivist,” says Michael, shifting enough to rest its sharp fingers on his leg. “That is not good for what I am.” Its flickering, fading face turns toward him.

“Distracted,” says Jon, softly. “Of course. You were distracted during the Great Twisting, which is why Shelley’s map worked. And you were distracted… well, with me, and revenge, which is why Helen’s map nearly did.”

“Distracted,” says Michael. “I could not change.”

“You couldn’t let go,” whispers Jon, “and you’re meant to change. Of course you are. To fluctuate with fear and doubt, and… because of what Gertrude did, because you couldn’t let go of your anger. You…” He swallows.

“I care for you, Archivist,” Michael says.

Jon shudders. “And you wanted revenge and didn’t, at the same time. Conflict in yourself.”

“Now, you see.” Michael shudders; the human form fades, like frosted glass, showing something unspeakable beneath—something writhing and twisting as if in pain, though Michael lies still. “This was supposed to be glorious.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says softly. “I suppose I would’ve made a lot of people happy if I’d just died, wouldn’t I?” He strokes its weirdly straight hair; he can barely feel it now—it’s insubstantial. “I’m not that lucky, though.”

“Stubborn,” Michael says.

“Don’t die,” Jon says, his breath uneven.

Damn you! he thinks at the Eye, the bloody Beholding, the fucking Ceaseless, Useless Watcher. Tell me what to do!

Does it even hear him? Is it even paying attention? Or is it just licking up his trauma like salt on the edges of a glass?

The Web would answer me! he challenges, and wipes his face.

“I am not dying, Archivist,” says Michael. “I will still be me.”

“No, you won’t. This is…” He sees the twisting thing below, sees its seething joy, its vicious happiness, its sharp-edged, spiraling madness. “I’m losing you.” He takes a thick, awful breath. “I chose you, and I’m losing you.”

“How nice, Archivist,” says Michael. “To have chosen something.”

Jon doesn’t remember lifting Michael to his face. Doesn’t know how he got there, kissing it, getting it very wet.

It’s barely there, like a body made of air, dispersing if squeezed.

“Don’t go,” he whispers.

“Never,” Michael lies, and then it is gone.

Jon screams until his voice feels burned.

Whatever the Distortion truly is, it leaves Jon alone. A weird, limp, smear of a creature, abandoning him completely as it goes back to… torturing people, probably.

Jon felt it look at him. Felt it consider his distinctly un-good mental state.

Felt it recognize him in some strange way, an acknowledgement. Then it took off like a dove, and he cannot find it in himself to be grateful.

He doubts it ignored him out of kindness.

For that one second of attention, it tilted his thoughts, lurching him into fear of how long have I BEEN here and did it all really happen and did I just doom the world for a monster and maybe it was all lies every second and Michael never actually cared—

It would have surely been a feast. The thing left, anyway.

Jon is unsure he’s going to follow.

Can’t end the world if I’m stuck in here, can I? he thinks.

Assuming someone doesn’t just come and get him, like Fairchild did out of the coffin.

Except they can’t.

He knows.

Jon blinks, wipes at his tears, leans into that knowing.

He is in a place only he could find.

Good, he thinks, because he deserves to be abandoned.

What good was all of it? What good did he do anyone?

Well, he was fooled by a plot twist, so there’s that. “Jonah Magnus. Of all the…” Jon half-laughs. “If I’d met myself four years ago and tried to warn me, I’d never have believed any of this. It’s bad writing, I say.”

Except it isn’t, and he knows that, too.

It’s all so consistent that it drives him a little batty. Why, even Elias’s failed Watcher’s Crown ritual makes sense, as the reason Elias was basically two steps shy of omniscience.

Except… that didn’t really make sense, did it?

Failed rituals seem to normally end… very badly.

They ended in a loss of power, or mass destruction. They end in misery, in faith lost, in followers bereft and abandoned.

But not for Jonah Magnus. No, he somehow came out ahead of the curve.

And Jon can’t help but ask… why?

He knows the Eye didn’t come through. All the Fears would have had to, and this would be a very different world.

Jon rolls onto his back. His brain won’t stop, won’t shut up, won’t shut off.

It almost looks like a world with just the Eye in it, though, doesn’t it?

Everyone watching or being watched. Fearful of watching too much, fearful of being discovered. Hiding themselves, projecting themselves; appearing on social media the way they want to be watched, stalking supposedly private webcams to observe people who don’t want it at all.

Who fear it.

Jon shakes his head. The world isn’t broken enough for the Eye to have come through—and it would have come with all the others.

But Jonah’s powers only grew after the Watcher’s Crown failed. And it was funny, how so much technology seemed to be based on… watching or being watched.

Everything from porn to clickbait.

From filtered photos to paranoid security.

Masking tape over webcams and multiple VPNs.

Watching or watched.

“The revolution will be televised,” Jon mutters, and frowns.

He pictures the door again, in his mind.

He doesn't know what lies behind that door. It feels like… everything. It feels like if it opened, he would drown.

His brain won’t shut up. “Everyone else lost power when their ritual failed,” he says to no one, to where Michael ought to be and never will again.

Fairchild did.

Lukas did.

Rayner did.

But Jonah Magnus gained it.

It bothers Jon, niggles at his brain, won’t leave him alone.

“I am trying to writhe in my misery, if you don’t mind,” he mutters at himself, but as has always been the case his whole life, he doesn’t listen.

It’s not the only question rising now, either, because he believes Annabelle, but then what does that mean for him?

“Just how the hell did I, predisposed to the Eye from practically infancy, end the world for every other Fear everywhere else?” he says.

He knows the answer: the same way all the other Fears feed the Eye, whether they want to or not.

The Desolation—the Lightless Flame, the Torturing Flame, the Blackened Earth—only benefited from burning, loss, pain, destruction.

The Lonely—the Forsaken, the One Alone—only benefited from autophobia, abandonment.

Every single Fear benefits from itself; yes, they’re connected, but the Stranger couldn’t feed off the Eye, the Desolation couldn’t feed off the Buried, the Vast couldn’t feed off the Dark. Not exactly.

But the Eye could feed off all of them.

It never mattered what statement he read. It never mattered what trauma the statement-giver had been through; the Eye fed, and was sated.

“But that doesn’t make sense, does it?” mutters Jon. “Is it just unique? Is that it? Just is nature?”

No. Because the Eye was about paranoia, fear of being watched, fear of secrets revealed; it had jack-all to do with things like worms and purple mold.

But those things still fed it.

Why had the world turned so clearly into watcher and watched in nearly every facet of life, anyway, both sides laced with gut-wrenching fear? How could the Eye feed off every fear, not just its own?

Jon grips his hair, tries to shake this out of his scalp. It’s not adding up.

Jonah Magnus failed. He said so.

Surely he’d have known if he succeeded.

Does it have to be a binary? he asks himself, and goes very still.

The Fears change; the Dread Powers shift, adapt, to what human beings are afraid of, which is why the Extinction is on the horizon, why other fears had… faded, or transformed.

The Slaughter certainly wasn’t what it used to be. Hell, the Hunt started in animals, for crying out loud, moving to humans later in its own existence.

The Fears exist because humans do, he thinks, trying to make this all work, trying to make it fit. “They don’t feed on fear, they are fear,” Gerry had tried to explain to him, and Jon tried to get it, really did, but—

Maybe Jonah-Elias came much closer to success than he’d thought.

Maybe it came so close that it touched everything, everyone, before being rubber-banded back outside the gate.

Or maybe humans were just inclined toward the whole watching thing, and nothing had come through, and this was all ridiculous—

“Is that why the other avatars are always so angry when I compel them?” Jon asks the space where Michael left, where Michael should be, where only emptiness replies. “They’re already sharing with the Eye, whether they want to or not, because of the way humans fear. Is it… envy? Having to give up some of their fear, unwillingly? Something even more twisted?”

What could be more twisted than a world inbred with the Eye, altered by a Dread Power that hadn’t even come through but had come so close, touched so deep, that when Jonah was done, it changed the course of human history?

“It doesn’t matter if it did,” he says, because Michael is still gone, and he is still alone.

Jon curls on his side, fetal. He’s a mess; tears and snot just keep coming because he keeps crying. He wipes on his sleeve (at Elias), then recalls the napkin in his pocket.

Well. It wouldn’t last long, but it was something. Jon pulls it out and prepares to blow his nose.

And finally sees the block letters on it, written in a now-familiar hand:

ARCHIVE

Curiosity spikes.

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me,” mutters Jon to Annabelle, the Eye, his spare, sad spark of common sense.

He peers.

What did Annabelle write on there?

Narrows his eyes, focuses.

He has to know.

It doesn’t matter, sure, he’s just going to stay in here forever and die, but the simple truth is that if he doesn’t get to know what’s on the rest of that napkin, he is going to explode.

Jon picks it up, and—reluctantly, not even on purpose—reaches for the power of the Eye.

And he is flooded.

It’s too much, all at once, an eagerness that overrides good sense, and Jon feels something tearing deep in his skull as he is drowned in the fears of a billion people, of their nightmares and woeful anticipations and everyday, horrific terrors.

BECOME THE ARCHIVE

That’s what it says, and this isn’t just about knowing things, this is about housing, taking in, becoming more than.

And calling and kissing at the edges of his mind are the fears of the wide places, the Vast, the deep oceans, the impossibility of space, the smallness of self—

The fears of enclosed places, the Buried, the claustrophobia and suffocation and drowning—

The fears of the unknown, the Stranger, the almost-not-quite-human, the surety that something is not right with your world—

The fears of loss of accurate perception, the Spiral, the reliability of one’s own mind and senses, the inability to trust one’s own thoughts—

Jon is wracked as the whatever-it-is inside him that responded during the Stranger’s ritual does now.

He is made for this.

Wired, both nature and nurture—

But this does not hurt.

Glory comes alongside it, bliss along with all the fear and torment and imagination (all these fears are human fears, some god didn’t come up with scary-ass clowns, humans fucking did that), and Jon doesn’t even know if he has a body anymore or if he blasted it to smithereens.

(He knows he does, and it is dying, it cannot handle this, this is too big a thing to fit in a human body.)

(Though Simon Fairchild wondered if god would come into his body, and how about that?)

And with this invasion, this deluge, this complete violation and satisfaction of everything Jon wants to be, comes a clear, unworded, repeated thought:

Y o u r s S o T a k e I t B a c k .

I DON’T KNOW HOW, he bellows back, as hard as he can.

And it’s maddening, because Michael is his.

He can see it, through the history of sentient beings, doubting their own senses; can see its change, how much it changes, even as its core fear remains the same.

And, now, Jon can see exactly what Michael Shelley did to the Distortion.

Had Gertrude planned this? No; he knows it hadn’t mattered who was with her that day, as long as they were willing to walk inside a madness monster, bearing the map she’d made, but who could have predicted how this had gone?

(And images of Helen-Distortion filter through, from Annabelle, from the Web, and Jon understands why he reacts the way he does to her, because with Helen, it would be so sly, breathing gaslighting, lies, and more lies.)

But Michael Shelley walked into that thing for an old woman who didn’t care, out of determination to do the right thing for someone he cared about very much.

Michael Shelley died for pure, non-romantic love, sacrificed on the altar of efficiency.

But he did die for love.

And it resonates with Jon, and it sings within Jon, and he suddenly sees why he and the Distortion (what it became after the change Michael Shelley wrought upon it) amplify one another like tuning forks.

And they are not alike, and one feeds on fear and the other does not like it—but in some key, core way, they are the same.

Love. Including a truly moronic level of self-sacrifice.

Annabelle was right, and it’s stupid, and insipid, and real.

Jon could laugh if he could breathe, but he can’t do that now, and he doesn’t want to because it will pull his vision (Real? Mental? Who knows?) away from what he sees.

Michael. The Distortion Michael, transformed by being lashed to a loving human being.

Who chose, Jon now knows, to forgive Getrude as he was destroyed, and that choice—as all human choices do—affected the Fear that ate him.

Because the Distortion wanted revenge, and Michael had not.

Because the Distortion wanted to kill him, and Michael had not.

Because Michael—

I care for you, Archivist.

Had torn itself apart.

But the knowledge isn’t stopping, the stories aren’t stopping, and it’s all too much, even for him, a circuit designed to house this power, this curiosity, this absolute malevolent innocence.

Fear. The Eye wants fear.

It wants to feel all the world’s fear through him.

Fond doesn’t cover it.

It loves me, Jon thinks with the barest bit of spare mind he has left, clinging to his own voice lest it all be swept away. It loves me.

And sends as hard as he can—

YOU ARE KILLING ME

It’s not in words.

And it’s slow, so slow to respond,

but Jon can do no more, Jon is at his limit, Jon is beyond it, Jon is dying.

But he holds on.

He sees Michael.

Mine.

And as that impossible flow, that current, that flood, changes, shifts, tries—slowly, but actively—not to kill him, he grips its electric impossible cosmic power and reaches.

Into the repository of knowledge, into That Which Never Forgets, into that which Sees All no matter if it wants to be seen.

His focus on Michael writhes in his grip like a snake.

The thrum of power through him, the fears of a billion billion memories processed through his own soul, are too much, too much, and all he can do is ride it downstream.

No, thinks Jon, like lifting his head from the wildest rapids. No.This is MINE.

And feels—glacial, slow, ponderous—an offer from the Beholding.

A gift?

A trade.

The door was not opened by Jonah Magnus—but it was cracked.

It wants Jon to stick his face in there and be swallowed.

Not just tasted.

To be consumed.

The Beholding wants a vessel.

You have avatars, Jon tries to answer, confused, thinking of Elias Magnus Whatever, of all the others.

This is different.

It wants him for its home.

Jon screams, though he doesn’t feel it.

It’s too much. Nobody can do this. It’ll destroy him.

But it offers Michael in trade.

And Jon laughs, because this is no fucking muscle spasm. This thing is slower than the Web, perhaps, not nearly as complicated, but it is alive, and has desires, and tastes, and preferences.

And it loves Jon.

And wants to be in him.

And it offers Michael back.

Michael as he was, as Jon fell in… whatever with it. Desire of the deepest, most naked, true kind.

It’s kind of simple, really, when he looks at it.

Once upon a time, a man named Jonathan Sims did not kill the whole world for love of Martin Blackwood.

Once upon a time, a man named Jonathan Sims decides to give himself for the monster he loves.

Jon looks the Beholding straight in its great, big, stupid eye, and says yes.

He’s talking.

He’s recording?

He’s telling, reciting, becoming.

Said, Statement begins, and now he’s giving it, voice sore but strong, resonant in this place with no echoes, describing Michael down to the finest fiber of its strange and smeary cells.

The Beholding is feeding on him and working through him, giving him what he wants.

Through his voice, through the statement he gives, which becomes real as he tells it.

This is not normal. This is not sane.

Neither is Michael, he thinks, and, Mine, he adds with every beat of his heart.

Don’t need revenge if you belong to me, he thinks, and continues to tell the story of Michael the Distortion that changed.

Jon didn't know he’d passed out until he wakes up, and absolute amazement hits him because he feels like himself.

He thought for sure he’d wake up… someone else. Something else.

He feels like him. His concerns, his grief, his little spots of irritation.

He tries to sit up and groans instead.

Everything hurts like it’s been chewed on.

His throat is raw. His entire torso feels like he’s been doing crunches for the last thousand years.

And he can’t open his eyes. They’re glued shut.

Blood, he thinks, reaching up to touch, and is right.

He has bled all over his face, from everywhere he could bleed.

And he has a beard. A decently thick one. His hair is long, too, matted and tacky.

How the hell long have I been down here? he thinks, and does his damndest to roll over.

—and touches Michael’s hand.

There is no mistaking it—the weirdness, the wrong-jointedness, the sharp angles where no sharp things should be. Even the way it feels warm and cold, hot and icy, impossible to pin down in any aspect except for that frightening sharpness.

It is Michael’s hand, and Jon makes a sound like a dying whale as he grabs it with both hands and pulls it to himself.

“If you wanted to be cut,” says Michael, gently removing its hand from his face and instead capturing Jon’s hands in its own, “there are more artful ways to accomplish this.”

Jon wants to say you’re alive, but he can’t, because his mouth feels half-full of cement, and it takes him a misphonia-inducing minute of furious working to loosen his tongue, to find his palate, to part his teeth. “Michael.”

“That is who I am,” it says, sounding so confused.

Jon laughs and hurls himself into it, writhing up against it, clutching, pressing his face to it and getting himself smeared all over everything.

He is weeping.

Michael says nothing, drawing the tips of its sharp fingers down his back, lying so very still. “Did your brain melt out, Archivist? I wouldn’t want to presume, but it seems to have made an escape from your skull and onto your face.”

Jon laughs shakily. His throat feels horrible, though it’s healing, it’s getting better, somehow.

The Eye is healing him.

“M…” Jon tries. “Mine.”

Michael inhales.

Then it picks him up.

They are leaving this place, then, and how Michael is doing it is beyond Jon’s concern, because Michael is alive and nothing else matters.

Worth it, he thinks, snuffling messily. Worth it. Whatever it is that it cost, which… he’s actually not sure, now.

Jon knows they are in the Corridors by how it all feels. For one thing, he feels like he’s upside down, even though he is clearly lying flat on the carpet.

Up and down are stupid concepts, anyway.

“Archivist,” says Michael softly. “I would like to clean you.”

“Please do. I… I need you to.” Jon’s tortured voice shatters. “You ground me. I need you.”

“And here I thought I was yours,” Michael says, lightly teasing as it applies something (Wet? Dry? Hot? Cold?) to Jon’s torso, and Jon feels like layers of… stuff... are coming off him. “Yet that sounds as though you are mine.”

“I am.” Jon can’t stop touching it, though he can’t see it; touching its long, weird curls, touching the skin that sometimes gives way like a dream and sometimes is solid, touching the backs of its hands as it removes his ruined clothes and peels awfulness from his skin.

“It is very strange,” says Michael, slowly cleaning Jon’s throat. “I was me, and then I was not me. Which cannot happen; I cannot die, and so I fought, because I forgot you, and that was not.”

It stops there, as if that made sense.

“Not?” prompts Jon.

“Not,” says Michael, as though speaking of permission not given.

“You…f…fought? Fought what?”

Michael is silent, now wiping the whatever it is against Jon’s face, gently. “I fought. I am not allowed to forget you. That is… not. I do not believe we had a good time.”

It was fighting for me at the same time I was fighting for it? “How?” Jon says, absolutely flabbergasted, then winces as Michael works on his eyes.

“There is much blood, Archivist. I will be gentle,” it says instead of answering, and for once, it does not lie.

It takes a while before Jon can open them. When he does, he gasps.

This is no apartment hallway, no weird hotel corridor. The colors are there, the swirls on the wallpaper, the lamps, the mirrors, the portraits, but the whole structure whirls away from him, stretching into impossible dimensions, into Mobius-strips of craziness that he knows he could walk on, doubt his orientation, and go completely mad just from trying to stay on his own two feet.

“Oh,” he breathes. “You’re incredible.”

“I,” says Michael, “am as I was before the Great Twisting failed.”

This was just like the clay structure Gabriel had built to honor it, to resemble it—but that made no sense. “Before Gertrude bound you?” says Jon, because this Michael is clearly the one who (Learned? Benefited?) ate Michael Shelley, and that happened after the worker-of-clay’s temple to it fell.

“Yes,” says Michael, studying him. Its eyes go wide. It is a look of actual surprise, and Jon almost laughs.

“What? What is it?’

“You, Archivist,” says Michael in wonder. “You have… changed.”

Jon’s heart clenches. “How?”

Michael looks around him, pulls back enough to look all over him, and then it cackles.

It’s a completely insane sound, impossible to hear without reality juddering like a ship hitting rocks, and Jon rolls in it, drowns in it, drinks it in and all the fear it can/will/does bring.

“Oh, Archivist,” says Michael, and it's kissing him, and Jon laughs against its changing face, because Michael is alive and he doesn’t care about anything else right now.

“I,” gasps Jon. “I appeal to you? Like this?”

“You,” breathes Michael, and is climbing all over him, and Jon is responding, Jon is arching up against it and moaning, and his voice feels much less burned than it did a half an hour ago.

“How do you feel so…” He gasps. “I’m… I’m a mess, Michael, I—”

These are the Corridors, not that junk-drawer, so Michael can clean him instantly, if it wishes, and—

(It wasn’t a junk-drawer there was a reason only Jon could go there a reason Michael had been brought there luring Jon in there was a reason Jon couldn’t see anything an eye cannot see into itself that was the Eye as close as he could ever come in this world it was the Eye’s own space within this world it was it was—)

Knowledge shocks Jon, the thickness of it, the full-dimensional clarity of it, as if he is the knowledge, not merely filtering it through him, and for a moment, he loses himself, thoughts, emotions, and all.

When his eyes flutter open, he finds Michael peering at him closely.

“You are very powerful,” whispers Michael.

Jon isn't sure what Michael saw, just then, what it experienced.

Jon decides he doesn’t want to know right now, and finds he has the choice.

The flow of knowledge is his own to control, to turn on and off, with caliper-like precision.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” says Jon.

Michael grins. And it is a horrifying grin, too many teeth, mouth just a little too wide, all of it just wrong, but Jon welcomes it and embraces it and needs its particular wrongness. “Never.” Its pointed fingertips rest against his ribs.

It’s not enough. “I want you,” Jon says, because these things should be made clear. “I don’t want to go anywhere for a while. I don’t want to remember I have anywhere to go for a while. You’re my anchor, Michael. I need you.”

Michael looks…

Fraught.

“I am no anchor,” it murmurs, touching Jon’s lips. “I am change. I am doubt. I am all the things that are not. How could I be an anchor to you?”

“Because I am knowledge,” Jon says. “I am facts, hard and unyielding. I am a thousand screaming minds all at the same damn time, and without you—my anchor—to help me doubt them, to pull me outside of them, I’ll be lost, be only the screams, and I won’t… there won’t be any me left at all.”

He had not planned to say any of that.

Michael kisses him, and Jon feels like something of the reverse is true, too.

He is a solidity that Michael (who swallowed that poor, good human and took on his heart) needs.

They are balanced.

They are a contradiction.

We are impossible, Jon thinks, wrapping his legs around his monster, holding on as tight as he can.

“I will help you forget everything, if that is your wish,” promises Michael, and it is frightening, and it is needful, and it is perfect.

“Make me scream,” says Jon.

Michael laughs. “That is the easy part, Archivist,” says Michael, already moving to press into him, watching as Jon’s eyes go wide, as Jon arches up, and makes a thousand tiny noises. “The challenge is to make you without sound.”

Jon laughs, breathy, his cock throbbing, his heart pounding.

He feels complete.

“I d… dare you,” he manages.

Michael responds with movement, with reversing gravity, with making time be not and reality go sulk in the corner.

And Jon screams, and clings, and claws at it as he is touched, and Michael does not stop until Jon can’t make another sound at all, barely even breathing.

The door is yellow, its handle black, and beyond it lies all the things Jon doesn’t want to face.

He has to. He knows.

The Beholding has waited for… a while, for him to enjoy the results of his deal before re-entering the world. For a being of cosmic horror and inconceivable fear, it’s been very patient.

Jon is terrified.

“I might lose myself,” he says, staring at the door handle. “I agreed to… I don’t know what, exactly, but I could… I could not be me, any more. Once we walk through.”

“If you lose yourself, Archivist, I will find you,” says Michael, simple. “After all, it is my job to make you forget who you are. No one else may try.”

Jon manages a weak smile.

Beyond that is everything, everyone. The monsters who planned to auction him like some kind of tool.

He knows, without knowing how, that almost no time has passed for them outside.

Wild.

In here, his hair is past his shoulders. He is surprised to find it wavy.

He’s shaved his beard, regrown it, several times. He wears it now, neat, trimmed, and it feels good, as streaked and scattered with white as the rest of his hair.

He hasn’t needed to eat.

It’s been… a while.

Rest, he thinks, which is the true gift, which is actual mercy from his horrifying fear god, and he is grateful.

It’s time to go back. He knows. He accepts it. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t afraid.

He leans back against Michael. “Anchor me, please,” he whispers.

It slides the tips of its fingers—so sharp, but not breaking skin—around the sides of his neck.

Jon exhales slowly.

And he reaches for the door.

There is no great fanfare from them as he opens the door and steps out, Michael at his back.

But Jon is overwhelmed with the whole world.

He sees Tim asleep in the hospital and sees Martin asleep at his side with his head on his arms, and knows that Martjn convinced the staff to let him stay after hours with the perfect combination of stammering and puppy-eyes, and—

Sees the fear, tastes the fear, Tim’s that he won’t recover or be ugly or alone, and Martin’s that Tim will die and Jon is lost and—

Sees Daisy with Melanie and Basira, sees them in their right minds and that’s almost all that matters—

But knows that they’re ill and weak thanks to absence from the Institute, that they fear they have to return, fear they won’t succeed in escaping or killing Elias or whatever they have to do, fear that he’ll separate them somehow and that is worse than anything else in their minds—

Sees Georgie and doctor Elliot and Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk—

And Amy Patel and Dominic Swain and Kayleigh Grice and Naomi Hearne and—

Jon feels knows tastes people he’s never even read about, and it fills him, chokes him with fear and memory and marks and pain, and fear of pain and memory of marks sieves into him, and he can’t think and slips under and can’t breathe and—

Michael’s sharp fingers dig into his sides.

Jon comes back to himself, like surfacing from deep water.

Feels the Beholding pushing, excited, reaching for everything at once.

Woah, there, he thinks at it, like it’s an overeager colt at its first ever race. We do this at my pace.

It is not easy to funnel it down, to reign it in, to will miosis, but Jon manages to slow it to a flow he can handle without losing his mind.

He’s breathing hard, leaning into Michael, and so relieved to find that he can keep from drowning that his panic shrinks to a throbbing, ordinary anxiety.

Three people seem to have noticed what just occurred.

The rest don’t care. So the Spiral has joined them; so what? It is to be expected. Everyone wants a piece of this—

This ass? Jon thinks, and nearly loses it again.

But Jared is peering at him. Elias is staring at him. And Oliver looks concerned.

Jared frowns, brow heavy.

Something Jared sees—something about Jon’s body—seems to be his final straw. “Right,” Jared says, and just leaves, nopes right out the door without another word.

“What did he see?” whispers Jon.

“You are no longer human,” whispers Michael, far too happy about it.

Jon feels a little sick. He wants to know what Jared saw, but this power, this presence in him, is too new, and too hungry, and he doesn’t yet know how to focus it on one person (it’s open or closed, a sluice gate and not a laser). He thinks maybe it’s not a great idea to practice in a room full of his enemies.

Elias is staring like he’s never seen the sun, staring like Jon has walked through that door gleaming like some Medieval saint.

Elias looks… afraid. He takes a step back.

So does Jon, into Michael again. What he feels, looking at Elias is…

Undefined, for the moment. But it is a lot.

Peter Lukas looks back and forth. Looks at Jon. Looks at Elias. Whatever he sees in Elias sends his sense of self-preservation into high gear, and Peter takes two steps backwards, disappearing into fog, leaving the Institute behind.

Jon has seen himself in the mirrors in Michael’s Corridors. He didn’t seem any different; all the scars are there, the tiredness, the… small, brown nerdiness of him.

Jared’s reaction, Elias’ reaction, Peter’s reaction, shake him. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he needed to stay longer, to find a way to practice, to appear somewhere else and hone things first. Afraid, Jon tries to open that pipeline just the tiniest bit, just enough to see what they’re—

Well, Elias sees eyes.

Eyes in the air all around Jon, eyes in Jon’s skin all over his body, somehow visible through his borrowed clothes, none of them matching, all of them looking everywhere, all at once. Jon is a walking Observer, a living conduit to seeing all, all the time. Jon has become a window in that cracked door, whether or not he’s choosing to look through.

Jon feels beautiful. He’s never felt that before. It’s amazing.

But opening this particular line to Elias has had another, deeply unexpected result.

Elias has no power over him at all, and Jon knows Elias belongs to him.

The amulet does not, apparently, have any effect on a god.

He sees the moment Elias feels that echo in Jon’s soul, maybe in his face. Sees Elias harden, withdraw, try to hide himself, and—

Elias cannot hide from Jon.

Not any more.

Never again, and without meaning to, without planning for it, Jon feasts.

The room seems to darken, and it’s just the two of them.

Elias’ fear is vintage, old, and gloriously refined.

Fears of death (that’s what drives him), fears of failure, fears of obscurity, but no, it’s death, more than weakness, more than blindness, death that leaves Jonah desperate and scrabbling and stealing people’s bodies and making bad deals and tripping other people in the dark so they are eaten and not him, and—

Jon wants more.

(Is aware now of a moldering corpse in the tunnels and isn’t that grand?)

He stares, unblinking, holding Elias’ gaze though the other man wants to turn away, and Jon could just crouch over him and devour him, hover there and dig his fear out of him, hold him tenderly and absorb every last tear, every single sob, every throat-tearing scream, until—

Michael’s sharp fingers scrape down his spine, and Jon gasps, and somehow, turns away.

Panting, Jon presses his face against Michael’s midsection and tries to get a hold of himself.

He’s aware that Elias—with absolutely all his willpower—is leaning, one hand lightly on the wall, as if casual, and is very close to passing out.

“I think I might be mad with power,” Jon whispers, tries to joke. He has frightened himself badly.

Michael laughs.

No one noticed what Jon was doing to Elias, but it’s impossible not to notice Michael. At Michael’s laugh, everyone in the room, without exception, wobbles.

My herald, Jon thinks, and then wonders where he got that idea.

They’re all mildly annoyed, not hugely scared yet; it’s the Spiral, and that’s par for the course.

Irritated, Jude Perry glances over. “Oh, look—the scared little lamb has returned, tail between its legs. There you are, little lamb. I didn’t think you’d come back while we were all here.”

Wow, Jon thinks. That didn’t scare me at all, and he and all his eyes look right her way.

She can’t see them— but she can feel them.

She freezes.

Something he does not know is rising up in him now. Jon has been angry, he has known impotent temper and grumpy scowls, but this is new, and all-consuming

This is rage.

Rage that she hurt him for no valid cause, rage that she boasted about it and rubbed it in his face, rage that she just doesn’t like him and intends to cause him suffering no matter who gets their hands on him in the end, and it’s not even his pain that she’s after—she wants to burn his flesh until his mind is gone, to see him utterly destroyed.

Maybe he should destroy her, instead.

“Jude Perry,” Jon begins, and the power of his own voice startles him silent.

All conversation stops, lacking only a record-screech for emphasis.

“They’re watching you now, Archivist,” says Michael, bending nearly double, murmuring in his ear.

“What?” snaps Jude, hiding her irrational fear under scowls and flame. “You said my name, Archivist, so I assume you want something.”

And there is war inside of Jon’s heart, and he is being watched and stared at and judged, and he suddenly is desperately afraid that he cannot hold on to himself after all, because he wants to kill her so much.

He could.

He sees how.

Jude takes one step forward—responding to fear with violence, as she does everything else—and Arthur Nolan grabs her arm (earning a truly shocked look), staring at Jon and shaking.

Jon knows. Sees the constant heat of the Desolation pouring through her being, sees how she is held together barely at all with wax and will, sees how easy it would be to make that will slip, to break her concentration.

To let her melt and die in screaming globs on the floor.

Oh, he thinks, and worries that he might not regret it afterward.

Jon exhales very slowly. “I think it might be wise if you all go home,” he finally says.

Jude laughs at him.

She’s not the only one putting up a front, and she’s not the only one whose instincts are screaming at her to be very, very afraid.

The atmosphere is changing, something in the whole Institute is changing, attuning itself to him, thrumming with the power he is bringing from the Ceaseless Watcher into its own temple. It’s a tightness, and a heat, and a penetration like radiation, changing and owning and burning.

(And he suddenly understands that they are all terrified of their patrons, every single one, and of course they are, they worship in fear and trembling, they love the perks but they are all horrified all the time, a living nightmare for everybody just dulled by will and pleasure and hedonism and sadism—)

Fairchild has made up his mind, and has every intention of hurling this weird, new, problematic Jon into the sky and keeping him there until a plan presents itself. “Ah… hm,” he says. “I believe I’ve seen enough for tonight—”

No, Jon isn’t going through this again, isn’t letting them do this, isn’t going to let them judge him and choose him and use him and hurt him and burn him and cut him and throw him into the sky or under the earth or tell worms to eat his flesh or stab his kidneys or any other damn thing. “No,” he says, pouring intent into it this time, welcoming the rush. “If you try, Pietro Aretino, I will unmake you so thoroughly that not even the Great Beast could find what remains.”

Jon’s mouth tingles. That was… power.

It’s probably been a long time since Fairchild heard his true name. He staggers backwards, as if punched.

And everyone’s rising, confused fear is like sweet sugar crystals on top of a perfect baked dessert, and he wants more.

He could have more.

It’s right there.

“What’s happening?” says Callum Brodie, his voice finally cracking.

Then Gordon Goodman, avatar of the Corruption, deeply afraid, suddenly squirts maggots like a cartoon character’s sweat.

It’s so gross. So ridiculous.

So unlikely.

Jon stares at him, startled off his slippery slope.

Jon laughs.

So does Michael, which is absolutely dizzying, and that almost hides what happens next.

Because Prentiss sent her worms into the Institute before, where they bred and grew until they could come like waves with intent to steal Jon’s life, and they were the reason that Sasha died, driven into the maw of the Not-Them.

He is never letting that happen again.

They’re not even real. They’re created from fear, made to frighten and disgust and terrorize. And they’re tiny stories, really, each one barely even a word, a syllable, a thought.

So he eats the fear away and lets them crumble to small, white piles of dust.

Everyone stares.

At the dust.

At him.

Back again.

“Oh,” says Gordon Goodman, sadly.

“Jon,” whispers Elias, who has no idea what Jon just did.

Michael drapes its long hands over Jon’s shoulders; the sharp tips poke around his hips—intimate, familiar.

Grounding.

Oliver Banks approaches. His eyes are wide, and he keeps looking at things no one else can see, all around him. “You could do it,” he says, softly. “You could end everybody.”

Of course he knows Jon wants to send them all to the End.

And Jon does, and they’re monsters, and would it be wrong? And—

The funniest thought flashes through his head: Martin wouldn’t want me to go Kill Bill on everyone. So I probably shouldn’t. Not that he’d seen that movie, but he knew the gist.

It wasn’t a conscience, maybe, but as a guidepost, it would do. He looks at Oliver. “I don’t want to, I think,” Jon says.

Oliver nods, like this was very wise. “Then don’t.”

“You can go. Thank you for staying as long as you did,” says Jon, like a benediction, like a blessing, like a gift.

Oliver gives him a small, weary smile, and goes.

Jon likes Oliver Banks.

And he doesn’t want to deal with any of these people any more tonight. “Go home,” he says.

“W—excuse me?” says Diego Molina.

He could compel them.

He could just make them obey.

He could be like Elias.

No, Jon thinks, because he does not want to be that. So he tries a different tack. “All of you need to leave. If you don’t… I’m going to do this.”

And like with the maggots, like with Elias, for just a moment, he eats at their fear.

It’s two seconds of chaos.

Of loss of control, of disconnection from the entities they know. Of pain and panic, of helplessness felt by those who excel in making other people helpless.

Everyone is yelling.

“Go home,” says Jon into the din. “I think I’ve made my point.”

He did.

And no; they’re not done, and no, this won’t be the end of it, but they’re all moving toward the door (some with more encouragement than others) and that’s all Jon really wanted to see.

Alfred Grifter tucking his flute into his coat, Goodman manifesting some kind of hideous skin-mold to keep the rest of his pets from escaping, Jude being escorted by her two fiery friends, Fairchild moving at a run, Callum Brodie trying to march off in a cool and collected way (and then Michael makes a short, sharp motion, and Brodie startles and bolts, and that shouldn’t be funny, but it is.)

And Jon wills them out, one by one, until they’re finally off his property.

He hopes they’ll take all this to heart and won’t try anything stupid.

He knows they’re all going to try something stupid. This is going to be a pain.

And turns to look at Elias.

Elias, who is, very subtly, shaking.

Elias, whose mind is open to Jon now, absolutely an open book, and who—Jon can tell—can no longer read him at all.

All of Jon’s eyes focus on him.

Oh, Jon thinks, because he wants to eat Elias right up.

Wants to crush him like a grape, make him so afraid.

“Don’t kill me,” whispers Elias, who doesn’t think Jon will, who is trying to find ways to use this, who is trying to read Jon and increasingly worried that he can’t.

He still thinks he can flood me, Jon thinks, run me over, eat me and digest me and make me his.

Jon almost laughs. He is breathing fast, eyes wide; he feels like a predator, ready to pounce.

Elias’ eyes widen. “Don’t kill me,” he says again, more afraid, but still so certain Jon would never dare.

Jon knows how to make him more afraid. Knows just how to frighten him, how to strip so much away in one simple move. “You’ve stolen so many faces, worn so many names. I don’t want you to do that anymore.”

The panic rising in Elias’ face is unfamiliar, weirdly appealing, and Jon has to fight not to make this worse than he already is.

“You’re Elias, now?” Jon says. “Then you’re Elias for good,” he says, and he ends Jonah Magnus’ corpse in the center of the tunnels.

It falls apart, into dust, and the threads between it and Elias that keep him alive no matter what snap, one by one, until they’re gone.

Elias screams. Screams again, crouches down. Clutches his head, howls.

Jon isn’t sure how long that lasts because he’s too busy drinking it in.

It tastes better than any fear he’s encountered yet in his nascent, numinous position.

Jon could feed off him for days.

The temptation is so strong.

The Beholding would just love it.

This isn’t who he wants to be.

Jon turns away, presses into Michael’s chest. Michael holds him, and that matters more than anything else. “This is so hard,” Jon whispers.

Michael runs its claws along his scalp. “You are the Archivist.”

Jon laughs weakly. “Faith in me? Not sure that’s a good idea,” he says, but he is encouraged, and turns to face Elias again.

Elias is gasping. Looks up, and (you’ve got to be kidding me) there are tears. “I can die. I could die. It would take nothing!” His voice breaks.

It took so little to reduce him to this. And he’s right. If any of those monsters who just left the place knew his condition, Elias wouldn’t even make it to his car.

Elias is mortal, and that fact alone is enough to undo him.

“Die? You mean like Sasha? Like Leitner? Like Gertrude?” says Jon, his volume rising.

“You’ve killed me,” Elias breathes, and he sobs.

“No, I made you mine,” Jon says without thinking, and blinks.

They stare at each other.

Jon doesn’t like the misery he sees in Elias’ face. His own heart tugs, bothers him, in spite of reason, sense, history—and Jon is glad it still can. He hasn’t lost his empathy. This is so important.

Elias deserves this, and worse. But this isn’t about him, Jon thinks. This is about me. “I won’t… let you die. All right? Stop… panicking. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You could,” whispers Elias, because hurt is alive and if that’s what Jon wants, it’s an easy decision. “And I would let you.”

Tempting. So tempting.

Also awkward, so awkward, and Jon embraces that. “Go home.”

“I can’t. I don’t dare. I… I…”

Elias is panicked. Zero to sixty, confidence gone.

Jon wanted that. Now he’s not sure he’s happy he has it. He sighs. “There’s a cot in the Archive. You know that—I spent loads of nights down there. Sleep there tonight, and we’ll deal with this in the morning. I promise nothing’s going to enter the tem… the Archive tonight.”

The temple, he almost said.

To me, he almost said.

Good lord, he almost said.

Something in his face must make it clear this is it, because Elias obeys. Gathers himself, tries and fails to calm his shaking, looks at Jon, absolutely pleading (For what? A bunk bed inside the Distortion?), and sort of wanders away.

His terror lingers like sweet perfume.

Jon licks his lips, and decides tomorrow will not be a work day for anyone. He concentrates; informs all the Institute employees that they are all on paid break until further notice.

It was easy. Better than text. Way better than phone calls.

Jon sighs and leans into Michael. Everything feels alive, amazing, thrumming; but all he wants is to hide under his monster again. “That could have gone a lot better.”

“I think you did well, Archivist.” Michael runs its fingers through his hair.

Jon smiles weakly. “You would think that.”

“You are learning. Archivist. You have two natures. You have power, true power. You have your human heart. It is not so… easy to balance.” And Michael isn’t smiling.

There is so much in those words.

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” whispers Jon, and pulls it down for a kiss.

“You could have killed him,” says Michael. “Or made him mad. Bored into him, eaten all that he is, leaving only your fingerprints behind.”

Jon shudders. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to. And he doesn’t… have any power over me, anymore. That changes it all.”

“That,” says Michael, “is as good a reason to do anything as there ever was. What will you do next?” it says, as though Jon is the absolute best source of entertainment that ever was.

Eat the world, Jon thinks, but that isn’t his plan. “Tim,” he says. “I can help him heal. I know how to do it.”

“Oh,” says Michael.

“Daisy,” says Jon. “She doesn’t want to be part of the Hunt. I’m going to see if she wants to be freed.”

“Admirable,” says Michael, sounding bored.

“Basira and Melanie… I’m going to help them, too. I can. I can. I actually can, now.”

“Do we get to scare some doctors?” says Michael.

And the moment Jon thinks of it, he can feel Tim’s doctors’ fear from here, like the scent of a meal cooked and ready for him, and thinks maybe—just maybe—he can do this without destroying anybody.

Or maybe not. But he’s hungry, now, and he can choose which of them deserve a good ego-rattle. “Yes, we get to scare some doctors.”

Michael beams at him and nuzzles the top of his head.

“After that, I…”

“Yes?” Michael peers over top of him, upside down.

Jon won’t say.

But he likes his new plan.

Maybe it’s a dumb plan. His seem to usually be. But it’s one he thinks he can make happen.

The Fears exist because humans made them; they can’t be blamed for it, for what they do (and what side of things that opinion puts Jon on, he’s not dealing with now), but… rituals, he decides, are outside that natural balance.

Is Jon a monster?

Yes. He feels it, and he’s sure he’s barely seen the manifestation of that play out.

Could he actually stop the rituals?

Maybe. “Going to need to monitor everything, anyway,” he murmurs. “Make sure they don’t all run around, trying to get some poor victim marked by everything, like me. It’s a horrible experience.”

“They wouldn’t survive,” says Annabelle, and Jon knew she was there or she would have made him jump.

“I still won’t let them try. It’s awful.”

Annabelle nods, acknowledging. “So how is your cake?”

Jon swallows. “A little hard to keep down.”

“It's very interesting to watch you try. We’d calculated an eighty-seven point nine percent chance you were going to kill Jude Perry.”

“I’ve been on the other end of… of murderous intent. I hated it. I don’t want to do that to people.” He leans into Michael, opens the pipeline a little, lets knowing wash over him, all his eyes, and feels connected to the whole world. So much fear—so often of things that aren’t even happening. It feels so good. “I guess I don’t have to kill her, is what I’m saying. I’m content.”

“So you’re enjoying your cake,” says Annabelle.

Jon snorts. “Having it is very different from eating. It’s… a little rich. And who knows? Maybe I’ll kill them all later, after all,” Jon adds, just to make Michael purr, and it does.

“Good luck, Archive,” Annabelle says, and turns to go.

“No,” says Jon, because even like this, he still can’t see what the Web is doing, because even like this, he still doesn’t know what the Web is planning, and that is an itch he cannot bear.

She stops.

“I’m coming to talk to you, too. Later.”

“What makes you think I’ll be available?” teases Annabelle.

“You will,” says Jon. All his eyes blink at her. “I’m sorry. I mean, please,” he adds, softer.

She smiles—looks terribly amused—and leaves.

Jon rests his face against Michael’s torso. “Could I trouble you for a door to Tim’s hospital room in Yarmouth?”

“Whatever you say, Archivist.”

It’s Archive, now, Jon thinks, but doesn’t ask Michael to use it.

Tomorrow, Elias will be very weird. His, though. Somehow, it’s going to work out.

Tonight… tonight, he gets to help his friend. If I’d lost me, I wouldn’t want to do that, he thinks, and is relieved.

“Are you happy?” says Michael.

Jon thinks. Around them, the Institute thrums softly, and he feels safe in the hands of his monster. “Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am. Everyone lived, Michael. I have you, and no one can hurt me anymore.” Apocalypse averted, he adds, but does not say, and then he laughs. “It’s a damn sight better than being lotioned by mannequins for a month.”

“Oh, Archivist,” says Michael with a smile. “The things you say.”

And they are through its door and gone.

-------------------

NOTES

So obviously, this whole story is actually AU. I sort of headcanon that all the amazing fic I’ve read on this site plays into it, because why not? The sandbox is big enough for everybody.

I wasn't kidding in the tag, btw: blame the Web. in MAG 197, Annabelle says, "We found the one we believed most likely to bring about their manifestation. We marked him young, guided his path as best we could."

Yep. Our boy Jon was doomed - and in spite of Jonah's cruel claim ("Just your own, rotten luck" in MAG 160), Jon was clearly some kind of chosen one. A really, really fucked one.

Notes, notes, notes: Tim lives. Fuck kayaking.

And yes, he is going to be fine, and so is their friendship. It’s going to take time, though.

Oh, and not to stir the pot, Jon, but Martin WOULD want you to go Kill Bill. That’s all right. It worked out, anyway.

Trevor Herbert and Julia Montauk are still going to show up at the Archive, trying to get to Jon. It's... not gonna go down quite the way they think.

Yes, I google-mapped all known locations. Did I have to describe the door color in the Hainault storage facility? No, but I did it anyway!

The wax museum in Yarmouth is as I described, and you have GOT to see these absolutely messed-up waxworks. Nikola picked the right place.

Pietro Aretino was REAL and worked under Venetian painter Tintoretto and absolutely fits Simon Fairchild’s wild and crazy life?

I know it may seem like Basira, Daisy, and Melanie got shafted—but actually they did not. (A) If they’d been around, just like in the show, they’d have slowed Jon’s “growth”—and Annabelle couldn’t let that happen. (B) However, Annabelle is a thousand percent woman power and didn’t just screw them over. I’ll have you know that those three ladies will have themselves a private detective agency in future stories.

I mean, Hunter Daisy, Ms. Logic herself (Basira), and kick-ass investigator Melanie? They’re unstoppable.

Obviously, I had to write Helen out to make this work, but I can’t help pointing out that she, like Michael, was still obsessed with Jon. MAG 187, when she’d trapped him in her halls: “Hopefully I can stall long enough that any of your little gang that can die, have done so. By the time I let you out, you’ll have nobody else.”

What a thing to say. It’s almost like Jon has the attention of the Distortion itself, no matter who it’s recently eaten.

As for what Elias did after he felt his home had been invaded and he was furious, he called on a favor. Lightning took out one of the Web’s safehouses. It was nasty. Fire all over the place. An expensive and dramatic response.

Of course the Web had known he would. Not so big a deal as he’d hoped. Sorry, Magnus. Foiled again.

For the record, I am actually a HUGE JonMartin shipper, so this story was a challenge, because I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

And yes, I do like a little JonElias, once in a while. As a treat. (It’s such an incredibly fucked up relationship. How can I not?)

Jon is just a wonderful character to play with; he’s so smart and so stupid at the same time. No matter what’s happening, though, he always tries—and, as in the canon ending of MAG 200, will literally do anything for love.

Also because this is my fic, I tell you right now that OG Jon and Martin are VERY MUCH ALIVE Somewhere Else, and they are happy.

There are many good cows.

#tma fic #tma au #tma jon #jonathan sims #monster!jon #monster jon #monster jonathan sims #jonmichael #jon x michael #the magnus archives is a podcast

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manesalex · 1 year

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nothing starts without you (we become the stories we’ve always wanted): chapter 2/3

When Alex’s former bandmate, Rosa Ortecho, asks him to write a song to help kickstart her solo career, Alex finds himself struggling to write anything at all. Until, that is, he meets Michael Guerin. Or, a loose Music and Lyrics AU. for @alex-guerin @malexsanta

Warnings for suggestive comments, references to past abuse, and references to addiction. Not Maria Deluca friendly.

***

Isobel is talking about her latest terrible date, but all Michael can think about is Alex Manes and that offer he had made.

It’s not a good idea, Michael knows that. It’s just that a part of him wants to take the opportunity to spend more time with Alex. To get to know this man who seems so very different from the guitarist he remembers Isobel having so much interest in a few years ago.

“And then she had the audacity to–” Isobel stops, turning her attention to him. “You know, usually you at least pretend to be interested in the horrors of dating in Roswell.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m just distracted. There’s this guy I’m working for and–”

Unsurprisingly, that’s all it takes to make Isobel focus all of her attention on him. “A guy? Please tell me he’s hot.”

“It’s not like that,” Michael objects instantly, well aware that he’s lying. He’s never seen anyone as gorgeous as Alex. He remembers thinking as much when his band had been a big deal years ago, even if their music wasn’t his type. And he’s somehow even hotter in person. But that isn’t a good idea. After all, there’s a good reason he’s been avoiding serious relationships for the past few years. And Michael is absolutely certain he’d never be able to just have something casual with someone like Alex.

Isobel frowns, looking disappointed. “Then what is it like?”

“He asked me to help him with lyrics to a song he’s trying to write for his old bandmate.”

“You’re not talking about– Michael, are you working for Alex Manes?!” Isobel is absolutely giddy at the prospect. Michael doesn’t answer, but the look on his face is enough to confirm it to her. “Okay, first of all, it most definitely is like that because I’ve seen the way you watched those music videos with me and Alex Manes is fucking gorgeous.”

“Okay, fine, he’s hot,” Michael admits. It’s not just that though. There’s something about Alex that makes Michael absolutely certain that his beauty isn’t just surface level.

Isobel is smiling like that cat that ate the proverbial canary, “Yeah, he is. And you’re going to say yes to him and tell me all about it.”

“It’s not a good idea, Isobel. You know what happened with–”

Isobel sounds positively murderous at the reminder, “Yeah, well she doesn’t have an ounce of integrity in her body.” She pauses for a moment before saying, “Alex is different. He may have written some fabulously bitchy lyrics, but– You remember when he was outed? All the things they said about him in the press?”

Michael nods.

“He never once went after anyone. Just disappeared. And, honestly, he should have at least ruined his brother’s life because what kind of person does that to their brother?”

Michael doesn’t have an answer. He can’t imagine hurting Isobel, Max, or Dallas like that. Or any of them doing that to him.

“Anyway, you should talk to him, Michael,” Isobel urges. “You were a really good writer. And I know it meant a lot to you. You shouldn’t let Maria ruin that for you forever. And I think Alex would understand. Plus,” she adds with a grin. “How fucking cool would it be to have Rosa Ortecho singing something you’ve written?”

***

When Michael arrives the next morning, Alex hasn’t gotten any further on the song he’s failing to write.

He expects Michael to get straight to work, but, instead, Michael stops directly in front of him. “You toured with Maria Deluca, right?”

It’s an odd question and seems entirely out of nowhere, but Alex just nods, “Our last tour as a band.” It hadn’t exactly gone well and Alex suspects that Maria had something to do with some of that, but he can’t exactly prove she had released those pictures of Rosa to the public.

“And what did you think of her?”

“Just between you and me?” Alex asks for confirmation. He’s not looking to poke that particular hornet’s nest. Michael just nods, so Alex takes a deep breath and says, “She seemed nice. At first. But then… I don’t trust her. Some stuff happened and, while some of it might just be a coincidence, I don’t think she’s as sweet as her public image would suggest.”

Michael sits down across from Alex before saying, “I dated her. Maybe about a year before she released her first album. Not that she’d admit it.

“I used to write music. All the time. She did too. So I wasn’t surprised when she got a record deal. I was excited for her. I didn’t even think it was weird that she didn’t want me to visit her in the studio or anything. After all, she never introduced me to her family.” He looks defensive, angry, like he’s expecting Alex to dismiss it. Or worse, agree with that decision. “She was ashamed of me. And it’s not like she didn’t have reasons to be.”

Alex wants to argue with that, but he thinks Michael just needs to tell this story without interruptions.

“Anyway, we broke up about a month before her first single came out. And, when it came out–” he takes a deep breath, looking Alex right in the eye. “I wrote it. Turns out I wrote most of the songs on her album.”

“She stole your songs,” Alex says softly.

“Not that I can prove it,” Michael shrugs.

Alex nods, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Michael, however, looks completely shocked. “You believe me?”

“Yeah,” Alex shrugs. “I was dating this guy when we were touring. I mean, I still wasn’t out, not to the general public, but… Everyone on the tour knew. And about halfway through the tour– He started dating her.” He pauses before saying, “I mean, that’s– I get it. I was a closeted, disabled queer man. Not exactly a prize. Maria didn’t have any of that baggage. But then Rosa made some shady comments about it onstage one night and– I, um, I think Maria released those pics of Rosa partying on our last tour. I can’t prove it, but she went out with her every night and… She wasn’t in a single one of them.” He takes a breath, “Anyway, I don’t think what she did to you would be out of character for her. But I’m sorry she did that to you. And, for the record, she shouldn’t have treated you like she was ashamed of you either.”

“Thanks,” Michael’s voice is surprisingly soft. And then he clears his throat before saying, “Anyway, Isobel suggested I tell you about it.” He pauses a moment, “I’d really like to try to write something with you. I just..” he shrugs, gets up. “I’ll get to work.”

“I could get my lawyer to write up a contract, if you’d like. I mean, Rosa wouldn’t steal your work. I wouldn’t do it either. But I could have Noah put something together so you’d have that security.” He’s angry on Michael’s behalf, that Maria stole his work. His songs were good. Far better than anything on Maria’s second album. And Michael deserves to have his talent recognized. If he wants it. If Alex can give this to him.

“I’d like that.”

***

Writing with Alex is easier than Michael could have imagined. It’s almost like it’s instinctive. He’ll write something and Alex will follow with a change to the tune that fits it perfectly. Or vice versa. He loses track of time and only realizes they’ve been working together for hours when his stomach growls loud enough for both of them to hear.

Not too long after that, they’re seated at the Crashdown and the owner, Arturo, is dropping off burgers, fries, and milkshakes at their table.

“You should go see Rosa,” Arturo says, seemingly out of nowhere.

“She’s in town?” Alex asks, sounding surprised.

“Just for the rest of the day. She’s getting ready for a hometown concert and said she wanted to tour the venue.”

Michael just listens as Alex continues to talk with Arturo, surprised by how Alex seems perfectly at ease with him.

Until, that is, Arturo walks away and Alex explains, “Arturo is Rosa’s dad. I met his younger daughter, Liz, in elementary school. She’s off in Denver doing some medical thing that is far too complicated for me to follow.” Michael very much doubts that. From what he’s seen of Alex, he’s far smarter than most people would probably expect. Alex continues, “Arturo was one of the few adults in Roswell who always gave me somewhere to stay when I was scared to go home.”

“Tell me about Rosa?” Michael asks, deciding to stick with the safer subject for now, to wait to ask about the painful past Alex had hinted at, even if he’s heard bits and pieces of it from the press and from Isobel’s commentary on the subject. “Might help with the song if I knew more about her.” He can see Alex getting ready to object, “I’m not talking personal stuff. Just– Tell me how you see her.”

Alex takes a sip of his milkshake before speaking, “Most people see her as tough. That’s this image that she projects. And she can be. If you hurt someone she loves, she won’t back down. But she’s also smart. Passionate about her art. And really caring.” He pauses, looks down before meeting Michael’s eyes. “She’s the first person I came out to. She was the person I went to when things were bad at home. She taught me how to use eyeliner and painted my nails and– everyone else thought I should be quiet, should hide.” Alex looks down, twirls his straw for a moment, “It’s not like I don’t understand why. They wanted me to be safe. Or some of them did. Some of them just wanted me to stay invisible.”

Michael wishes he could have known Alex back then, when he was a kid. He thinks he would have been amazed by the boy who was brave enough to be entirely himself, to raise a middle finger to the world who wanted him to be something different, something less than he is. He thinks his teenage self would have probably fallen head over heels for a teenaged Alex Manes.

“Rosa was the only person I really felt safe with back then. I wish I could have done the same for her when she needed me.” Michael is about to object when Alex says, “Thanks again for helping me with the song for her.”

“Alex,” Michael starts, “Addiction is– You know there’s nothing you could have done about that, right?”

“I could have been there,” Alex looks angry, but Michael knows that anger is entirely directed at himself. “She was struggling and I could have at least kept an eye on her. Might have kept her from being torn apart by the press.”

Michael wants to argue with him, but he can already see that Alex is his own harshest critic, that arguing with him right now won’t change his mind. So instead he says, “And what about you? What were you like growing up?”

“I was… struggling. And angry. My mom left when I was a kid and my dad hated me for who I was. For who I am. My brothers fell in line. I get it. They were trying to survive. But I was just so angry that the world wasn’t better, that people didn’t care. I’d show up to school with a black eye and people would just ignore it. Until my dad went to prison and then, all of a sudden, they acted like they always cared.”

“What happened?” Michael asks, taking the opening Alex offered. He’s heard bits and pieces of other people’s versions of what Alex’s father had done to him, but he knows Alex never commented on it publicly. Most of it had been overshadowed in the press by one of his brothers outing him anyway, as if Alex being gay was a scandal and not the fact that his father had tried to murder him for it. But he wants to hear Alex’s version. If he wants to tell it, of course. “I mean, you don’t have to–”

“The summer before my senior year of high school, my father caught me with a guy on the football team. I don’t remember a lot after that.” Alex pauses before saying, “I don’t remember what my dad did to me, only what the doctors and then the sheriff told me. And, after I was out of the hospital, the sheriff took me in.” He takes a deep breath before saying, “My mom showed up for a bit at first but– She didn’t really want to stick around. My brothers– Clay stuck by my dad’s side. He’s still defending him. He’s the one who…” Alex trails off, almost like he doesn’t want to say it.

So Michael offers, “Outed you?”

Alex nods, “It’s not like I don’t get it. Him defending my father, I mean. I know how trauma can fuck with your head.” Michael wants to argue, to say that what Clay did was unforgivable, but, at the same time, he’s amazed that Alex is so understanding toward someone who hurt him so much and so publicly. Alex continues, “Flint was with him for a while, but now both he and Gregory are working through things for themselves.”

Michael doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he would have been there when they were kids, knows he’d have put himself in harm’s way for Alex. He’s never met someone who is so kind to everyone, who sees the good in everyone, even when they don’t deserve it. Michael is absolutely certain that, even now, as an adult, he’d do anything to protect this man he barely knows. And that realization is terrifying. He’s never felt like that about anyone but his siblings. He has just met Alex Manes and already he’s certain that Alex could break his heart without even trying.

***

Thanks for reading! Chapter 3 will be posted later today!

#malexsanta #malex fic #malex fanfiction #malex #roswell fic #roswell nm fic #rnm fic #roswell new mexico fic #roswell new mexico #michael guerin #i love (1) actual disaster #alex manes #actual cinnamon roll #protect him at all cost #michael x alex #otp: home can be a person #*myfic

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5sosfanfictioncatalogue · 10 months

Text

Single Parent AU (2) Masterlist

part one

Beside You (ao3) - orphan_account Luke/Ashton G, 27k

Summary: Luke Hemmings was just 19 years old when he became a father to his little girl, Finley Elizabeth.

When his longtime girlfriend left the two of them shortly after Finley’s first birthday, Luke struggled to manage his life as a world known rockstar and a full-time dad.

Through the struggles the boys were there for him through it all.

Some just formed a better bond than others.

Burn You Down (ao3) - veinmichael (AvannahSay) Luke/Calum, Michael/Calum NR, 3k

Summary: Calum only wants the best for his baby. And when times are tough, he has to do his worst. But after fucking up, he's made his great escape to start a new life in America. But when he stumbles across Luke, the Australian UNI boy, things get more complicated than ever.

Or Calum is a criminal with a baby and Luke is as smitten as a kitten.

Let Me Help You (ao3) - tellyouwhatilike Calum/Ashton, Michael/Luke G, 1k

Summary: calum is a single dad who likes to do this whole thing alone...

that might be until he meets ashton irwin.

Like We Were Schoolkids (ao3) - punchinginadream Michael/Luke NR, 2k

Summary: It was hard to say what exactly led Michael and Luke to each other. If you asked Luke, he would say it was fate. But if you asked Michael, he'd simply say it was because his son doesn't know how to tie his shoes.

Nicknames (ao3) - taetrtot Michael/Ashton E, 6k

Summary: "Why don't you have that many pictures of mom?"

"Because she hated taking pictures. He didn't."

Or Michael looks through his deceased wife's' things, suddenly finding an old forgotten scrapbook.

Now Accepting Applications (ao3) - larryologymajor G, 1k

Summary: Ashton’s new to the building and his lifestyle disrupts his downstairs neighbor, Harper; but she’s in for a surprise when she bangs on his door in the middle of the night.

Quarter in the Swear Jar (ao3) - eaty0urveggies Michael/Calum, Luke/Ashton T, 1k

Summary: "What the fuck?"

"Quarter in the swear jar!"

Or when Calum is raising his son as a single parent but Michael isn't making it any easier.

Say A Prayer For The Broken Bones (ao3) - lilacpages Michael/Ashton, Michael/Calum T, 16k

Summary: There were absolutely no reminders of the man he once loved in his house at all anymore, except for the locket and and a few pictures. They had been stashed into a box and shoved into the very back of his bedroom closet, never to see the light of day again.

That was why no one was allowed to touch the box.

Because it held the only remaining evidence of Michael’s dead husband.

And because Michael hadn’t been able to acknowledge any of it for the past six years.

Smudges of Love (ao3) - larryologymajor G, 2k

Summary: Luke thinks Ashton and his daughter are lonely, so he does something about it.

Terrible Things (ao3) - handwrittenjas Michael/Luke T, 18k

Summary: It's been ten years since Luke was left as a single father and his fifteen year old son has no idea why he doesn't remember his other dad. Luke raised the younger boy alone, shielding him from love and telling him never to get attached, but Daniel can't help but feel curious and as hard as it is for both of them, Luke knows it's time to tell his son about the only man who ever broke his heart.

(or the one where Michael passed away ten years ago and Luke still doesn't talk about it).

#5sosfanfictioncatalogue #5sos fanfic #5sos #5 seconds of summer #singleparent #singleparent masterlist #masterlists

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away-ward · 6 months

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"However, we know that A.P. was not wealthy like Edward, but he was ambitious and intelligent. We don't know what drove A.P. to work so hard to get a scholarship to TBP," - from your post asking who gave damon the key to carfax room.

Wait, A.P. was a scholarship student? Hold on, he was kinda like emory? A self-made person?

+ i would really love an epilogue by pd showing a bond between michael & emory, and talking about how different the graysons had made michael's old, cold, haunted, and lonely house to look like how it is now in willemmy's care. I bet he would notice the warmth, and the liveliness of his old house, especially their old kitchen, since emmy loves to cook and bake. We could even have extras of emmy bonding with the women through cooking or biweekly/monthly baking or smth in that house :( what do ya think?

Weeeellllll I might be jumping the gun on him being scholarship student. The story that Will tells just indicates that there was a difference between the wealthy kids on the team, and the scholarship students or those who needed scholarships for college. He later makes a point to say that A.P. was not wealthy like Edward. Could be that A.P. just wasn't as wealthy as Edward, but the way Will tells it leads me to believe A.P. didn't come from money.

I also have a post in here where I thought the Grayson's were old, old money. That could still be true, since A.P. could have married into money, but it does seem that as a teenager he was in a similar position as Emory.

But how are you guys interpreting that story?

Wait, I thought Will and Em moved into the old Fane residence, like Rika's house? Since her mom married Will's uncle?

(First I miss who gave Damon the key, and now I might have mixed up the houses?? Do I not know this series at all? Quick, who did Emory marry? It was will, right???)

But yeah, I would have loved more interactions with the characters. I was reading a post earlier about how the term "filler episode" was originally used and how it's used today. I always used the term to mean parts of the story that seem to just be padding the run time/pages without adding enough to the plot or character to be enjoyable. I enjoyed the point that was made by the person writing it. They explained so many authors and writers today have heard the term "filler" and have been told filler is anything that doesn't move the plot forward and they need to get rid of it.

But while chapters with characters development or interaction may not move the plot forward, they're not filler or padding. Readers and series viewers love that stuff. They crave it. If watching these characters just have simple interactions so I can understand them better or see the little background moments that build their hint at their relationships/bonds is filler, then I'd read an entire book of filler. Give me all the filler.

Despite what PD writes, I love the idea of these people just being overly involved in each other's lives. A hundred combinations of group chats, always in each other's houses, knowing exactly where they keep the good snacks, ruining each other's plans. Bake nights, movie nights, planning surprise party nights. All of it. That's my idea of a chosen family, and how I prefer to picture them.

I love the idea of Michael reflecting on Emory's style. Listening to portions of Fire Night reminded me that Michael wanted to open a resort and it seems like they did - Cold Fire Inn. I know they brought in Damon and Emory's company for that, so I imagine there was a lot of discussion about how best to represent Thunder Bay while including their own style and appealing to the masses. They probably grew to appreciate each other even more, though I know they fought over aspects of the design. Damon probably enjoyed watching Michael receive a verbal beating at the hands of Emory. He probably recorded some of them to send to Will later. Oooh can you imagine Michael trying to verbally spar with both Emory and Banks.

No chance.

Sorry, that was a lot of rambling. Thanks for the ask!

#asked and answered 167 #asked and answered #devil's night series stuff #will grayson iii #a.p. grayson #reverie cross

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chihirolovebot · 2 years

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pspspspspspsp…………

hi!!!! i come bearing gifts! heeeere is physicist. i changed some aspects about them like turning the overalls from olive to black because i really enjoy the black/red/white palettes. i also gave them those gloves (for their science experiments where they mix chemicals up so their hands dont explode? i truly know nothing about physics). im definitely gonna overhaul their design at some point because i think they need more flair so they fit in with the rest of the dr cast yk. im still working on a full portrait of them atm (color shading etc etc) which i sincerely hope u will enjoy

also! i wanted to throw in here: PLEASE listen to me and michael + when you die (both my mgmt) if you haven’t already bc those 2 songs have kokichi/physicist written all over them.

the front pocket was not originally part of the overalls btw! they wanted a larger place to store more of their things so they clumsily tried to sew a pocket into an item of clothing without knowing much about sewing or anything. they were really bummed when it turned out looking weird but eventually came to enjoy the personality it added to their fit.

the kokichi doodle at the bottom is him playing with their glasses! they are basically just the talks a lot + listens dynamic,, also i feel VERY weird about kokichi’s hair i swear i messed up somehow while drawing it but i can’t figure out what exactly it was. the little stick figures of physicist and oma were me on my last brain cell but i think that’s them for the entire fic in a nutshell. oma likes to go on villain monologues and physicist is done with his bullshit!

the big physicist on the left is them posing for a picture! they look awkward because i imagine them being kinda camera shy. i also imagine whoever took the picture just kinda snuck up on them and snapped.

ah yes yes and the fan game! i’m partway through the prologue and if you want i can send you a short demo of the draft i have so far? so far it’s taken a turn from the traditional dr games since i got rid of the movement mechanic,, so now it’s more of like a VN than anything! i don’t know HOW i’m going to draw all the CGs and sprite customization options (thank you to @/goldentime for the idea by the way i really appreciate it :D) and write all the code as well as do the ost and decal and all that other stuff but i will find a way! somehow. it’s been really fun though and i’m actually very proud of what i have so far!!

anyways. ty for writing sleep awake! it’s crazy to me that such a long and gorgeously written fic is up on the internet for FREE. it’s definitely better than most original fiction is, and dare i say, much much better than the actual v3. i love what you did with chapter 3, the trial felt soo natural i forgot several times that it wasn’t what was in the actual game! it’s obvious how much time and effort you put into research, planning, and writing, and it really shows! so thank you <333

HELPPPP OH MY GOD THESE ARE SO FUCKING CUTE!!! im literally sitting so giddy here rn!!! ur mc is so special to me i LOVEEEE how they look so much god their vibe is indescribable... giving sad wet kitten energy. want to wrap them in a fuzzy blanket and place them gently on a pile of newspapers.

the gloves r such a neat addition!!! the block colouring n black and red kind of reminds me of the persona 5 artstyle which is a huge compliment!!! i lov their hair... their lil glasses... the freckles.... so so cute. will be turning this version of mc over in my head Forever !

hehe the little kokichi interactions give me so much life. the one of him fiddling with their glasses is so immaculate and u have their vibe absolutely down pat, 'talks a lot' and 'listens' is simply just THEM!!! oh but it sometimes goes the other way around when mc starts rambling abt physics n ouma is jus. jus sitting there. absorbing it all. mc's little blush is adorable and i totally think kokichi would just fiddle with their glasses or clothes while talking. is he doing it on purpose?? who knows???

I HAVE LISTENED TO WHEN U DIE BEFORE (it was actually my first mgmt song!!!) and holy shit ur so right. my third eye has been so closed,, and urs has been so open. definitely feels like kokichi talking to the mc like, putting on this evil mean facade, wanting them to hate him so he can keep up with his mastermind shtick and keep them at arms length but sigh, they know him too well and the act isn't holding up. i listened to me and michael because i hadn't heard it before and yes yes YES i see the vision. the closeness of two people being affected by red flags or toxicity or just other people or outside factors.... god. thinking so so hard abt this now and they're both going on the sleep awake playlist!!!

I WOULD LOVE FOR U TO SEND ME WHAT U HAVE ALREADY FOR THE GAME WHAT!!! WHAT!!! holy shit. it turning out like a visual novel is probably ideal, right?? i dont know anything abt game development AT ALL so forgive me if i say something dumb but most fan games dont include all the complex mechanisms from actual danganronpa games and most tend to just either be youtube vids or click and point thingies or just. yeah. visual novels!! which is so good.

as for the cg's and stuff, i dont rly know :( i would offer to draw them myself if i was any good at art, basically all im good at is sprite edits but im trash at anatomy and stuff so i rly dont think i would be any help. i would suggest commissioning but thats probably way too expensive, and again, like. i would commission stuff myself but im so broke at the moment. i COULD always commission some stuff when my student finance comes in, because i'll have a bit extra this year as my accommodation is way less expensive. but we can cross that bridge when we come to it i think!!! whatever ends up happening will be more than fine by me!!! im literally so excited

thank u so so much again for this art and for the game which i cannot believe is a real thing!!! i will treasure these for life <33

#submission #<3.kodzus #🏚.sleep awake

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ingravinoveritas · 2 years

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Michael looks so strong and cuddly in that speech vid :O Imagine laying in his strong arms whilst he whispers sweet nothings to you with that glorious accent. He's so attractively masculine and I dont mean that in a macho way but in a comforting/makes you feel safe kind of way if that makes sense.

It absolutely does make sense, Anon. And I agree with you, Michael does look gorgeous giving that speech on ALOTO. A few favorite moments:

I think for me what makes Michael so attractive here is his passion. Like you said, he’s never been the “macho man” type of guy, but one who shows how powerful masculinity can be when you are open with your emotions. What made this speech so incredible was that he didn’t employ the typical sporty motivational speech tropes of “Be tough! Kick some ass! Kill ‘em!” or other typical ideas about crushing or destroying the opponent.

Michael chose instead to emphasize love, fighting and winning out of love for their team, their families, and their country. He presented here that the idea of being a man and being an athlete is (or should be) inherently tied in with caring about people. That feeling those emotions and letting love and passion be what fuels you on the field does not make you any less of a man--it’s what being a man should be all about.

I also think that what you’ve described is what attracted me to Michael in the first place, and I think it’s what David finds attractive about him as well. It’s been an entire year now since the NTAs, and one of the highlights of that night and something that’s been repeatedly talked about is how visibly David melted into Michael’s embrace, especially in the press room after receiving his award:

It’s that sense of safety you described, Anon. David has found that in Michael, feels safe with him in a way he doesn’t with anyone else, because that is the energy that he radiates. Michael will protect with his last breath the people he loves, and I think David very much falls into that category. The comfort that we all find in Michael is the comfort David finds in him, too, something that was also affirmed when David called Michael his emotional support pet.

I can picture what you described happening with Michael and David as well--David lying in Michael’s arms while Michael whispers sweet nothings, occasionally calling him Dai and peppering in a few other Welsh phrases. Maybe when David is fraught and exhausted from the world and they have some time alone together, Michael does exactly that: Holds David in his arms and just gives him a place where he can be still and safe. It’s truly a lovely thing to imagine, for sure.

So yes, I did quite thoroughly enjoy Michael dialing up his Welshness to 11 for that speech and reminding us all why we fell so hard for him in the first place...

#anonymous #reply post #michael sheen #welsh seduction machine #a league of their own #ALOTO #non-toxic masculinity is always hot #i love the way he plays with gender as well #not androgynous like David #but subverting traditional gender roles in his own way #back on my Michael thirsting bullshit yet again #yes? yes.#discourse #gifs by me

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oldgooddaysoldgooddays · 2 years

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56 pt 1

Friday is uptown day - and I keep forgetting that the “up” in uptown, when biking from the lower east side, is literal. My legs run out of steam at 42nd street, and normally I would pedal through the pain, but I admit I don’t quite have the self loathing here that defines my day to day life in London. If I could buy this respect for myself duty free at the airport when flying home, I would. Or maybe I wouldn’t, and that’s the problem So I switch my normal citibike for an e-bike and cruise to Michael Werner with astonishing ease. V is waiting outside mildly pissed off, because our meeting time with G changed to later and I didn’t notify her. Instead I was at a cactus store and then looking at furniture books with said man, and V notes my “sex hair”, a sprout of vertical strands that give me the look of an onion. I feel like a little onion whore as we enter my new gallery The Picabia portrait show has all the facial expressions I’ve formed this week. The carpeted lobby walls are exactly as I remember. At lunch we over-order, which I needed. I shamefully admit how early I plan to be for my flight the following day and G says when he was younger he would try very hard to be the last person boarding a plane - the very mention of which gives me palpitations - but now enjoys leaving more time. He tells us how many ways there are to get to the Hamptons, including by helicopter. One thing I will give this city is the continual flooding of its residents with options for leaving this city. It is perfectly happy to see the back of you, so long as you’re chained to its chaos for eternity. I zone out when discussion moves to sales and strategy and Paul McCartney walks with similar hair to mine, just finer and colourless. Later I will tell C that he was having lunch with three other men and she’ll ask “The Beatles?” He once complimented her on her dance moves at a summer party, attended also by Bill Clinton who called covid “an epidemic” M comes to join us as we are finishing coffee, and I watch the two most important homosexuals in my life meet. An unwell poodle is carried past in a sports bag. V is antsy because we have to go to a collector’s house and we are late. I brief M on my week and in return he shows me how expensive Uber has become. We pass a launderette around 87th st called “Dutch Girl Cleaners” and wonder whether it’s for Dutch girls who want to clean things or for cleaning your Dutch girl The moment we get to the collector’s home it feels as though we are intruding. Picture a family home with the vague presence of prepubescent sons - reminders everywhere to “brush your teeth BEFORE putting your retainer in”, school trophies, a recently constructed Lego Star Wars warship. I am more taken by the Lego warship, and an ancient computer constantly running stock numbers, than with the Mark Grotjahn sculpture in the dining room. There is golf paraphernalia everywhere, including a small pillow that says “you’ll never know how many friends you have until you become a member at Deepdale”. We sit and drink water, prepared for us by a maid, nervously. G asks the collector “so what is your son good at?”, and M and I stifle a laugh thinking this was some kind of masterful passive aggressive taunt, before realising G is gesturing at the trophies on a window sill. Chess, apparently. On another ledge is a miniature 3D printed version of the collector’s family, all wearing blazers, and it’s scary as hell. G says he had one made of his dog to take with him when he travels, proof that the same phenomenon can be creepy or adorable in different contexts

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