checkyourcomms6

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Hello jayvik nation anyone here seen doctor who?

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whatever you do, just don’t blow the whistle

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sevarcane ((first chapter))

ship: multiship!! jayce/viktor, jinx/ekko, vi/cait, jayce/mel, cait/maddie, potential jayce/mel/vik

summary: severance au with arcane characters! A group of four office workers struggle to balance their disturbing and limited world trapped down on the severed floor at HexTech with the lives they cannot remember living once they clock out from work.

word count: 8.9k (1/?)

chapter teaser:

“No, no, you’re not livestock, my God,�� he laughed anxiously. His teeth had a gap in front. That seemed decidedly human. The confirmation did not bring her as much comfort as she’d hoped.

“Then… what am I?” That didn’t seem the right question. “Who am I?” she tried again, searching his face. He cocked his head to the side a touch, watching her. His eyes seemed, above all, strangely kind.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “We just met.”

“What’s my name?” she pushed on.

“Mel,” he said, with a fondness to his smile. “Your name is Mel. Mel R.”

click here to read on ao3! :)

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POV you’re driving home in new york going 20mph around a turn in the pouring rain not looking until you almost ram this faggot striking a pose at you on the crosswalk

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Absence

Aziracrow, but post-season 2 angst.

Word Count: 1,277

Summary: Crowley's first time back in the bookshop goes about as well as can be expected...

Ao3: TrustMeImTheAuthor

Crowley feels the worn softness of a well-kept book cover skim over her fingertips. She’s come to a rigid stop next to a small, round table. With as much fondness as he can possibly spare, he rakes his shaded gaze over the tiny statue atop it. The stallion there is the same as ever, reared back on its hind legs to face Crowley with unwavering stillness. Just by habit, he reaches up to grasp at the frame of his glasses. It is a stunted, hollow mimicry of old choreography. There are customers here now… And there’s certainly no one around to look upon her yellow-sapped gaze the way she aches for. Their hand withers and retreats to their side once more.

As their feet swivel them back to face the rest of the bookstore, Crowley knows with absolute certainty that this is a mistake. Muriel has been doing a wonderful job with the shop. Crowley has no understanding of whether this news pleases her or is jagged grains of salt dragging over open flesh. It looks healthy. The store. Reds and honeys still sift together to cast a spell of warmth and comfort over the senses. It still smells of paper and wax and…

Crowley can’t help the grit of his teeth behind closed lips.

The few patrons here mill about in a way that sours his tongue. They’re all relaxed smiles of contentment and bright eyes of innocent curiosity. Completely unaware of the black hole of absence bending time and space around them.

Crowley slinks forward, daring her feet to at least help her make it to the center, circular carpet.

“Aziraphale?” a voice questions softly. Before he knows the thought, Crowley has already turned, head darting about to search for the downy white puff of hair. Instead, a young person stands to the side a few feet away, nose pushed into a book titled An Almost Entirely Accurate Breakdown of Angelic Hierarchy. At the sight of its sickly green cover, Crowley’s nose wrinkles in disgust. A pair of piercing brown eyes flick up over the offensive text to peer back through into Crowley’s own. The demon tries to save herself the grief of a human interaction, sniffing as she scrambles to occupy herself with the nearest object. Their fingers find a tiny booklet: Gale’s Guide to Eternal Glee. She snorts. God has a sick sense of humor.

“Excuse me, do you work here?”

Crowley sighs, their red wine curls tumbling over their shoulder as they tilt their neck back to acknowledge the human that just spoke.

“No… but I might as well,” he huffs. “If you’re trying to buy a book you should know the answer is probably no-”

“-I had a question, actually. I’m Paisley, by the way.”

“‘Course you are,” Crowley mutters imperceptibly, as this ‘Paisley’ person continues.

“This book,” they tap the book’s heavenly cover, “do you happen to have experience with the topic?”

All Crowley can manage is the longest- and most exhausted- stare possible. Paisley, chuffing the heel of their boot against the ground, seems to be full of unexpected patience for a twenty-something. For a moment, Crowley considers the usual tactic of walking away or pretending the pesky creature doesn’t exist. It’s a useful skill when she’s in a hurry or otherwise in a hellish mood. She breathes in, expecting her feet to carry her along to seek out Muriel, as originally intended. Or perhaps to flee this place, which is beginning to feel less like a bookshop and more like the gaping maw of a haunted house. Everywhere her sharp eyes flick to, there is another memory to swallow back.

“What do you want to know?” The question leaving Crowley’s lips is a static shock.

“I’ve got a report due for a religion course. Gotta pick an angel,” Paisley explains, fingering lazily at the open page. “Aziraphale seems like a cool name, but there’s like no info in the book. You know anything?”

Paisley George, of course, is just another university student trying desperately to write a research paper they’ve had a month to do in a record 47 hours. Their whole world rests in the fate of its completion. How are they to know they have also just been thrown mercilessly into the middle of the greatest of love stories in its most devastating chapter. The distance between the question young Paisley has asked and Crowley is just about 6,000 years of tireless longing.

Crowley’s mouth is a bit ajar, enough to betray him as his jaw quivers. He shuts it again, looking down as he feels the gravity of millennia upon already burdened shoulders.

“Yeap.” He pops the ‘p’. “Know that bloke.”

“What was he supposed to be like?” Paisley charges on, burning curious and bright like a righteous halo. “This book came recommended by the class, but it says fuck all really.”

In the several seconds it takes Crowley to conjure their answer, so many versions of the truth come to mind. She wants to call Aziraphale an idiotic, selfish creature of habit without a clue in the world. An angel, trained from inception to inflate the ego of Heaven at any cost. God’s most loyal pet.

Crowley wants to leave.

He hates the smell of him, still vacantly present in the background. The way his eyes dart to Aziraphale’s empty chair over and over and over makes him sick. Why is Crowley here? What could this have ever done but cause them a slow and effortless agony? Her name is, as always, playing on loop- a feather-soft siren song. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. Aziraphale. 

“Aziraphale was the angel at the Garden of Eden,” Crowley murmurs gently, rubbing a palm over her face as she does. “Headstrong in his conviction, and loving, in all things. They are an angel of peace, knowledge, and comfort,” the demon expands. Somehow, the words just spill out. Aziraphale can be anything, after all, when told from Crowley’s lips- the only lips that have known the taste of his divinity.

“All the best food, all the best books… and magic. Magic is her thing, too. She’s the greatest admirer of planet Earth in all of Heaven. He’s…. Looking upon him is like… like plummeting helplessly forever through an endless blue sky, and thanking God for it. My angel…”

Crowley has drifted off from Paisley, gaze locking on the figure listening at the bottom of the staircase. In Muriel’s bright brown stare, there is an uncharacteristic knowing. The demon’s eyes are still covered from view, but Muriel seems to reflect it all back anyways.

“Mr. Crowley!” they call, just a bit too loudly for the hushed tone of the shop. “You can come up with me now, if you’d like.”

All Crowley would *like *to do is melt in between the atoms of the floor until there is nothing left of him. They look toward Aziraphale’s chair again.

This time, Aziraphale is there. Shirt unbuttoned just a touch, and body lazed against the backrest. She laughs. Crowley can’t quite hear her right. It’s just a copycat of the original. No one can do it like her anyways. The pale, wilting imitation of her voice curls around his ears. He hears his name on the angel’s breath, but it escapes him the moment he grasps for it. Then Crowley blinks.

The chair is empty.

Paisley is gone, long since given up on Crowley’s bizarre tittering.

The corners of Crowley’s mouth pull ever downward.

“Ms. Crowley?”

Though it is like ripping his eyes away from the birth of a star, Aziraphale’s demon turns himself from his love once more.