#Day 1: Poisoned

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Sketch of Alex Walker in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and his eyes just slightly open, looking at Kai who is in front of him and out of focus. End ID]

-

Day 1: Poisoned

Alex in hospital after cyanide poisoning, barely conscious after having finally got the antidote, and being kept on oxygen for a while during the initial recovery. Kai and Ernesto obviously visit him, but he's barely awake enough to be aware of their presence.

[lifblogs]

Poison

AI-less Whumptober: Day 1 Drugging | Sick | Poisoned @ailesswhumptober

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2224 Summary: Michael blames Crowley for Aziraphale ruling Heaven, and they decide to poison him. In his agony, the only person Crowley can call out to is Aziraphale. WARNING: Graphic Depictions of Violence READ ON AO3

Crowley pitifully dragged himself forward, gritty cement from the alley rubbing into his skin, his clothes. He didn’t much care for the coarse scraping, but it was almost nothing compared to the Hell he was in. Was the ground shaking? The sky falling?

His wings were burning off his back. He was sure of it. Could smell them crisping, feathers that were already black somehow even more so now falling around him. Ruined.

The pain. His world was on fire, his blood coursing with hot, burning poison. He could barely see as it was, the poison reaching into the blood vessels in his eyes, which had all burst. Tears streamed from his eyes. Tears! Such a human thing.

And all the while he didn’t even know where he was trying to crawl to as his body burned.

Would he be discorporated or destroyed? If he didn’t know any better he’d think Michael had gotten him with a drop of holy water.

He could hear their words in his ears, their hatred dripping into him even without the aid of that wicked ring: So you thought you could be clever? You thought you could let Aziraphale rule without any consequences? My dear Crowley, you’ve ruined it.

It. Heaven. The world he loved so much. All because he walked out that door, all because he let Aziraphale do what he wanted. And why wouldn’t he? There was nothing left to do.

But, oh, of course this was his fault. Wasn’t everything?

His burning brain briefly wondered, Maybe I should’ve been a better kisser.

His heart ached like a fist clamped around it, something even worse than the poison. No, no, no, no, no!

Crowley tried laughing at it, but he choked, an acrid taste deep in him alighting on his withering tongue.

��MICHAEL!” he screamed.

All seemed to go black for a second, but it wasn’t a blessing (oh, a blessing). It was more like he was separated from his body and then was forced to return to it. Forced to return to the ruin brought upon him by Michael the archangel.

They’d cornered him, cursed him; Crowley, the betrayer of angels, of God. His “stupid angel” was doing it all wrong, and things needed to get back on track so they could have their war.

War. Oh, what a funny thing. Michael existed not for God, but for war.

They’d jabbed him in the neck with a gold ring, a sharp end protruding from it, and then he had collapsed, everything in his existence changing in that one moment.

This was all his fault. That was the accusation, at least.

But no matter what he’d done Aziraphale didn’t want him, didn’t want to be a them, an us. Not on Crowley’s terms. Not in any way that was safe. And now, here he lay, a fallen angel, a fallen demon, burning away into smoke.

Aziraphale. Have to get to Aziraphale.

It was all him. All about him.

“Help—” Crowley choked out, ruining smoke issuing forth from his mouth; past chapped, peeling lips. Lips that had failed.

This set him in a coughing fit that was surely supposed to be the end of him. Each inhale brought nothing but death. No air, not for him. Nothing so sweet as air.

In a way, he didn’t need it, but he was tied to this body. It was him.

For a moment he imagined Aziraphale—his attachment to his own body—and imagined it being destroyed like this.

The thought broke his heart, even as it passed into shadows and smoke.

Wait…

Was this Michael’s plan?

Was Michael going to attack Aziraphale next? Or was it just that he was the demon, he was the bad guy. Got to smite them, right? Can’t have the bad guys running amok.

Crowley forgot where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Time passed, surely, but he was hardly aware of it. Then a thought came across to him.

Aziraphale.

Help.

Right! Right, that’s what he was supposed to be doing.

But how? How?

Just stop burning. As easy as that. Just stop.

And Crowley tried, tried to tell himself he wasn’t burning, but he was! He was!

And Heaven was too far away. And could he even get in the entrance? He’d sink into the water surely, be dragged down to Hell. Maybe the elevator. But he’d only entered it once before with Muriel. On his own he didn’t stand a chance.

Bees.

Something about bees.

Crowley rolled onto his back, panting, gagging, and tried to call out for Aziraphale.

He couldn’t breathe. Oh, Satan, he couldn’t breathe.

With enough coughing whatever was in his burning lungs came up in his mouth, and he didn’t want to even explore what that was, what it could be.

Maybe it’s—

No, no, no!

If he thought about it he’d throw up. His stomach was already dying anyway, so maybe it was just—

Hot saliva crowded Crowley’s mouth and he tried to roll onto his side, but next thing he knew he was retching and choking.

Burning. Everything was burning. Maybe hotter than the fires of Hell. Fires they’d tried to kill Aziraphale with.

No, no.

In trouble.

Aziraphale was in trouble.

Had to be. What else would be going on?

“Azira—” Crowley tried to get out before becoming a choking, gagging mess again.

Aziraphale.

How to get to him?

Maybe he can come to me.

Yes, that’s what had to happen. There was no other way.

Crowley tried to look inward, to feel what was left of himself amongst this burning, poisoned ruin. And there, he found something. Not a light, or a soul, but something. He tried to look into that something he found, to find the parts of Crowley that were Aziraphale: the memories, the emotions, even the tiny gestures.

Images flashed in his mind’s eye.

Aziraphale smiling at him. Aziraphale saying smitten, looking at him with such an intensity that Crowley hadn’t noticed at the time. Aziraphale telling him to dance. You go too fast for me, Crowley.

He did his best to project those feelings and memories outwards, to picture the whole Earth, spinning and hurtling about through space, to picture the curtain drawing back on this realm, looking behind and finding Heaven. Crowley wasn’t sure he’d be able to actually find or sense Aziraphale this way, but he did what he could. He called out to him. And then he sent his pain, a black, writhing thing that was powerful enough to encompass the whole world. Pain so brilliant and ruining that Crowley wished for a drop of holy water, wished for someone’s mercy. But there was no mercy, not in this universe, or the next, or even the one after that.

Crowley started to realize how alone he was.

He didn’t have his car with him, his plants.

Didn’t have his angel.

He was just a demon in a filthy alley, sick and poisoned into wishing for nothingness.

Aziraphale.

“Crowley?”

He had to have imagined that. The word sounded garbled as it was with poisoned, scorching blood coming out of his ears, smoking against his skin, against the ground, his hair.

He cried, and tried to scream.

Alone. He was alone.

That voice wasn’t real.

“Crowley? Oh, good Lord!”

Hands were on him, and he tried shooting upwards, to fight, to push away.

“No… Michael…” he got out.

“I’m not Michael. It’s me. Aziraphale.”

Crowley could barely see through the damage to his eyes, the blood pouring forth. He thought he could make out white hair.

“Fake,” he coughed out, and then collapsed into tender arms.

“What’s happened to you?”

Crowley couldn’t answer. There wasn’t enough left working in his body to do so. He shuddered where he lay against Aziraphale’s chest, smearing his clothes with blood and the ash of his ruined feathers.

There was a hand on his chest. Was it glowing?

It was probing around, looking for something. And all the while he heard a familiar voice fretting away.

Crowley wanted to sink into that voice, sink into the body he was held against, not be himself any longer. It was too much. It was all too much.

“Good Lord, they’ve poisoned you with sulfur.”

Ah, that made sense.

Sulfur. The irony. Yet another trapping of what made him a demon, and now it was in his blood, destroying all in its path.

“I am permitted as many miracles as I like, and I think this calls for one.”

Crowley wanted to scream at him to get on with it. He clutched at Aziraphale with shaking, swollen fingers. They were surely discolored, all kinds of black and purple.

A feeling of emptiness whooshed through him, and next thing he knew the pain began to leave. It didn’t leave slowly, but in great waves that receded from a shore. And these were waves that never crashed back down, waves of an ocean that disappeared entirely.

He could see again, could hear again. And while he didn’t need to, he could breathe again.

Crowley gasped, awash in the feeling of being okay (how am I possibly okay?).

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he cried, throwing himself against the angel, and never wanting to let go, hoping that he wouldn’t let go.

He was shaking; and crying; and he didn’t even know why when being alive was, for the moment, bearable again.

“Crowley, I felt you calling for me, and I came as soon as I could. Oh, I’m so sorry.”

Then the anger came, anger that had been simmering for weeks, waiting for a time to rise and boil, to have prey it could pounce on.

The prey was here.

Before Crowley knew it he was drawing back from Aziraphale and had to physically restrain himself from hitting him by grabbing his own wrist.

“You idiot!” he screamed in his face.

Aziraphale dropped him. He didn’t land quite on the cement, and was in fact draped across one of Aziraphale’s legs.

“What?”

“You! You’re such an idiot! Didn’t I tell you they were toxic? Why did you want to work for them? Why?”

“Not for them,” Aziraphale clarified. “They work for me.”

Crowley rose, assessed his missing feathers, his bloodied hair and clothes. He was sticky with what had previously been his fiery blood. He ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

Facing Aziraphale again, he cried, “If that were true this never would have happened. Michael wouldn’t have hurt me. And if they’re doing this to me, then what”—at this point he grabbed him, pulled him to his feet and slammed him against a brick wall hard enough that it cracked and dust scattered—”do you think they’re going to do to you?”

“C-Crowley, I didn’t mean— They will be dealt with.”

“Sure. And what are you going to do all-mighty Aziraphale?” he taunted. “Give them a slap on the wrist? Or why don’t you just say fuck it and erase their name from the Book of Life?”

“You know I can’t—”

“To Hell with what you can and can’t do! Look at me! Look at me!” He took in Aziraphale’s horrified gaze, and yet it still wasn’t enough. How could it be enough when this had happened, when Crowley was sure he’d never sleep just so he could avoid the nightmares? He had to clean parts of his lungs off of himself and Aziraphale was surely going to go right back to Heaven with a skip and a hop and make sure things were all tickety-boo again. “You think whatever you do will be enough? You think you can stop whatever they have planned? I’m collateral to your stupid plans, your stupid want to rule.”

“Not to rule, to fix things! To make them better.”

“Look what better did to me.”

Crowley felt a sound of disgust rise in his throat, akin to the need to spit. He shook his head, mouth set in a firm grimace, and pushed away from Aziraphale. He turned away. Betrayed. Defeated. Alone.

“Go back to Heaven, angel.”

“Crowley, I—”

Crowley whirled on him. “Leave me alone!”

Aziraphale’s eyes shone with unshed tears. And knowing him they wouldn’t fall. Yet another thing to break Crowley’s heart.

His face was set in a look of helpless distress, perhaps of guilt, but his angel couldn’t do anything so un-angelic as to apologize.

He swallowed roughly.

“But, Crowley, you’ll be all alone. You were hurt. Let’s—”

Crowley turned away from him. Somehow he clawed words out through his gritted teeth, scraping them up from the remains of his respiratory system, “If you don’t leave right now I am going to do something very, very stupid.”

What that stupid thing was, he didn’t know. Perhaps exploding on the spot.

Aziraphale’s silence settled into the spaces between his heartbeats.

Finally: “As you wish.”

And then Crowley was alone. All alone, and covered in the gore of his poisoning, of Aziraphale’s failure to fix Heaven. Of his own failure.

He sat down in the alley, and he thought perhaps a few days had passed before he had it in him to get back up again. When he did, Crowley made for the Bentley. He had to get away. Just away. And yet, nowhere would be far enough.

[alicornze7]

Ribbun week - Day2: Constraint

Biblically accurate ribbun

*local artist attempts (and fails) at doing angst*

[claymoreraymore]

Doodles

[montypng]

“olfactory memory: referring to the recollection of smells.”

[ID: a three page comic in a limited colour palette of black, white, purple, and yellow:

an unnamed killjoy lights a cigarette with a matchstick, leaving smoke trails. the girl, slightly older than in the music videos, turns to face them and says “hey. ya mind puttin’ that out?” the killjoy raises their eyebrows and replies “sheesh, ya got somethin’ against nic-sticks or what?”

a close-up of the girl’s mouth — she pauses, then says “…nah.” her speech bubble trails off into clouds of smoke, weaving through several objects: a revving motorcycle, a laser gun, bound sticks of dynamite, and, finally, a familiar hand holding a cigarette aloft, clad in a fingerless glove and string of bad luck beads.

purple smoke connects the last page to the previous, drawing the viewer’s eye downwards. on a black background, white text reads: “i just can’t stand the smoke.” the girl’s face is turned away, seemingly emotionless. a single tear drips down her chin. /end ID] 

[everytaylorswiftsongisaboutcats]

[front-facing-pokemon]

[meiko333]

Happy Birthday Bisexuals! 💗💜💙

[shalpilot]

lucid

[tormentedshadow]

The 10th Annual 12 days of Christmas

DAY 1 : cracks in the foundation

That's right fellow freaks I reached 10 years of doing this nonsense.

Somehow doing this for a decade. Just to prove I still can!The most spiteful of art projects. Every year it get harder tho think up stuff, and this year I was really scrapping the barrel. So you's will get what your given, prepare for mediocrity.

THIS year batman drops in on his rogues during a fierce blizzard and everything goes pear shaped, What Christmas shenanigans will occur?

[cressida-jayoungr]

One Dress a Day Challenge

October: Gold Redux

The Borgias (s1 e1, "The Poisoned Chalice") / Holliday Grainger as Lucrezia Borgia

This is one of Lucrezia's first costumes, which she wears to see her father invested as Pope in 1492. We really only see it from the waist up onscreen, but a bit of the skirt is visible in the publicity shot at bottom.

It seems very likely that the look was inspired by a gown featured in The Birth of the Virgin by Domenico Ghirlandaio, painted in the 1480s:

[natonship]

Quotes from our Danger Days DnD sessions

(aka me and my friends being hilariously in character)

__________

(Kobra orders the group to go back because Poison almost fucking died)

Cherri: That’s quitter-attitude, Kobra.

__________

Pony: Hey, how are you doing?

Cherri: Great, just found a corpse!

__________

Kobra: It's only a clown car when Ghoul's inside!

__________

Ghoul: I can cook!

Kobra: I think you've proven that you can't.

Ghoul: People change!

__________

Ghoul: Do birds light on fire naturally?

__________

Cherri about Ghoul: He's intelligent, he's just full of shit.

__________

Cherri: If we have any more family time, Ghoul might actually die.

Part 2:

[pokemonlolitaproject]

Blessed All Snakes Day Pokemon fans (It's a lovely holiday rooted in resistance of the original anti-pagan origins of St. Patrick's Day)!

In honor of the holiday I present a coord inspired by the shiny version of Pokemon #23 Ekans

[rainandsugarcane2000]

i love my mutuals so much <3

[lukiaxx]

three, two, one, we came here to fuck

[z0mb1tch]

╰➤ edit of : party poison / gerard way (danger days / my chemical romance)

╰┈➤ sources : i genuinely do not remember i'm so sorry-

╰┈┈➤ notes : made this forever ago for an event that i didn't actually end up submitting it to (i have the attention span of a goldfish) but i still like it so y'know.