#audaciiae {michael}

[sintoknow]

it is the dawn that lays betwixt the trees here, once the devil's domain. it is ruled only by silence now, and birdsong. the small clearing overlooks a still lake; this mound of earth is made hollow in holy presence, and even the demons in their half-minds have scampered away, fearing the might of heaven. all is gone, all but one lone deer, whose eyes glisten when the light plays its tricks, moving in odd ways, its leg at odd angles.

it is not often lucifer comes to @audaciiae when they grace the earth, but he enjoys these makeshift summits when he does. the occasion to bother their morals with his presence is a promise of entertainment. so, he comes to michael in the guise of something or other, which they are quick to see through. when his form takes its shape, shedding its other flesh, he finds a sword to his throat, likely in warning.

he scoffs, ❛ can't i say ' hi ' ? ❜

MICHAEL REBUKES, YOU ARE ENTIRELY HOPELESS.

❛ on the contrary, i'm rather hopeful. ❜ lucifer counters with a grin, twisting their words to his pleasure. he's never taken well to admonishment and it's not a surprise he laughs it off this time, like every other time. ❛ and even that you abhor. one can never win with you lot, huh? ❜ he makes a point to glance upward, to the skies.

when he thinks of michael, they are always a statue. weathering waves, against the tide of duty never to erode. yet his words mean to fell them. to rust, to dent, to rouse their composure and topple it over like a broken idol. if the taunts soothe nothing else in the devil, they serve for his amusement, at least. lucifer would rather michael's sword in his heart than their apathy, and earning their righteous ire comes to him like a reward, an admission of their own emotion. ❛ i dared hope for freedom, that we could have been greater than subservience. ❜ he tilts his head, stepping closer, the sword tearing through the fabric of his jacket at his own behest, hand coming to lay atop the sharp edge of it. ❛ you never were a visionary, michael dear, don't try for philosophy now. it doesn't look good on you. ❜

[withinycu]

@audaciiae liked for some smut

"Christ Mickey it's a Friday night. Are we really having this conversation now? Come on," Lucifer pulled them in roughly to the small apartment he'd been keeping. It stank faintly of sex and weed and there was buzzing from somewhere in the bowels of the apartment. A sex toy that had been lost but still vibrated away like the sound of flies.

Lucifer sat Michael down on the sofa before retreating to a nearby chair. In the harsh neon light that spilled through the window the father of lies looked boyish and even innocent. "Are you sure you want to . . . I don't know, know about this? I kinda always assumed you were frigid. Which is uh fine. I mean I like fucking but it's not everyone's bag. Samael still hasn't recovered from when he and Lil tried to go at it."

He was rambling out of nerves. He'd always teased Michael, tugged their hair and whispered obscenities in their ear but had never thought it would mean anything or yield more than a rolled pair of eyes.

[sintoarchive]

like a flood receding, the enormity of their collision settling down to its denouement. it's all scorched ground, a tree knocked over from the thud of his hidden wings when @audaciiae had brought him to the ground, his own blade strewn about somewhere. lucifer laughs, a dry thing. michael tries his patience and frustrates him to no end, yet he has come to enjoy these odd little quarrels they share on earth. a sword at his heart is a low price to pay for a break from the monotony of dealing with demonkind and damned souls on the regular, the stench of which seeps into his grace, staining a once-blinding divinity with the wretched incense of hell. ❝ treason... is that what you're calling it upstairs? riveting spin on the tale, a new york times best seller. i prefer revolution, myself, but to each their own. ❞ he makes no move to raise arms against them, merely scowls when he sees the speckled dust and grime over his blazer, rolling his eyes in a mockery of anger, as though the state of his attire were his biggest concern.

❝ better fallen in dignity than subservient in heaven, rolling over at the foot of His throne. ❞ the devil is grinning up at them, all sharp teeth and coy eyes, and the nonchalance he speaks with is unbefitting his position though expected of his arrogance. ❝ where is your grace, michael? your honour? are we no better than dogs? ❞ the blade presses over his chest, betwixt the ribs where his heart ought to lay, and he revels in it for it means he has roused the statue that is michael's usual composure, and toppled it over like a broken idol. he can stomach their loathing and wrath, but their apathy irks him for the falsity of it. they let him go, but he does not take the mercy. then, lucifer has never been particularly good at heeding instruction, and so he remains, taunting them with a tilt to his head, stretching languidly to prop himself unto arms, ❝ act on your own behalf for once, dear, and kill me like you've been aching to. ❞

continued.

[fortitudina]

@audaciiae requested a starter for Michael.

DARK EYES FOUND themselves on alert as she moved herself throughout her home. Gabriel had taken up residence upon Earth for a while now, and it was rare that some of her siblings visited, which was why, when she heard the sounds in her home, the archangel moved through it as though she needed to fight.

Stepping into her kitchen, she came to pause abruptly as the sight of her older brother greeted her. For a brief moment, a sigh left her lips, but it quickly turned into an expression of small annoyance the longer that she looked upon him. " Michael? --- Might I question just what it is that you are doing, frequenting my home at this hour of the night? I could have easily brought harm upon you! Buffoon! "

As much as Gabriel loved her siblings, she did often find them to be annoyances, and often incapable of blending in as it were. Her lips pursed as she glanced at the flour scattering both her counter top and the floor below. That could be tomorrow's problem, her immediate one was her sibling within her home.

[handgiven]

[ blanket ] from michael hehe

winter season starters / @audaciiae [ blanket ] for the sender to wrap the receiver in a big, warm blanket

the heating was off in the entire house. some thing or another broke in the system that the angel could not easily solve, and so to make up for it he'd spent the day cooking up some soup for the neighbors and in the pauses using his sweaters, the ones he did not hand out to others, as insulation to wrap around the flowerpots, lest the soil freeze and the roots with it. if all else dies, the roots are a chance for the plant to come to live again. it's alright, he doesn't mind. it's not unlike what he does usually, except maybe for the part where he is really tired, and kind of cold, himself, as the temperature nears freezing point even inside, and as he gifts his coat to the grandmother living in the building over. it's alright, it's what he was made for. it's fine.

except it's not. not really. he doesn't realise how deep the cold reaches inside of him until a familiar sensation of warmth beyond the physical accompanies the slight weight upon his shoulders. he turns his head but doesn't need to, to breathe the other's name, and see it form a cloud of fog upon his lips. he smiles, tired, but grateful. "michael... thank you. i... i was handling it."

[heavenfelled]

@audaciiae liked this for a starter !

' michael ! fancy seeing you here - come to thwart my evil doings, or some such? ' to be perfectly frank, he hadn't been up to much of the sort in weeks. what were the locals calling it these days? quiet quitting? bastards.

' you're looking fabulous ! calisthenics? ' if crowley was endowed with any particular gift, it was their ability to talk until the other party had forgotten whatever reprimand they'd had primed.

[fruitfulsin]

@audaciiae 's Michael spoke ⸺ you can't intimidate me.

Porcelain skin glistens, bright against the sun and rich with sweat that only the world of His creation can provide, chest rising and falling with greater difficulty than he is accustomed. Like a challenge, his ribs push against the air as he stands over the body of his companion. He relishes the sensation, tip of his sword finding its place against the soft flesh beneath the angel's neck. As the other struggles for their own breath, his blade does not yield.

"Oh⸺?"

Soft features tilt to the side as a brow raises, creating angles and ridges across his face. "I cannot?" The hand that holds his mighty sword twitches as a smile forms upon crimson lips.

Finally, a musical laugh, head thrown back and sword cast aside. Lucifer is just as swift to offer a hand to Michael, lifting them from the grass, as he was to put them there. He himself has a fair amount of battle wounds from their friendly game. Certainly, it has made his Earthly body stiff and tired. The ache is a welcome sensation, breaking the monotony of his dwelling above.

"You could have put an end to it long ago..." Lucifer says plainly, stepping back into the shade of a nearby tree. "You know this. Do not let me win, my friend. That is an insult." Still, he smiles, waiting for his companion to join by his side or continue their stand in the heat.

"One day, I am certain you will strike me down."

[bellzof]

@audaciiae for michael

❝ 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 ? ( they took a very deep breath in, slouching their shoulders to seem LESS appealing, it was working ) Yes ? good. that means you are too close to me & you need to BACK up wank wings. ❞ house flies ; attracted to rotting flesh smells. drain flies; attracted to moist & mildew smells, wet & sticky. last but NOT least — fruit flies; sweet & a hint of surgay. surely the combination of smells were not the best, but what else was someone assuming the lord of flies smelled like ? they didn't WANT to be perceived from a near distance anyway, so the further people were the better. so why was she so close ? an archangel who wasn't afraid to get in people's face, it seemed like regret that the angel was too close to smell the wrath of beelzebub.

[freeddead]

//shhh shhhhh

[instituteled-a]

@audaciiae

     Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ᴀ hundred small ways in which Elias is acutely aware that he is in love with Michael Shelley, but the realization hits every single time like running face first into a brick wall, and it's as unmovable in the same way.

     He knows it from the way his heart hammers up inside his throat each time he comes out the back door for their break outside and sees him waiting already, a mess of blonde hair and fuzzy sweaters and honey sweet smiles, and how he's probably the first person in a long time that seems genuinely delighted to see him.

     He knows it in the casual touches - brushing over when sharing a smoke, sitting too close together with their shoulders and knees bumping into each other, lingering a moment too long.

     He knows it when he memorized the way Michael takes his tea in the mornings after the third time he's spent the night, and knows his way around the other's kitchen a week in, movements becoming automatic, and in the way he feels like he shatters and is put back together when the blonde smiles at him the first time he hands him the cup, sleep still thick over his features.

     He knows it when the sun catches in Michael's hair and set it on fire and his own breath catches in his throat and he wonders if he's dead or dying, a fever dream shared with a messy angel that laughs a little bit off tune and smiles with the intensity of a thousand suns and he wants to kiss him so badly, suffocating and drowning, and instead his hand simply brushes over the other's and he watches that smile and cries on the inside because his emotions are overwhelming.

     He knows it in the nights in bed when he's practically worshipping him, lips on every inch of this blonde nerd's body he can reach, hands everywhere, when he insists it's all about him and yet he feels like shattering and Michael holds him so very close he doesn't have any space to do so.

     He knows it when he doesn't remember when he's last been to his own shitty apartment, when going home means to follow like a lost puppy, and knowing he's not forcing himself to it but is wanted there, there's a space willingly left open for him, and his breath is irregular and shaken when he's handed the key like it's a new development, like he couldn't have foreseen it.

     He knows it when the thought surfaces in his head, dizzying and swallowing everything else, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and it hurts in all the right ways. He doesn't mind aching like this, the missing piece to him clicking close later when Michael takes him apart and sets him back together when he says it out loud, not just 'I love you', but the confession of something more, of a bleeding heart that he carved out and replaced with the shape of this too angry and too awkward archival assistant, soft only for him, all his, and he thinks that was worth it, he thinks that was worth everything else, and as long as he loves me, I can die happily.

     He knows it, painfully, throbbingly, when he's called up to the office, nerves a mess, and no explanation for whatever it is comes over his lips because none of them matter or ever had mattered, and he tries to hold onto that image, and the last coherent thought before the pain gets too much and it goes all black is 'he won't know why I'm late, he'll wait too long and he won't know -', and then there's not enough left to know anything about the things Elias cared about, then all that love is just wiped out as easy as the rest of him.

[withinycu]

@audaciiae must leave the garden

God was so infinite. Once a poet had described time itself as the magic length of God itself. God knew Michael more intimately than a clockmaker knew the gears of his own creation and found them and all the angels lacking.

Lucifer had been the favorite not for his beauty but for his questioning, his pride which made him as infinite as God itself. He was struck down, he was still welcome in the heavenly court, he was imprisoned in a lake of ice but also roamed the earth, etc, etc. All the stories true, but all also false.

Obedience was stagnation. Which was why God appeared as they did now, a void in which no light penetrated defined by its edges knowing how Michael saw them. Infinite, glowing, a bright light by which they could burn the world or render it simple with illumination

"Why have you sought for me?" To say God has a voice is false, what was asked was more felt, a vibration, a foreign thought as recognizable as a fist punch or a caress.

[withinycu-arch]

audaciiae replied to your chat: “-me has way too many muses already and hasn't made icons for a good...”:

bro i was just having the same thought that it was such a michael look lkjKLSDG

FURTHER EVIDENCE WE ARE IN FACT THE SAME PERSON

[handgiven]

∆ OVER HERE ∆ from michael hehe

hand in hand starters / @audaciiae sender grabs receiver’s hand to grab their attention.

it's not too often that he gets approached by heaven these days, not on the metaphysical level, and not in the physical world. this does not stand in the way of him attending to his duties. doing minor acts of good in hopes that they shall snowball into something much greater, change a human's life or perhaps just charm a smile onto a child's face. they are all equal hopes, and he treasures them to no end because the goodness of them is the one thing from his family that he has left inside of him. do good. be good. love. why would that need more explaining? why would that need so much as a little company? why, of course... but the sorrow of the world is just too big.

it always lurks in the back of his mind, that he's not doing enough. that he is simply incapable of doing enough because considering the circumstances, there is little more possibility to do any more. to help any more. such thoughts do feel like blasphemy, however, pushing against the great order of things, and he tries to keep them at bay, diving deeper and deeper into his busywork. hoping that it will not be exactly these thoughts that get picked up on by the great and holy.

that explains the tinge of guilt in his eye when he, walking fast down a snowy path in a park, gets his hand grabbed, and turns around to see michael of all people. his eyes meet the other's for just a second before they move to the ground and he bows his head, ever so slightly. there is stillness to him, not unlike a deer in the headlights. "—michael." still, his voice is ever so gentle.

[heavenfelled]

@audaciiae / michael liked this for a starter !

𝐒𝐓. 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒' 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐔𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃, everyone knew that. he and aziraphale had many a rendezvous by its bustling little pond in their hay day. old habits die hard apparently - same park, different angel. michael was a different sort, with an air that encouraged a stifling sense of unease ... at least, if you're a grand duke of hell.

' if you've come to to CONGRATULATE me on my promotion, you shouldn't have gone through all the trouble ! an email would've done the trick, y'know. ' they flicked a generous helping of frozen peas toward the flocking ducks and propped a hand at their hip. ' - so what's on the menu, hm? business or pleasure ? '

[miightyfallen-archive]

Apocalypse lost for the moment. Powers somewhat zapped due to the influence of the child Adam. Lucifer is not entirely himself as he would like to be. Of course this is the time fates decide to put Michael in his path. At first, the devil says nothing and contents himself to silence. Just watching. First hope is Michael would not notice him sitting as he is on the park bench but eye contact is made. Recognition must be admitted and yet- Lucifer just continues to sit and stare. 

[arcserpent]

‘ you confuse not speaking with not listening. ’  michael / @audaciiae​​​​ said.

his irritation is an ugly,    vile thing,    manifesting in the billow of a dark coat sweeping behind his figure,    casting a flock of shadows that disperse like wild birds.     the air all around reeks of storm,    or of smoke.    or perhaps it’s just the tinge of hell he carries with himself,    the acrid scents of ashes that trail his tainted grace.    the animals must know,    for all them have long scattered at the premise of his presence here  —  this swell of land overlooking the surface of a lake,    over which a gust of wailing wind dances and waltzes into the dry bulrush.    the devil’s arms,    which had been linked behind his back,    come to cross across his chest with a huff at having his attention snapped back by michael,    after the effort he’d gone through to tune them out.   it is a metaphorical retrograde of sorts  —  a reversal of time  —  backward  —  and backward into a long gone past.    it is a momentary regression,    spurred by the enormity of their encounter.    he looks at them and it’s like opening a box,    if that box were on fire,    and full of the ghosts of rotting memories.    what he wants is to slam the lid of it and shove it back in the attic of his mind where it belongs,    and forget about it.    instead,    he forces his gaze towards the other archangel,     ❝    pick one,    i can’t do both.    ❞     lucifer remarks,    and it’s halfway between barely suppressed annoyance and the beginnings of a jest.  

❝    i have your holier than thou tirades memorized,    michael,    i’ve heard them often enough.    have you expanded your script in the past millennia,    or is it still ‘ yes, God - no, God - whatever you say, God ’ with you?    ❞     he flops down on a near bench with exaggerated exasperation,    one leg coming to rest over a knee,    hands folded neatly atop,     almost expectantly.