cosmos, carl sagan // humanity as told by uquiz free text answers, @judas-redeemed // @cheruib // the good place, gif by @trueloveistreacherous // rien ne va plus, margarita karapanou (tr. by karen emmerich) // everything everywhere all at once, gif by @rosalie-starfall // les misérables, victor hugo // unknown
all my life I’ve somehow only ever seen the gifs of this. I never even knew that the pumpkin man was dancing to the Ghostbusters theme. This whole thing is so much better than I ever could have expected from the gifs omg
we all feeling listening to swan upon leda on an endless loop while sipping miserably on an alcoholic beverage and wallowing in the horrific limbo that is the uncertainty of your human rights tonight? or just me??
Is It Really Possible For A Vampire And A Republican Presidential Candidate To Be In A Relationship?
Synopsis: Morbius gets magically transported to the tail end of Jeb Bush’s 2016 presidential election campaign. Angsty homosexuality ensues. (Jeb voice) Please read it.
Warnings: Wishing for death, unsafe choking practices
Word count: 2,453
A/N: My only research for this fic consists of the Wikipedia page for Morbius (2022) and the Wikipedia page for Jeb Bush’s 2016 presidential campaign.
To the hypothetical observer, Morbius was airborne, being carried away from a bloody mess by a cloud of bats, but behind his eyes, he was scattered through time. Helpless, he relived every feeding. He could barely remember Martine through the bloodlust. His brother’s corpse was still warm below him. He saw all of them at the moment of death. He watched their eyes go dull over and over and over. He felt their blank stares eat away at anything that might have still been good about him. He felt his mind disintegrate, a numb pain. It was the kind of pain you learn to stop fighting. The kind of pain you make worse on purpose because you don't know what you are without it.
He had successfully killed everyone he ever cared about. The blood in his mouth boiled and burnt all the way down his throat, mixing with his grief and coming back up in rotten clots. His body jerked weakly with the effort of pushing them out. The beating of a thousand leathery wings overfilled his ears and spilled into his brain. He wished more than anything that he could stop, go back, fix it all. Failing that, he wished he would die.
The next thing he knew, the sky was spinning around him. The wind whipped against his skin, threatening to tear it off. He welcomed the world rushing towards him with bitter satisfaction. This, after everything, was justice. Too late, his mind told him that something was wrong about the skyline before him. Something was wrong about the sky itself - the weather was different. The sun was in the wrong place. It was dawn, and he did not recognise the building that was about to kill him.
It was dawn, and Jeb was pretending everything was normal. He pretended to love God when he said his morning prayers. He pretended that his instant oatmeal was satisfying. He did not think about his brother. He did not think about his father. He did not think about what it would mean if he failed. He did not think about how it was too late for “ifs”. He tied his tie five times before it looked right and he did not think very hard about attaching the other end of it to the ceiling fan.
Something inside Jeb broke when he watched his ceiling fan crash onto his bed, followed by the rest of his ceiling, followed by a large black lump. This was not normal. He couldn’t not think about it. The lump groaned at him. It was definitely a sign from God, which means God was listening to his thoughts, which made the oatmeal in Jeb’s stomach turn to cement. Just how much had God heard? Was he in danger? He had a really nice view of the sunrise right now. The lump moved.
Jeb decided he would go to confession, just in case. He turned away from the fan, ceiling, and lump and tried to open the door. His hands shook and slid off the knob, slick with sweat. He got out his keys, wondering if he had somehow forgotten how his door worked. The keys fell to the floor, and so did Jeb.
The lump rose up. It was unnaturally pale. Its face was a mask of evil, and covered in blood. Jeb scrambled for his keys and held them between his fingers like claws. He brandished it at the figure before him. His mouth gaped dumbly for too long to be considered polite. “Please leave,” he squeaked.
“Nngh,” said the figure.
Jeb thought deeply for a moment. If this was divine intervention, then God must have sent some sort of angel. “Aren’t you supposed to say ‘be not afraid’ or something?”
“Mmf.” The figure dragged itself towards his bathroom.
Jeb followed, shaking, stance low like he was a military man in a TV show. He kept his trembling, clawed hand pointed at the figure, supporting his wrist with his other hand as though it was a handgun.
The figure gripped Jeb’s bathroom sink hard enough that he was worried the ceramic might crack. It stared into where its reflection ought to be before running the water, holding its wrist under the stream. The water began to steam. It hissed in pain, but did not move.
The more Jeb stared at this thing, the more it started to look pitifully human. “So are you a messenger of God or not?”
The figure did not look up. “I hope not.”
The inside of Jeb’s mind was in chaos. Not entirely sure if he was capable of it, he tried to speak. “All right. Who are you, then?”
What he had done was certain to already be on the news, so he figured there was no point in trying to hide it. The man may as well know what danger he was in. “My name is Michael Morbius. I’m a vampire.”
There was a complete lack of comprehension on Jeb’s face. “All right. Michael, could you please stop running the hot water?”
“Fine.” He turned off the water and left his hand to drip limply all over the tile.
Jeb broke his stance to open the cupboard immediately to his right. He pulled out a hand towel, holding it out to the man before remembering himself and freezing in place. He took it. The vampire’s fingers were cold on his skin, despite the hot water.
“Thank you.” Morbius said, gently patting the skin on his wrist dry. “What is your name?”
A script started running from Jeb’s head and out of his mouth, only to get tangled on his tongue. “Jeb Bush. I’m running - I’m - South Carolina - I’m - the primaries - I - I’m sorry. I don’t know how to navigate this social situation. Are you hurt?”
Morbius took a moment to check himself over. He wiped some blood from his forehead. “No.”
“You fell through my ceiling.”
“I did.”
“You’re lucky to be alive.”
Something dark and painful flashed in his eyes. “No,” he growled. “I hoped I would die.”
Jeb pulled his hand, still frozen, towards his chest. “You tried to commit suicide on my house?”
“No, but I was open to the idea.”
He regarded this strange man with sudden understanding. Morbidly curious and still not sure of what social etiquette applied, he took a small step closer. “What did it feel like?”
“It hurt.” Morbius did not move away.
His eyes flicked over the man’s exposed skin. “You’re bleeding.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he lied.
“Let me help.” Jeb did not ask before he pushed past him, so cold that it radiated out from his body, and opened the bathroom mirror to grab his first aid kit.
Morbius thought about protesting, but there was something about this pink-faced man’s sudden lack of fear that made him stay silent. It was disarming in its newness. It was as though he genuinely didn’t register the fact that Morbius could or would hurt him.
He did not object when he was guided to the closed lid of the toilet and told to take a seat. He did not object when Jeb’s fingers combed through his hair, picking out debris from his landing, gently skimming over the bloody patches. He allowed the damp washcloth to be passed over his face. He allowed Jeb to lift his face up by the chin and barely winced at the Neosporin on his wounds.
“Are you allergic to anything?” Jeb asked.
Morbius crashed back into himself. He was no longer a cold, sick thing. He was nothing to be tended to. There was nothing to care for. Milo. Martine. So many he couldn’t remember the names of. This was too gentle, too human. This was its own torture, and one he could not endure. He tried to stand, but was stopped by two warm, soft hands firmly pressing down on his shoulders.
“Hey. Where are you right now, bud?” Jeb’s hands squeezed him gently.
Morbius didn’t respond. He bundled up his self-hatred and projected it at an imperfection in the tile floor, trying to burn it to death with his eyes.
Jeb lowered himself to be face to face with him, expression soft. “All right. You had a hard fall. You’re with Jeb Bush. You’re in my bathroom and I’m patching you up. It’s all right.”
Morbius took the opportunity to stand up, shocking Jeb into losing balance and falling on his ass. He looked down at Jeb with a pale confusion. Despite what he was about to say, this was the one human he had seen since his transformation that he didn’t want to eat. “You don’t know what I’ve done. You don’t know what I could do to you. I need to leave. You’re not safe as long as I’m here.”
Jeb heaved himself up with the humble confidence of a man who had never been punched in the face. "Man, when's the last time you saw your reflection? A stiff breeze could do you in right now."
Morbius bristled. He needed to show this dumb puppy of a man what he was capable of. In one movement, he turned and wrapped his hand around Jeb's throat, lifting him into the air. He couldn't quite shift his guilt into rage and it kept him pinned in place, eyes locked on Jeb's.
Jeb, for his part, was not as surprised by this as he thought he should have been. He tried to pry Morbius's fingers from his neck because he felt he ought to, which only made them tighten. He couldn’t breathe. He supposed that was something to worry about, but his ears were filled with the sound of crashing waves, and it washed away all his worries. On some level, he knew it was the sound of blood rushing in his head, but he imagined he was sinking beneath the surf. Finally, he could stop trying. He smiled and closed his bulging eyes.
That slow, grateful smile shocked Morbius out of his stupor. He lowered Jeb onto his feet, only to realise he let go too late. He scooped his arms around Jeb's limp body and held him against his chest, numb. He had done it again. This was a nice, innocent man. He didn't even want to kill him, he just got so--
Jeb's shoulders rose and fell. His breath swept over Morbius's neck. And again. And again. He was breathing. He felt the man's heart thudding inside his chest like he had just run a marathon. A hand snaked around Morbius's side and delivered a firm, brotherly pat on the back.
The gesture made Morbius recoil, barely able to stop himself from throwing Jeb across the room. He looked the man up and down as he inspected himself in the mirror. There was a bruise forming around his neck and curved lacerations from the vampire's nails that were already scabbing over. He sighed to himself. “So that's what it feels like.”
Morbius was disgusted with himself. He hunched over, brooding. Was this all he was capable of? Was he cursed to hurt everything he touched? His eyes were half-open, a snarl rising in his throat, barely present in the room. He wanted to reach into his chest and rip out his heart. He wanted to drain himself of the vile blood that coursed in his veins. He wanted to dissect himself until there was nothing left. No evil, no danger, no more suffering. It was the closest he could ever get to an apology.
Jeb turned. He saw the mask of sorrow that had etched itself into the vampire’s face. It made a deep pity well up inside him. This man had been hurt deeply, and not just by his fall. He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “You’re all right.”
Morbius let out a furious, inhuman snarl and launched his arm forward, claw-like nails ready to gouge flesh. Jeb caught his wrist, and though he didn’t have anywhere near enough strength to overpower him, the mere surprise of it seemed to make the vampire propel himself backwards in something like terror. Morbius met the bathtub and gratefully pushed himself into the corner of it.
Jeb lowered himself non-threateningly to meet the eyes of the cold, sad man before him. There was a rabid desperation in them. His lips were moving, revealing teeth like a shark, frantic apologies spilling out. “I didn’t mean to,” he thought he heard. “I don’t know how to stop.” At once, it became clear to him that the fear in Morbius’s eyes wasn’t because he was scared of Jeb; he was scared of himself.
“Hey. Hey now. You’re okay.” He inched forward, hands held up. There was no resistance except for a feeble scrambling of feet on the smooth ceramic when Jeb lowered himself into the tub. The water from his morning shower soaked into his slacks uncomfortably. “It’s all right. I’m not scared of you.”
The vampire hissed something in the negative, something about his nature, something about the blood. Jeb shuffled forwards on his knees until they were close enough to feel each other’s breath. Morbius was frozen in place. A pink hand reached towards him and he was entranced by the heat radiating off of it, the blood coursing inside it, and it was on his cheek and he couldn’t think about anything else. His world was centred on this sensation. It was so warm it almost hurt. It was unyielding, but so comfortable. He whined low in his chest.
“See, buddy? If you wanted to hurt me, you would.” Jeb smiled gently.
A shudder ran through Morbius’s body. When was the last time anyone had touched him like this? Why wasn’t he killing this man? Why was he getting closer why is he getting closer why aren’t I stopping him he’s touching me he’s holding me he feels so good. He bared his teeth in an empty threat display, but he couldn't stop himself from wrapping his arms around Jeb like he was the only thing in the world that made sense. He couldn’t stop his shoulders from heaving. He couldn’t stop the ugly sobs that fell out of him.
Jeb cooed something into the crook of his neck. Morbius didn’t register anything except that the rumbles of his voice filled his head so perfectly that nothing else could get in. For the first time in maybe his entire life, he wasn’t thinking about his past. He craned his neck up at Jeb, eyes swirling with everything he had ever felt, and closed a fist in his hair. Jeb returned his gaze fondly and met his lips with sweet, pure tenderness.
one last stop by casey mcquiston // From Eden - Hozier // 39 ways that i love u - “The Beatrice Letters” (a series of unfortunate events) ~ lemony snicket // Hans Makart - Detail from Musikalische Unterhaltung , 1874 // Edgar Allan Poe //39 ways that i love u - “The Beatrice Letters” (a series of unfortunate events) ~ lemony snicket // Cornelia Street - taylor swift // nobody - Hozier // via instagram @artqueerhabibi // this love - taylor swift // Antony Gormley //
a lightweight when it comes to love. someone new, hozier // interview with jeanette winterson // boy meets world // pure feeling, florence + the machine // welcome to nightvale // someone new, hozier // @inkskinned // exist for love, aurora
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