#imagine fumbling ruby sunday

[time-lord-medical-malpractice]

Ruby Sunday, I know your last boyfriend turned out to be super evil, but I'm available next weekend, and I don't have a reactionary podcast.

[yesloverboy]

could never be heaven (prologue)

summary: Ever since you were little, you had always seen an apparition of a man every time you closed your eyes or found yourself alone in the dark. Due to your religious upbringing you always thought he was one of God’s own guardian angels, but the truth is a little bit uglier. (inspired by the the film series the last exorcism)

word count: 1,710

[warnings: demon!michael, religious themes, mentions of a death in the family]

note: should I be starting another series? no! is this the only thing I’ve had inspiration for? yes!!! sorry y’all but after not seeing our boy cody in the first wave of the main ahs cast list I had to follow up on this demon!michael idea. lmk what you think! and, as always, I’m still writing here and there, things are just kind of taking a seat for a while. 

(special thanks to @michaelsbub​ for always asking about this concept!)

gif credit: @starrymorgue​

tagging some people who may want to take a gander: @littledemondani​, @kingbouji3​, @colsonbakersnoseringmain​, @lululovesgwtw​, @daadddysprincesss​, @oldschoolimagineblog​

 The face you see behind your eyelids was one you had known your entire life. You had every detail memorized, from the flaxen hair at his shoulders to the way his eyes watched over you like a pale blue sky, their reach vast and endless. He was like no man you had ever seen before, and yet found yourself more familiar with his silhouette than your very own reflection. Sometimes he would smile, and other times he would just stare as the blue of his eyes went dark with want. He became the air in your lungs, the blood in your veins, the blackness behind your eyes– taking any bit of emptiness he could, making you whole and spreading like a sickness.

 When you were small, you thought he may have been an angel. Torment and restlessness always seemed to find you in the dead of night. The room would be stuffy, the suffocating heat of the summer filling the room and clinging to your skin. Your mother had always been quick to quell your nightmares with stories of guardian angels and a god possessing a love so powerful that anything was possible. According to her, angels were supposed to be beautiful, radiating pure goodness and swathed in gold.

 At first, his presence was a comfort to you. Whatever your vision of an angel was, the man in your head definitely seemed to fit the bill. He was beyond beautiful, beckoning to you in your sweetest dreams with a dazzling grin and chasing away your worst nightmares with a wave of his hand. Whenever you felt alone at night, he was there to greet you in the dark. The two of you never exchanged words, but you knew he would be there watching, always watching. It wasn’t until your first heartache that you began to talk to him.

 It started out small, with whispers and tears falling onto your pillowcase. Your grandmother had died that day, and the blackness of the night was nothing compared to the grief tearing a hole in your heart. Each time you squeeze your eyes shut in agony, you secretly hoped that your guardian angel would manifest once again behind your eyes. He became a vision of comfort, a familiar face in a world so incredibly strange and awful. When he didn’t show you began to whimper softly into the empty space. Deep down you knew you should have been praying to God, but no prayer could ever bring the same solace as those sapphire eyes.

 “Angel? Angel are you there?”

 You waited a few moments, but the only sound you were able to discern was the thrum of cicadas perched in the trees outside your window. With a huff you rolled onto your back, digging the heels of your palms into the sockets of your red-rimmed eyes. The cavernous feeling into your chest continued to grow, making you wonder how much longer it would take before your sadness swallowed you up from the inside. Just as you were about to let the numbness lull you into a fitful slumber, the rumble of a low voice penetrates the still air.

 “I never left.”

 The voice erupted from the darkest corner of your bedroom, sleek as silk and thick as honey. Although you’d never heard such a voice, the image of it manifested in your head like a smokey haze. The voice could only have belonged to none other than the man behind your eyes, your silent companion and guardian angel. Goosebumps raced up your spine as you pull your plush comforter away from your sore eyes. Sitting up slowly, you sucked in a nervous breath, immediately searching the darkness of your bedroom for your golden angel.

 It didn’t take much time before you spotted the outline of his figure lurking idly in the corner of your bedroom. He seemed to stray away from the slivers of moonlight poking through your window, leaving his angelic face concealed by a veil of shadow.

 “Oh angel,” you sighed, “is it really you?”

 You watched with trembling hands as your angel shifted elegantly from his place at the corner of the wall and over to your bedside. He moved so quickly and yet so silently you could have sworn he had floated above the very floor upon which you were grounded. Although you had known his face and seen his figure in your room for the majority of your life, something about him moving so close made you instinctively recoil. It was like the time you and your mother saw a shark at the aquarium– beautiful from afar but your body still recognized the imminent danger. Even through the glass.

 As soon as your angel reached the foot of your bed, he began to walk slowly, allowing his floating form to adopt a delicate saunter against the floorboards. You watched with bated breath as he approached the left side of your bed, his cherubic face just as perfect and gentle up close as it had been in your dreams. His skin was nearly as golden as his hair and, if it weren’t for the endless blue of his eyes, you’d have thought he had been carved from all one material up in heaven. Now that your eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness of the night, you did notice something odd– the cloak adorning his body was made of a rich, crushed velvet. It wasn’t white, gold, or even silver like your imagination would have suggested, no– it was blood red.

 “Yes, my love” he finally answers, “Although I am afraid I must tell you that I am no angel.”

 My love, the words repeat in your mind as your heart hammers rapidly in your chest. How could this man, this being, not be an angel? He eyed you patiently as you digested his admission, once again leaving nothing between the two of you but the sound of cicadas humming noisily in the distance. Something about his words made you uneasy, but you couldn’t resist the the calming feeling that would immediately follow when you looked back into those eyes.

 “If you’re not an angel, then what are you?”

 The man behind your eyes chuckles, his low voice rumbling softly in his throat. He laughed as though the two of you were exchanging a joke, something humorous yet so intimate that you wouldn’t want anyone else to overhear.

 “Well,” he sighs, the smile occupying his lips never faltering, “let’s just say I’m a friend.”  Your brow furrows at the vagueness of his statement, “A friend of who’s?”  If the man were feeling frustrated by your questions, he made no movement to show it. Instead, he allowed a ring encrusted hand to move out from beneath his cloak and come to rest on the edge of your bed. Ruby and gold fingertips stroked the fabric of your quilted duvet absentmindedly as he stitched together his own explanation, his posture quickly shifting into that of a dejected man.

 “Why I’m your friend, lovely,” his perfect face frowned, “Isn’t that enough?”  

 One again you found your heart pounding at the pet name; lovely, lovely, lovely, it screamed, as each pump of blood circulated the word through your body and back into your brain. Suddenly it seemed as though he had a point– hadn’t he been there all along? You thought back to your earliest memories, searching for a single shred of your time in infancy where you were gazing up at the face of your mother or smiling at the antics of your father. Instead, you found nothing of the sort; or, at least nothing that wasn’t prefaced by the face of the man standing before you.

 “I guess, if you’re my friend…” you start, hands nervously fumbling with the ends of your hair, “what should I call you?”

 “That’s easy,” the man purrs, this time taking the opportunity to take a seat at the edge of your mattress. You marvel at the way his weight pushes down the springs on the other side, affirming a feeling that you knew was right all along –you weren’t dreaming. “Just think of your favorite name and I bet you I’ll be able to guess it.”

 You roll your eyes a little, a smile of your very own playing on your lips as you find yourself becoming more relaxed in front of the man, more comfortable. “Now how would you be able to guess it?”

 “Because,” he begins, leaning in just a little bit closer to where you had retreated earlier, “It’s my name.”

 Maybe it’s because you had spent the entire day soaking yourself in tears, or maybe it’s because you hadn’t slept in over a day and a half, but you weren’t entirely sure of what the man was saying. Nevertheless, you shifted towards him from your side of the bed so you can look at him head-on, trying to get a read on whatever game he was trying to play with you.

 The more you looked into his chiseled face, the more you began to think of what your favorite name could possibly be. Perhaps it had something to do with this angel business, but your mind wandered to all the time you spent in toiling in Sunday school, memorizing the names of kings, prophets, wives, and angels until they all bleed into one picture. There was one name, however, that stood out above all the others; one name that your ears always perked up for when your instructor read from the leatherbound book in her lap.

 Michael, you think, Michael the Archangel.

 A satisfied grin settles itself on your lips, and the man’s eyes instantly light up, their glacial hue practically glowing against the darkness.  

 “Go ahead,” you offer impatiently, “guess.”

 “Hmm…” he starts, tapping an elegant finger against his chin theatrically as his eyes flutter to a spot on the ceiling. His eyes remained fixed there for a few moments and, although he won’t find the answer there, something primal inside of you told you that he wasn’t really looking.

 “I’ll have to guess that my name must be…” his eyes flit back to your own this time,  but something’s different, it’s as if they’ve lost all their warmth, “...Michael.”

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