#cw: metatron

[badaziraphaletakes]

Lest you think this BS is confined to the fandom

…You literally said "Aziraphale shouldn't have 'accepted' the Metatron's 'offer'" AND "After all, heaven is violent and retaliatory" in the same paragraph and didn't see the contradiction!!!

Like, it didn't occur to you that the same forces that could force Azi to stay in heaven ALSO MEANT HE WAS FORCED TO GO BACK?!?

I just... oh my god.

And this is a "professional" entertainment outlet that wrote this.

Terrifying.

[simplegenius042]

WIP Wednesday, My OC's As A Color Quiz & Meet My Character

Tagged by @spookyrares

Tagging @derelictheretic @inafieldofdaisies @socially-awkward-skeleton @imogenkol @noodlecupcakes @direwombat @voidika @cassietrn @adelaidedrubman @aceghosts @josephseedismyfather @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @cloudofbutterflies92 @carlosoliveiraa @wrathfulrook @starsandskies @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @minilev @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @justasmolbard @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @g0dspeeed @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins @softtidesworld @florbelles and @yokobai

WIPs for Life, Despair & Monsters and The Silver Chronicles, this Quiz for the Wings And Horns main cast, and lastly Meet My OC template for two OCs from A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore. As you can probably guess, this post does have NSFW content in it. You can read the WIPs, quiz results and find the template below the cut:

First WIP is for my The Invitation WIP (AU?) called An Invite To Wine And Dine. This is either a flashback or a prologue, where Evie Jackson officially meets one peculiar Sir Enigma Malvolio. Or what I'd like to call; five minutes of semi-normalcy before the Horrors(TM) struck. Only warning here is my unfunny running gag, take a gander of what it is:

With her shift over, Evie gave a swift goodbye to Grace and made her way out of the building. She's certain Grace knew something was up, but thankfully gave her some space.

Evie appreciated it.

Out the door and in the afternoon sun, the waitress tried to keep composure over the rising grief that choked at her throat. Her breathing stuttered as she wiped at her eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears from dropping down.

Crying outside her workplace wasn't what she wanted to do today, but her sorrow seemed to disagree. Sniffling, she turned to make haste back to her apartment, only to be stopped by a voice she'd recently gotten acquainted with.

"Jolly Ho, Ms Jackson!" Mr. Malvolio greeted from behind her. Evie turned around as soon as she had been addressed by the man.

He was leaning his shoulder against a pillar, his rounded handle cane acting as extra support. Or maybe it was for show, she couldn't be sure.

Facing him, she could see he was wearing the same dark blue tuxedo suit he had been wearing the night prior. Now in the sunlight and not in the dim-lighted event, she could could see that his hair was indeed dark, as well as his eyes. And now that they face-to-face, she was surprised by the confirmation that, yes; Mr. Malvolio was, in fact, a head or so shorter than Evie herself.

He grinned with a friendly and overly excited demeanor, though slightly better than a lecherous gaze, it was still oddly off-putting to Evie. She took note that he was older than her; late 30s at the least, maybe forties though.

Even so, she acknowledged his presence with a surprised, "Mr. Malvolio?"

"Please, Ms Jackson, call me Sir- oh," Malvolio paused, grin gone and lips thinned as his eyes narrowed, inspecting her face, "Uh, um, not to alarm you dear, but, hmm, your face seems a little... wet?"

Despite his clumsy observation, Evie swiftly wiped at her face, and not wanting to share her troubles with a stranger, quickly said, "Oh, uh, that's nothing."

Mr. Malvolio pursed his lips, scrutinizing her features, "Are you certain Ms Jackson?"

"Yeah," Evie lied, smacking her lips together, "I just had some tap water spray at me. Didn't have time to dry it off when my shift ended."

To her surprise, Mr. Malvolio didn't question her shitty story, and instead seemed to believe her, "Is that why you're in such a rush? I must warn you dear, with that much haste, you might trip over your legs, and the pavement's quite concrete," Mr. Malvolio gave a small chortle as he added, "Scrapes and bruises wouldn't do so well on your fine skin."

Evie, in spite of being confused on whether that was a sort of jab or some weird form of compliment from the man, gave a half-hearted laugh back, ignoring his words in favor of the burning question, "Uh, Mr. Malvolio, sorry to pry but hadn't you said you'd be making your way back home?"

"Eh, we missed the plane," Mr. Malvolio answered, chuckling humorlessly, "Honestly, American airports are the worst. So Denise and I will be extending our stay for a little while longer in good old New York."

Mr. Malvolio gestured far back behind him, and Evie spotted his bodyguard, adorning a black and red suit contrasting her employer's, watching them from under the shade of a cafe umbrella, the dark-tinted sunglasses still covering her eyes.

That makes some sense, Evie thought, but wondered, But why are you here?

As if reading her mind, Mr. Malvolio added, "And I wanted to personally thank you for such a delightful evening. As well as saving Denise from her nut allergy. She may not look like it... nor will she ever admit it... but deep down she is grateful, as am I."

Evie took another glance at Denise, and even from their far distance, she could tell the only expression she could read on Denise's face was one of apathy.

Regardless though, she smiled in thanks of Mr. Malvolio's gratitude, which seemed so sincere. Maybe he was merely giving platitudes to pat himself on the back, or uphold a reputation. But she cherished what she could.

"That's rather kind of you Mr. Malvolio," Evie stuttered out, feeling like a damn that was cracking, ready to burst. Grace was right, she realised, Maybe my self-esteem's needed a boost from kindness for some time now.

"Please Ms Jackson, it's Sir En-," he pauses, face scrunched and unreadable, as he quizzically asks, "Uh, Ms Jackson, are you certain a tap is the cause of those tears?"

Evie wiped again once more at her face, though she stopped when Mr. Malvolio offered a handkerchief.

She accepted it, bringing the clean cloth to dry her face of the tears. Mr. Malvolio observed her with curiosity, and she absentmindedly wondered if he had never seen a person cry before.

With a small thanks she handed the handkerchief back, which he surprisingly accepted back into his breast pocket. He gave what she assumed to be a comforting smile. She opened her mouth to say something- perhaps an apology, maybe a hasty goodbye- but could not bring the words out when he asked with surprising gentleness, "What terrible loss has afflicted you to bring forth such sadness, my dear?"

Evie hesitated, a moment long enough for her to consider whether telling this man; practically a stranger, about the woes that drown her. One glance to his mature face marked her answer though.

With a shaky breath, Evie revealed to who would be the second person this month of her troubles.

"My mother recently passed away," she told Mr. Malvolio, whose very expression shifted from gentle to unreadable once more.

Here's more of my FC5 Bloodborne AU WIP, where werewolves are involved in Hope County and not in the usual fun way, no these things legitimately massacre people and are beyond complex thought comprehension. Paul and Silva established the Hunters who go on annual nightly hunts to downsize the werewolf population with Eden's Gate help... which has lasted for almost ten years now so you can guess how well that's doing. Also, Faith is a Vicar because Paul's previous one, Obadiah Teal, turned into a big scary werewolf (that breathed fire) [Originally this vicar was named Laurence as reference to Bloodborne but ultimately found a character of my own from Paul's lore to play the part. Obadiah was Paul's lover back on the Archipelagos in The Silver Chronicles but here he's a lost lenore (and future boss fight) in this AU. Apologies for any confusion]. Witness Vicar Faith as she prepares herself for an evening Paul vaguely bothered to warn her about while doing some introspection, and how she yearns for Silva's words of assurances... and, uh, ahem, touch. CW: Minor reference to past suicidal idealization (because Faith), minor mentions of past drug-use (because Faith), maybe two descriptions implying lack of self-care, sexual themes, and, eh, explicit horniness? But it's like a sad longing for intimacy??? I tried my best at keeping it consistent. Anyway, read below:

Green mirrored green, a pair of eyes gazing into the same reflected pair of eyes. Lifeless. Dull. Like her Angels had once been before the Bliss became what it is today.

Faith scrutinized the petite figure before her; in nothing but her undergarments, light brown hair flowing freely over her shoulder, the jewelry and veil she would adorn on herself laid unattended on the vanity, holding close the white shawls and garb that made up her image, which seemed so ragged now. Of age and constant use? Perhaps. Perhaps not.

Though, thankfully, her clothes condition were not as dire as the hand-me-down dress Joseph once gifted her, for what little time she owned it.

She wondered what had happened to it. She must have given it back to her brothers at some point, when it became clear she'd have no use to it. Had Joseph kept it, stored it away for safe keeping until the day he believed she'd return from this role? Was it collecting dust in some closet, discarded and forgotten, out of sight and out of mind? Like them? Or how she was now?

Had it been given to someone else? erupted a vile thought, Someone newer, younger and prettier?

When had been the last time her brothers had even visited her.

"When had been the last time he visited you, nuora?" Paul had softly, wearily asked her out of the blue once, as they stood side by side watching her brothers leave from the monastery's window after their last meeting.

Meetings of which were becoming thinner and thinner between duration. Enough time to greet, discuss progress of plans, then leave for weeks and months on end. Never enough to simply sit down and catch up on lost time.

Faith had given Paul a response full of puzzlement, one only meant to acknowledge the surface level of his question. One meant to evade a true answer. She couldn't remember what exactly it was though. Something along the lines of "what do you mean?" or "but we just did, silly?" or whatever mask she had to hide behind.

But she had found it to be all for naught, for it was naive of her to believe that Paul, of all the people she's met, would fall for such cheap tricks. And yet, he cared enough to rephrase his question, "When was the last time he visited just for you?"

Faith hadn't given an answer then. She couldn't find one now.

She huffed, and began to dress, slipping on the garb and shawls that made up Vicar outfit. Clothing of which felt so familiar to her body, as it had been amongst the most common clothes she's worn for nearly seven years now. The sleeves hugged her arms just as the garb fit her frame.

She decided to tighten the Vicar's loose attire last, focused on the jewelry and veil next. She pinned the jewels and gems along the hem of her shawls, the brooches strewn above her chest, and finally the pendant necklace, the most important piece of a Vicar, around her neck. Something that she would usually do instead of Faith.

From close behind her, long and strong arms would snake around to the front of her, to bring the cold touch of the pendant against the warmth of her exposed collarbone's skin.

It was not only the pendent that her Hunter would assist her in, but the laces behind the Vicar's back. Though, Faith mused, my adoring Silva would often struggle to keep on task in favor of more... pleasurable distractions.

Faith's lips curved up into a small smile, the Vicar gazing into the mirror of her not-yet-tightened and loose clothing. She felt an ache within her, and closed her eyes. Not to neglect her duties, but to... indulge, especially before tonight comes.

"You're a Vicar now, after all," Silva had once told her in their very room, sultry voice dripping with barely restrained desire, months after her inauguration and setting up this routine with this... new teasing and exciting tension between them. The ghost of her breath trailed along Faith's exposed neck, like little kisses, causing goosebumps to ripple along the skin. Silva's lips were close enough that it wouldn't take much distance for her to press down on her flesh.

She remembered how bated her breath was, the blood running across her cheeks. Silva must have noticed the red, as she seemed more enamored from the mirror's reflection. Hands on Faith's shoulders, Silva's lips whispered into the shell of her ear, "Here, as our Vicar, you can do as you please. And the Old Hunters will obey. Obadiah forgot that. So have the recruits. But a first hunter, like myself, has not, and will not. We are not meant to restrain our own nature. As long we do not shirk our duties in favor of overindulgence..."

Faith shivered in pleasure as Silva's lips grazed her skin, kissing along her jaw and cheek. Faith sighed, pleased by the contact. She turned her head to face Silva. Her hair was dark and skin were darker than hers, and so were her clothes. Vibrant green orbs gazed into the shining silver of the Chief Hunter's protege. Silva was Enlightened, just like her father.

"...Then we will be able to share our passions without incident," Silva stated, staring into Faith's eyes, slowly closing in

In those eyes were a beckoning; a need for something human to anchor her to this Earthly plane. A Hunter who wanted a Vicar. She, the necessary violence that bordered on the line between primal darkness and humanity whose insight of the world's darkest shades far exceeded Joseph's own... and her, the Monastery's only guiding light that gave promises of hope for seeing the next dawn, knowing yet clueless all the same, in contrast to Silva's sight.

They couldn't be so different from each other. So much contrast that the idea of any sort of union should baffle Faith.

And yet...

Faith gave one glance to Silva's tempting lips, and accepted the invite, crashing her own against the Hunter's. The latter recovered quickly, and pushed all her passion, all her want, all her needs into this one connection. Faith had hummed delightfully, and gasped when Silva's teeth bit down on her bottom lip teasingly.

Shamefully, or maybe shamelessly, she had moaned, which only encouraged Silva's endeavor. Faith, struck with the need to touch, caressed Silva's face, pressing her palm to hold Silva's face.

Faith was almost surprised by how quickly- how greedily Silva leaned into the contact. She smiled into the Hunter's lips though, amused and pleased; the strongest, most dangerous and powerful woman alive, was nothing but mush in the palm of Faith's hand.

Jacob would call this weakness. John would call this lust.

Faith believed this to be worth worshiping.

She broke away from the kiss, hand still on Silva's face. The eye contact they shared spoke in clear volumes of what they both wanted. She could imagine that this wasn't what Joseph had in mind when he sent her over here. Likelihood was, he wouldn't want her to discard the principles he passed down to her even if it meant a rival's destruction.

Faith knew she could stop this. That she could cut this connection from the bud before she defiled Joseph's Word any further.

She knew this, and still curled her hand behind Silva's head, rolling her shoulders so her loosened garb could shrug down to expose more skin. Faith tilted her head so Silva's lips could reach her naked neck, inviting her hunter to ravage at the skin, with promises of more.

With her hand around Silva's head, she guided the other woman to where she needed her attention to be.

Faith traced a hand over her neck, collarbone and covered shoulder. She envisioned the sensual kisses, wet lips pecking at her skin and the loving bites that brought her euphoria.

She trailed that hand down her chest, using her spare to grip her hip, re-enacting from memory how Silva's hands caressed her body, feeling up every curve, every spot, everywhere she could touch.

She hummed, shallow breaths escaped her lips, ecstasy coiled as one hand palmed at her breast, while the other reached lower and lower.

Silva's fingers brushed at her Vicar's clothed sex, and with little self-control to hold her back, the Hunter began to massage Faith's clit. Her lips and teeth continued to cover Faith's skin with a Hunter's affection. Soft murmurs of praise under a native tongue faintly spoken each time Silva tasted the Vicar's flesh, leaving faint bruises, but withholding the strength to break it.

Faith had extended her arms to steady herself against the mirror as Silva had her chase after a high that she was sure no drug could compare to. Her skin felt ablaze with euphoria, a sensation Silva had once admitted rivaled a Hunter's bloodlust during nightly hunts.

Those words had elicited a smug pride that she's sure she'd be shamed for if she expressed it within the Project's Compound.

Grinding against Silva, she could feel the other woman's own excitement digging behind her, and though her actions motivated the Hunter to please her Vicar, it was apparent she was focused on bringing out Faith's pleasure first.

Her legs shook as Silva further stimulated the sensations of her body, Faith's rapid breaths replaced by loud moans of building ecstasy, as Silva's hands massaged her breast and rubbed at her clit and cover her flesh in hickeys.

Faith could feel herself getting closer, strands of hair stuck to her forehead, the pleasure Silva's helped her build up accumulating, with a bated breath, a final release-

"Vicar Faith?" a rough voice belonging to a hunter called out from behind the door with a knock, snapping the woman in question out of her feverish state. The Hunter's voice, who Faith realized belonged to Nadi, continued, "You've been getting ready for a while now. Are you alright?"

Faith, though suffering from irritation, disappointment and a lack of satisfying conclusion to her personal indulgences, managed to reply while only sounding a little breathless, "Yes, I'm fine Hunter Nadi. Just struggles with back laces."

Nadi didn't sound unconvinced from Faith's response as the Hunter stated, "Very well ma'am. I'd just like to inform you that the attendants are being gathered up for this evening's service. And, uh, the Chief Hunter wanted me to add that one of... Eden's Gate' vehicles had arrived?"

Faith felt her blood run cold, and after a momentary silence, Nadi asked, "Vicar Faith, out of curiosity... where will you be going?"

Faith swallowed, letting out a calming exhale as she assuredly said, "Nowhere but here Hunter Nadi. I may have to make an errand to the Convent though, but I'll be escorted by your fellow hunters. Inform the Project members that I will not be leaving the Monastery for tonight."

Hunter Nadi accepted the answer with a small "of course ma'am" and Faith heard the woman's footsteps became fainter and fainter.

Faith huffed out in relief, looking herself in the mirror. She was a little red, and a bit hot and bothered. While the interruption was certainly personally undesirable, she was glad Nadi informed her of their now leaving guests.

Pulling the loose laces behind her to tighten the Vicar's garb, she reached for the final piece; the veil, adorned with a crown of flowers and three red gems. She always wondered what significance this Vicar garb held. It wasn't too dissimilar from a bride's dress, but far more intricate and detailed (and time consuming to put on) than the dress Joseph gifted her.

Paul said that it was designed to make her look ethereal to their converts, trustworthy and responsible, someone to seek guidance and find hope in.

Meanwhile Silva's only interest in the Vicar's garb was to get Faith out of it.

Not that I minded it, she thought coyly.

Many nights she spent in the other women's chambers, or they stayed in her own, pursuing a fiery passion after an uneventful service, or mending the Hunter's wounds after a long hunt. Then there were the quiet moments, where the only intimacy either shared was an embrace.

Neither could keep their hands off one another; touch was as important as their words, letting one know the other was still present.

Which was far from what Joseph had wanted her to do. Her role was to hold influence over the Monastery, to lower their guard and slowly introduce the Word. Keep the sinners from temptation until the beasts were eradicated and the Reaping came, and she'd reunite with her brothers at the Compound, and the false shepherds were both dead.

Though once her escorts return to Joseph without her, Faith was certain he'd figure out that she was one who fell for temptation. Especially if he finds out she confessed to Paul about the plan, and aided him in setting up Joseph's arrest.

Not for Paul though. Nor for the hunters and the converts.

Joseph had given her so much; a new name, a purpose, a family, a second chance at living. Once she was a girl who could only find escape through the needle, tip-toeing between the line of life and death. And he transformed her into someone else; someone worth more. Breathing a into her a new life that she didn't think was possible within her. Nurturing her with his word, with guidance.

She let go of Tracey for him, even though she wished her best friend had stayed. She had left Rachel behind for him. She gave him the Bliss and Angels. She gave him her entire being, to mold and shape in his image.

Sure, the family he took her into wasn't perfect; despite their similarities, John resented her for the attention and praise Joseph sung of her, and she wasn't naive to think Jacob cared for her. He's sat through two sisters; really, how important would a third be?

But that hadn't mattered to her at the time; to Faith, Joseph's was all that mattered.

And that was true, for a time. Just like it had been true for Tracey. And she would always be grateful for him, just as she had been for her former friend.

But she couldn't let Silva die. Not after three painful years trying to wake her up.

Here is the OCs become color quiz results for the main four characters of Wings And Horns; Archangel Metatron, Cadet Azriel, Xiang Ba'al and Jezebel Ba'al. Read below:

ARCHANGEL METATRON

By the finale, this is most definitely true for Metatron.

CADET AZRIEL

This quiz must know Azriel's future because damn!

XIANG BA'AL

Not really Xiang's style. He's a good dad but he's also an extremist in many ways.

JEZEBEL BA'AL

Jezebel's been through some tough shit, I don't think pinning all the blame on her is really fair.

[Meet My Character for A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore. Specifically Courier Ryder and Alph Dolen]

And lastly Meet My Character sheets for my Courier Ryder and Alph Dolen from my A Radioactive Calamity Of Love, Bombs & Gore series.

COURIER RYDER (FALLOUT: NEW VEGAS)

Her “Pronouns” are supposed to be:

She/Her

Her "Defining Features" state: Reddish-brown hair, brown eyes, has scars from past fights on her face, one noticeably at the edge of her left brow, wears riot gear with a courier's drip but not the helmet.

ALPH DOLEN THE LONE WANDERER (FALLOUT 3)

His "Defining Features" state:

Ginger, hazel eyes, predominantly wears wasteland survivor gear with Tunnel Snakes Jacket, after being ghoulified his skin starts greying and becomes sunken, starts losing hair.

Blank Template for those who want to use it:

[cleargladiatorchild]

[another-lost-mc]

Alright not a horny ask exactly but...

We know Karasu has his own yandere alphabet. Are there any other OCs that may have yandere tendencies that may warrant a yandere alphabet one day? 🦇👀

They all have potential for dark/sketchy behaviour, but I think Zee and Belial top my list of potential yanderes (aside from Karasu ofc).

Zee: 11/10. He's off the charts compared to the others but that shouldn't be surprising. He has a unique skillset that just happens to be convenient for dubious behaviours like stalking. He has connections within the Devildom to get information he needs and the resources to cover his tracks. He has enough social leverage to shield himself from repercussions while having the ability to fade into the background and avoid drawing attention to himself.

Belial: He has some similarities to Zee, but he's more delusional about his feelings for MC and how he intends to show his devotion to them. He's wealthy, well-established within the Devildom nobility and has the resources and connections to get away with more than any demon should. Compared to starting a little war or two with the Celestial Realm, how difficult would it be to lure one little human into the gilded cage he's prepared for them?

Azra: He can be emotional and impulsive so there's more risk involved for him. If he were to turn down that path, chances are it would be in cooperation with Zee (either as a willing helper/strategist, or as an equal participant in his relationship with MC after).

Tenebris: Not very likely, although the idea of him competing against a yandere-ish Solomon has merits. I could also see yandere!Diavolo pursuing MC and then offering to share them with his older brother who may or may not have helped him along the way.

Meta: I can see him being obsessive and even a bit delusional, but I think very deranged thoughts about wanting MC is as far as he goes. A possible exception to this is him being invited to join in another yandere!angel's intentions for MC (Michael), or if he had help from someone working in the background to make his delusional fantasies involving MC real (Seraphiel).

[applebees4prez]

supernatural fans watching the last episode of good omens 2… none of us trust that fucking bitch

[sparkly-key]

To fall for you, to cling to you

"What's it like?" Aziraphale asked one day in 2014, when he and Crowley were plastered beyond belief. "Falling, that is." And because the demon trusted him and was maybe feeling especially vulnerable after the alcohol, Crowley told him.

Content warnings: Memory loss, depictions of serious injury, burns, falling, BAMF Crowley, Demon Aziraphale, Dramatic AF Aziraphale, imprisonment

Written for Whumptober 2023 - Day 30 – “It’s OK just to say ‘I’m not OK’” | Borrowed clothes | Bridal carry | “Not much longer …” Yes, October is over, but the whump remains.

On AO3

Soho, 2014

"What’s it like?” Aziraphale asked, the timbre of his words strange as he spoke them into the bowl of a wine glass – both muffled and reverberating.

“Watsss wat like?” Crowley slurred after he swallowed a mouthful of burgundy nectar. Angel was too drunk to admonish him for not properly tasting the rich, dry notes or savoring the full bouquet but that was the difference between their imbibing. Aziraphale liked the flavor, the complexity of the wine – And Crowley just liked getting drunk.

He leaned forward, seemingly spineless as his chest pressed his knees and he fumbled through the empty bottles littering the coffee table until he found a vessel with wine still in it. He hissed triumphantly and filled his glass to the brim.

“Falling.” Aziraphale spoke the word with such hesitation, such fear that Crowley lifted his gaze to the angel’s face. The blond stared down into his glass, his face flushed from the apples of his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

Normally, Crowley might snap and hiss at the coercion, unwilling to delve into his trauma for mere curiosity. But his head was buzzing with wine, and his tongue was loosened – this was Aziraphale, not some angel or demon seeking to open old wounds. Maybe because he was shitfaced, his brain fuzzy and his body lax. Maybe it was because of the amount of time they were spending together as Warlock’s godfathers, but if there was one being he might be inclined to trust ...

He took another gulp of the wine and slouched back against the divan, his red locks falling away from his face as he stared up at the ceiling.

“’Ts like drowning,” he muttered.

The pair of them had bumped into each other on plenty of ships, when Crowley was a pirate and Aziraphale was an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy; when Crowley had stood on the walls of Troy and spied the angel’s brilliant white toga and shining (invisible to mortals) wings on the bow of Greek ship.

“’Cept, ‘stead of water, it’s fire you’re drowning in,” he added, closing his eyes.

They knew what it was like to drown, even if their bodies didn’t comprehend the finality of it.

To this day, Crowley still felt it. Remembered screaming for mercy as Her power burned his tongue and incinerated his Grace from every atom of his soul, scorching him from the inside out. His wings curled around him, embers blackening the feathers down to the quick. His ribs cracked and crumbled with the weight of Her rejection, propelling him further from Her Glory. His eyes burned, Heaven’s light fading to first a pinprick and then nothing, as he plunged into the sulfur pit. Hellfire engulfed him, burning and rotting away at his flesh.

He bolted upright, his jaw clenched to keep from screaming.

Aziraphale was at his side in an instant, hands outstretched to – hold him down? No, Aziraphale would never – heal the bones he was certain had once again split? No no no no n-

Crowley twisted away from the angel, throwing himself off the divan in his desperation to put some distance between them.

“My dear, I-I'm sorry – ” Aziraphale stammered, recoiling. He wrung his hands as the demon scrambled to his feet. “Wait, please- Crowley -”

Crowley waved him off and fled the bookshop, climbing into the Bentley outside. The doors locked behind him, muffling the outside world as Crowley rested his head against the steering wheel and screamed, fury and pain pouring into every decibel. The car quaked as a bolt of lightning struck it, making pedestrians cast worried glances at it as they gave the smoking vehicle a wide berth.

The demon howled until he was hoarse, his throat raw and his chest heaving as he gulped in air. His face contorted as he sobered up, ridding his body of the poison that had convinced him to be vulnerable, and he gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

WIth a ragged breath, he lifted his head and met Aziraphale’s eyes as the angel watched from the bookshop.

Hissing, Crowley slammed his foot on the gas and sped away from the shop.

Heaven, 2019

Crowley snarled as his knees hit the ground, one of the angel’s hands firmly on his shoulder. His other guard had the tip of his spear at the demon’s back, the miniscule prick he felt when he fidgeted a subtle reminder of its proximity.

He looked up, his golden eyes climbing tiers of angels circling him in the rotunda, and his skin crawled with familiar terror. (The shackles around his wrists and ankles dropping away from him a second before the clouds parted beneath him, plunging him to the Earth.) His head pounded and his mouth felt dry as his heart slammed against his chest.

Where was Aziraphale?

He shifted slightly, ignoring the guard’s threatening jab, and lowered his gaze to focus on the manacles. They were heavy around his wrists, but they didn’t burn or scar like iron would and he could feel their confines on his powers, quelling them.

There was a quiet thunder as the entire Heavenly Host assembled rose to their feet, their attention drawn to the figures entering the room in their pristine white suits – Gabriel and the Metatron.

The pair stepped onto the dais and flanked the ornate gold throne in the center. Crowley’s lips curled at its emptiness.

“Look, I-I-I’m quite sure if I can just … just reach the right people, that I can get this sorted out,” Aziraphale stammered, his eyes wide and pleading for Crowley to …

To do what? Understand? Give him a chance?

How had he not figured it out yet?

Crowley stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “There aren’t any right people,” he bit out, “there’s just God, moving in mysterious ways – and not TALKING to ANY of us!”

“Well, yes, that is why I am going to have a word with the Almighty and then the Almighty will fix this,” the angel tittered, wiggling his fingers out of nervousness. He gave a little nod, as if he’d gotten it all figured out.

But he hadn’t. Because God had turned Her back on Earth centuries ago.

“Zachabiel, Bazariel, bring the prisoner forward,” Gabriel commanded.

 Crowley snarled as the angels grabbed his arms, dragging him to the base of the dais.

“Demon Crowley, you have been charged with and found guilty of interfering with the Great Plan and thwarting the Almighty,” the Supreme Archangel declared, his voice filling the rotunda. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Crowley spat. “You have no right –“

Gabriel held up a wrinkled piece of paper, Beelzebub’s signature angrily burning on the document. “Arrangements have been made.”

“Hell will receive its pound of flesh,” the Metatron announced with a nod of finality. “It takes a truly terrible crime for us to collaborate with the Opposition, but God’s Will must be obeyed.”

“That’s rich,” the demon snorted, rolling his eyes.

Gabriel pressed his lips together, his mouth disappearing into a thin line. His violet eyes flared in anger.

“For your crimes, you have been sentenced to an eternity in prison,” the brunet intoned, nodding to the angels trapping him.

Crowley threw back his head and cackled, the raucous laugh echoing. “You – you think whatever punishment you can deal out will be worse than what I have suffered at Hell’s hand?” the redhead howled, collapsing against the guard. His belly hurt from laughter.

“Enough!” The Metatron snapped, waving his hand.

The demon gagged on the cloth that filled his mouth, silencing him as his captors dragged him to the side of the dais. They forced him to knees, his body bent so his forehead nearly pressed against the cool marble floor, and crossed their spears over his neck, trapping him.

The great golden doors creaked as they opened. The angelic audiences erupted in whispers and conversation, the noise filling the chamber. Crowley craned his neck as far as he could to see the newcomers.

Aziraphale was dressed in barely light gray robes, like those worn before Eden, flanked by two angels in golden armor.

“Crowley!” he gasped, his gait faltering. The chain threaded between his wrists and ankles pulled taut as he reached out for the demon.

“Mmph!” the demon shouted, struggling. The spears wrenched lower, the wooden shafts biting into his neck.

“Move,” one of Aziraphale’s guards ordered, shoving him closer to the dais.

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel declared, his voice booming to be heard over the cacophony of voices.

The angelic chorus died down, until only a few whispers remained.

“You have been charged with and found guilty of interfering with the Great Plan and thwarting the Almighty,” the Supreme Archangel continued. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Crowley watched Aziraphale square his shoulders, his chin lifted in defiance.

“Only that it truly is Ineffable,” the Guardian of the Eastern Gate declared, “that you would pass judgement on me when the Almighty Herself has not –“

“I am the Metatron, to speak to me is to speak to God,” the silver-haired angel retorted sharply. “The Almighty –“

 “As the Almighty spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai, ‘thou shall have no gods before me,’” Aziraphale interrupted loudly before giving a thin, chilling smile.

His words fanned the few whispered words into a chorus of shouts and gasps as the angels protested vehemently, damning him.

A chill ran down Crowley’s spine as the pieces fell into place.

Hell would get its pound of flesh.

On the air strip in Tadfield, Aziraphale had uttered the first hint that he had understood Crowley. God wasn’t talking to anyone, the demon had said, and when the angel brought up the Ineffable Plan, Crowley had thought he was grasping at straws, offering any excuse to avert another war.

No. It had been Aziraphale conceding.

Nobody knew what the fuck the Almighty wanted because She had shut herself away from Earth, Heaven and Hell altogether.

“SILENCE!” the Metatron shouted, all of Heaven shaking from the weight of his command. “For your crimes, Aziraphale, you will be cast out of Heaven, to join those who have questioned Her and Her Plan. I sentence you to eternal Damnation.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to him as the demon screamed, trying to twist his body and free himself from his captors. The angel’s smile softened, almost apologetic.

That bastard.

He knew before he had entered the chamber what his fate would be.

Crowley felt it first, the air crackling before the ground split in front of Aziraphale, his feet sliding toward the abyss. He could feel Hell’s power surging as it reached for its latest soldier and Crowley desperately grabbed hold of it, shattering his shackles and knocking his guards back.

“Aziraphale!” he shouted, his gag disappearing but his mouth dry as the desert that surrounded them.

He and Aziraphale were standing on the Wall of Eden, the angel falling backward off the parapet.

Crowley lunged forward, seizing Aziraphale’s hand in both of his own. His feet scraped against stone as Hell pulled, slowly dragging the Falling angel down.

“Wha-“ Aziraphale grasped. His other hand closed over Crowley’s, his grip strong enough to break a normal being’s bones.

His face twisted in agony as his Grace began to wither and burn.

“You can’t … have him, you bastards!” Crowley snarled. His onyx wings unfurled behind him and he beat them furiously against the pull, the gusts whipping through their clothes and hair. His head pounded and his body screamed with effort. Sweat started to bead on his brow, his power draining rapidly. “I won’t LET you!”

His body burned in a way it hadn’t for millennia as he warred against Hell and Heaven’s Might to keep his Angel from falling. He was pulling from his reserves, the effort eating away at his core.

“Crowley … let me … go,” Aziraphale ground out. Centuries of pain was etched into his soft face and his beautiful blue eyes were filled with tears. His hand was still clenched around Crowley’s, his nails digging into the demon’s flesh.

“Never,” Crowley vowed, even as his knees struck the battlement. His grip faltered and he pitched forward slightly as Aziraphale sank further. He felt an odd sort of cold seep into his bones. “You don’t – you shouldn’t be – you don’t deserve this, angel.”

He could feel his strength flagging. Cold sweat drenched his hair and clothes and his breath was escaping in short, labored gasps as his power drained.

Aziraphale choked, his body starting to burn in the demon’s grasp. Or was Crowley freezing from the inside out.

“I … I … can’t … lose you,” Crowley insisted.

In spite of the pain, Aziraphale’s face softened for a second. “Dearest ...”

Crowley, his hands slick with sweat, watched as Aziraphale’s hands slipped from his.

All of Heaven - the multitude of angels standing with their fists raised in condemnation and mouths gaping in shock, Aziraphale’s and his guards stepping back, as if they too would fall into the crevice, Gabriel and Metatron watching in cold smugness – snapped back to motion as Crowley and Aziraphale Fell.

Aziraphale’s tortured shrieks shattered Crowley’s eardrums as they plunged, the wind roaring around them. The demon’s throat was raw from his own screams. No matter how fast the demon rocketed downward, Aziraphale fell faster, just out of Crowley’s reach.

Aziraphale’s pearly white wings burned, embers eating away at the vane and after feather to the shaft. Obsidian flooded his eyes, overtaking the heavenly blue that had once colored his Iris.

His black gaze met Crowley’s, but there was no recognition in them, only pain as the pair plummeted through the atmosphere, down through the rocky layers of the Earth’s surface.

With snarl, Crowley pushed himself further, hands outstretched until they closed around Aziraphale’s. He hissed in pain as his angel’s fingers – nails sharpened into talons – sank into his flesh. He pulled the blond against him, clinging to the writhing form.

Aziraphale screeched as they plunged into the Sulphur pit, the molten liquid filling their lungs. Where Crowley only felt warmth, the lava burned at his angel’s flesh and soul, eating away at the last of his Grace. His thrashing sent them deeper into the pit.

When Aziraphale went limp in his grasp, Crowley dragged their bodies to the surface. It was slow progress, his angel threatening to slip from his grasp at every stroke. He struggled against gravity until his feet found purchase at the edge of the pit.

With a grunt, he shifted Aziraphale’s form until he was cradled against Crowley’s chest, his arms wrapped around the redhead’s neck. His robe was pitch black, matching Crowley’s clothes, as it dragged through the lava.

He staggered out of the pit and deposited his angel on the rocks. Exhausted, he curled protectively around the tortured frame. His chest heaved with each breath he took, but it matched the rhythm of Aziraphale’s shallow gasps and there was an odd sort of comfort.

Hours passed before the sound of somebody approaching forced him upright, his teeth barred threateningly as he shielded Aziraphale’s body.

“Hello Crowley,” Beelzebub greeted as zi perched on top of an outcropping of rocks close enough to confer but still at a distance. “I wazn’t expecting you.”

The snake hadn’t returned to Hell since Aziraphale and his scheme and the Prince regarded him with even more distrust than usual. Zi didn’t know how to deal with Crowley so zi had bartered him away to Heaven.

Crowley didn’t bother to bow. “Either fuck off or I’ll rip your liver out through your throat,” he hissed as he glared at zir.

Beelzebub’s lip twitched.

“My lord,” the snake tacked on mockingly.

“Can’t I welcome Satan’s newez subject?” Zi asked. Zi rested zir elbow on zir knee, the picture of ease. But Crowley could smell zir trepidation. “After all, I gave up one of my best operativezzz to get zem.”

“You can’t have him,” Crowley snarled, rising to his feet. The few hours of respite had done wonders for his strength, but there was still a quiver in his legs as he straightened. “And you didn’t give me up, I retired – Not on your side anymore, am I? Even before you sold me out to those fuckers.”

 “Which still makes you a traitor, Crowley. And currently a weak one.” Beelzebub gave a sharp smile. “Course, I don’t have to be the ones to dirty my hands with you. Zere’s plenty of demonzzz and angelzz who’d like to put you in your place … unless there’s a reason I shouldn’t turn you over to Heaven?”

Crowley’s lips curled and he barred his teeth further, his fists clenched. “I’ll owe you,” he answered, his jaw set. “You let me go and I’ll owe you a favor.”

“And what about him?” Zi jerked zir head toward his angel.

He followed zir gaze, taking in Aziraphale’s prone form. He was still raw from the pit, but there were patches of flesh pink from healing and the start of new growth on his wings.

Crowley was always one for a gamble. Playing the odds was interesting, a way to amuse himself. But he didn’t usually include Aziraphale in his risks.

“I’ll owe you two,” he spat.

“Handy, that,” the Prince mused. Zi seemed to mull it over. “Fine, Crowley, I won’t turn you in, but I won’t stop the demons from looking for you either – that’s as far as I’ll go.”

The redhead struggled not to let his shoulders sag in relief. “What about if Heaven asks?” he pressed.

“Not my fault those winged wankerzz can’t do zeir bloody jobzzz,” Beelzebub replied as zi stood. Zi adjusted the fly on zir head, its multitude of ruby eyes fied on Crowley. “I’d get a move on, Crowley.”

Zi ambled off.

With a curse, Crowley gathered Aziraphale in his arms. His angel whimpered as the demon’s grip brushed against burns and he stiffened against Crowley.

Aziraphale’s still-pearly curls tickled his nose every time he inhaled, filling Crowley’s nostrils with a scent that smelled like nothing, nothing like the cologne the bookkeep preferred.

“I’ll keep you safe, angel,” he promised fervently as he staggered toward the caves nearby. It was a place they could hide while Aziraphale recuperated. Occasionally, he stumbled, falling to his knees as he fought to keep pressed against him. He could feel the blood on his shin and calves, the flesh broken.

With a groan, he laid his angel in the recess of a cavern. Aziraphale’s breathing had evened out, no longer sounding like a death rattle with every exhalation.

Crowley brushed Aziraphale’s locks away from his face, noting the way the white strands had become mottled with gray at the end of the shafts. It was still soft and silky, curling every which way.

Stifling a yawn, the redhead shifted his touch to Aziraphale’s wings. He plucked the burnt feathers carefully, cringing each time a tiny mew escaped his angel’s lips and muttering hushed apologies. The feathers regrew slowly, their coloration mimicking the blond’s hair.

The hours – days passed with intolerable sloth, the minutes filled with Aziraphale’s hushed noises of pain and cries as he healed.

“N-n-no,” the blond cried, curling up on the cave floor as his knees pressed against his chest. “Please … please don’t –“

“Shhhhh,” Crowley soothed, curling around the angel, his arms wrapped around his chest. He’s refused to wince as Aziraphale’s talons claws raked his arms, tearing up strips of flesh.

“Not much longer,” Crowley observed days later, watching as the violent red and black burns decorating Aziraphale’s body metamorphosed into creamy flesh. It was soft under his touch, almost too giving for a demon. But it wasn’t as if his angels was typical, even before his Fall.

The redhead’s fingers trailed over the mark decorating his angel’s neck, following the whirls and swoops of the owl’s form as the bird lifted its wings behind him. The black design flowed behind his ear, into his hair.

“It’s alright,” he soothed as his angel whimpered. Hesitantly, he thought of all the times he’d woken in the aftermath of horrible nightmares and the gentle touches he’d wished for from his angel. How he’d wished for Aziraphale’s warm embrace around him or for those soft hands to caress his cheek.

Trembling, Crowley bent his head to Aziraphale’s and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

Aziraphale – shit, he was going to have to get used to a new name, once his angel chose it – woke with a start as Crowley’s lips left his forehead and he screeched, scrambling away from the demon. His black eyes blinked owlishly at Crowley, his gaze intent.

“Who are you?! Where am I?” he stammered, his back pressed against the cave wall.

Crowley’s heart dropped, recalling for the first time, the empty house of memories that plagued the Fallen.

[kaesaaurelia]

indulgence and restraint

For @whumptober day 22, using the lyric prompt, "They never saw us coming, 'til they hit the floor."

Continued from Day 6, wherein something is puppeting Aziraphale, and Crowley is being tortured, Day 9, wherein Crowley had come to the conclusion that no, that is almost certainly not Aziraphale, Day 11, wherein Crowley explained to not-Aziraphale why he was not Aziraphale, and unfortunately gave not-Aziraphale some ideas, and Day 18, wherein not-Aziraphale acted on those ideas.

Content warning for rape and violence.

Aziraphale could see and hear and feel and, good lord, taste everything that was happening to this body, even though he couldn't control any of it, and it was maddening. Was this just an excuse? Was he using Heaven's wrath as an excuse to allow himself to --

No. Even though he'd wanted --

Crowley moaned, and Aziraphale felt himself swallow around Crowley's cock again. He had thought about this far too much, and it had been a stupid workaround to begin with, but once he'd got it in his head...

At first, of course, he had only looked at Crawly with a strange and indescribable feeling in his gut, and thought, Well, of course a demon would be aesthetically pleasing, and stared at the demon's lovely hair and beautiful eyes and long legs without guilt, but eventually he'd realized what he wanted was all too human, all too carnal, and by then he had already tasted food, and he knew he could not moderate himself, only deny himself.

Except that he couldn't do that either. Oh, he could if he had Heavenly obligations, but left to his own devices, he was too curious, and too hedonistic. He indulged. He explored. He looked at the demon too much, and he carried those memories back to the privacy of his bedroom, and...

Well. There had been a lot of justifications in his fantasies. It wasn't his fault, because he was being taken against his own will, sometimes. Once he contemplated the idea that perhaps demons needed it, sometimes, biologically, and it wasn't lust if he was saving Crowley's life. There had been a lot of imaginary scenarios Aziraphale had come up with, wherein the only decent, sensible, kind thing to do just happened to involve sex with Crowley, which he of course did not want but no one could have possibly faulted him for having it.

One he'd returned to an embarrassing amount of times was Crowley coming to him in a panic because he needed to have some absurd amount of orgasms by the end of the day because Hell had instituted some sort of sin quota and he'd got all the other ones on the checklist, but lust! He'd forgot lust! And there was no one else he could possibly turn to! Aziraphale liked to imagine him midway through the day, eyes fully yellow, utterly lost in the pleasure of Orgasm #73 or so while Aziraphale ate him out without stopping, or near the end of the process, where Aziraphale would become too exhausted to continue, and would heroically offer up any and all convenient orifices of his to be fucked, so that Crowley could avoid whatever dire paperwork surely awaited any demon who only came 149 times.

Every now and then the argument of selflessly giving another pleasure had almost got him into trouble; he had made some rather blatant offers to Crowley here and there, but Crowley had been far too much of a gentleman (gentlebeing? Gentledemon?) to take him up on it.

And now here he was finally sucking Crowley's cock and neither he nor Crowley were really enjoying it. Above him, Crowley was whimpering, and Aziraphale felt awful for having brought this upon the both of them. He couldn't help his weak will and strong desires, but he could at least have finished executing his plan to avert the second Apocalypse before being found out.

He tried once more to seize control of his body, and it seemed at first that he was making some progress, but then everything snapped back into place; the invading force retained its power, and Aziraphale could do nothing but feel all that had occurred.

Still, that almost-nudge might be something, he thought, desperately. Perhaps if he could distract the other mind he could seize control.

It was fairly distracted right now, actually. Aziraphale could feel the question, still, of Where is he? Where did you put him? hanging in the air, and he wondered if Crowley would resent him for choosing Earth's preservation over sparing him this particular form of torture.

But also he could feel the heaviness of Crowley's cock on his tongue and he could feel his body reacting to that, to millennia of thinking about it and centuries of very careful experimentation with interested humans -- only when Aziraphale knew he had something else he would have to attend to within twenty-four hours, because the poor humans couldn't give Aziraphale all that he knew he'd want.

How many times had it been now? Five or six? Aziraphale had usually started to give in and touch himself by now, and skip forward in the fantasy, but this wasn't a fantasy, and the thing in his body had bragged about having restraint. Still, he leaned into the pleasure of it, the feeling of his own dick straining against his trousers, and thinking about how much more he would enjoy this if Crowley's little vocalizations were of pleasure, not pain. The desire itself was his, after all; perhaps he could still influence which way this body wanted to go, even if he couldn't direct it.

He felt himself moaning around Crowley's cock again, and his hips jerked a bit, uselessly. And... yes... one hand making its way slowly, first to rub his cock through his clothing, and then unbuttoning his trousers... Aziraphale almost forgot that he wasn't in control when he began to stroke himself, because the combination of the sensation and the true-but-not-quite-right sensation that he was being jacked off by a hand he was not controlling had him trying to react just as his body did.

The pleasure was overwhelming. Aziraphale couldn't allow himself to be overwhelmed, but he also couldn't back off from wanting this or he'd never wrest back control of himself. So he let the pleasure wash over him and tried to cling to the important thing as he waited for the right moment. Which would be very... very soon.

The wave of strong pleasure began and Aziraphale braced himself for the opportune moment. Then he pushed, and suddenly the other mind was flailing around and Aziraphale was in control, only also Aziraphale was sticky and his jaw hurt and he was in a very uncomfortable position on his knees on the cold, hard floor. He pulled Crowley's cock out of his mouth with an obscene spill of semen and spit down his mouth, and a groan from Crowley, who was still hard, poor thing -- and then -- oh no, he was going to lose control again -- no time for dignity.

He scrabbled to his feet and looked at Crowley desperately, wishing he could grab Crowley's hand, only several of his fingers had been broken and -- and -- no, no time for this.

"Crowley, I'm so sorry, look, do you remember -- argh, leave me alone -- do you remember when we hid Gabriel, and we were trying to be very subtle?"

"Aziraphale?" Crowley's eyes were yellow and dazed.

"Yes, yes, it's me, but do you remember?" Aziraphale demanded.

"'Coursssse I do," said Crowley.

"Well. On my signal, we're going to do that again, but don't -- don't aim it at anything, just, give me the power. And don't bother with subtlety."

"On your sssignal?" Crowley asked.

"You'll know," said Aziraphale, trying to wipe his face off as he tried to stay in control of his own body. He was losing his feet, he could tell, and his lips were as clean as he could make them, probably, and well -- no time for dignity, minimal harm to Crowley -- Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him.

Crowley's miracle came roaring through -- not a teensy half-miracle, but a full-fledged infernal influence. Aziraphale added his own to the mix and felt the power of the miracle become nigh-uncontrollable. He was able to seize just enough of it to expel the foreign force from his body and then some, and he was blessedly free of it now, from the top of his head to his toes.

The rest of the miracle went everywhere. Crowley's shackles shattered and he fell to the ground with a yelp. The pristine tile floor of Heaven cracked around Aziraphale and shattered into dust. Alarms blared.

Aziraphale cleaned himself and Crowley up with some of the excess miraculous power echoing through the interrogation room. He turned around and saw the Metatron lying dazed on the floor.

"How dare you," he said, approaching the so-called Voice of God, who was trying to scramble to his feet. Aziraphale manifested a sword -- not a flaming metal sword, but a sword made entirely of flame -- and advanced on the Metatron, the wild energies of his and Crowley's combined miracle echoing around him.

[drfrankensteinvsthequeerborgs]

remember that time Metatron called Cas a nancy? like, the other characters were always homophobic to him but it hits differently now knowing that he is in fact canonically queer, it's deliberate

[the-meta-tron]

"Balderdash. I mean complete and utter piffle."

Thought control - use loaded language/buzzwords to stop complex thoughts.

Thought control - reject rational analysis, critical reasoning, and doubt.

Thought control - forbid critical questions about leadership, doctrines, or policies.

"This is libel. Expect a lawsuit in your future."

Information control - Deception, distortion, or deliberately withholding information.

Behavior control - Threaten harm.

The BITE Model of Authoritarian Control

How to Rescue a Loved One from a Cult or Controlling Relationship

Combating Cult Mind Control

Heaven Is A Cult

Not that any of us are surprised.

Source: The BITE Model of Authoritarian Control

[raz-writes-the-thing]

perhaps a lil crowley x reader req?

inspired by strange love by halsey?

as a treat?

not me going into this song for the first time (never heard it before) expecting something super melancholy. anyway! here you go, cutie!

Requests are: OPEN

No Pity for the Wicked (18+ ONLY)

Masterlist

Crowley x GN!Reader

No use of Y/N or pronouns (They/Them used only)

CW: angst, angry fucking, hair pulling, Crowley ignoring his feelings (canon honestly)

It's been six months since he left. Crowley's Angel. His best friend. His other half. It's been six months since he's heard a Goddamn peep.

And yes, he doesn't care so much anymore about blaspheming against the name of God. He was always so careful about it around his Angel.

Now? His Angel is gone. His Angel isn't there to care what he says.

Gone to follow along with the Metatron's plan all the way to his and everyone else's destruction, no doubt. How could Aziraphale not see that? How could Aziraphale not see past the surface to the rot underneath? And they called Hell ruthless.

Nevertheless, the last six months had been Heaven on Earth for Crowley. His only Hellish piece of reprieve was his favourite pet. His mortal. They'd all been friends before Aziraphale left.

Well, this moral had accompanied him and his Angel around despite their warnings against it. A Demon and an Angel could be discorporated and come back, but a mortal? Well, one little mistake and they were gone for good.

This little human. This pet had stuck extra close to Crowley since Aziraphale had left. Crowley hated to see the pity and concern painting their face when he was having a particularly awful, nice day. Not that any of them were all that... Hellish any more.

But it was the pity that really irritated Crowley- a Demon already prone to frustration and mild to moderate anger issues, mind you. And if this human- asked him one- more- time, if he was okay; he was going to lose it.

Of course, as humans were always going to (a flaw in the design if you asked Crowley)- this particular mortal would push, and push, and push until Crowley's metaphorical buttons were all but snapped in half. And Crowley had had enough.

And that's how Crowley found himself balls deep inside his pitying little mortal, doing his damndest to convince them that, actually, no. Crowley did not need their pity.

Crowley snarled above them, pulling at their hair, yanking their head back away from the Bentley's door. His mortal's breath fanned across the windows, streaking the glass with damning evidence of the acts being carried out within.

"I- am a Demon," he snarls, teeth flashing dangerously by the mortal's ear. "I am not to be pitied." This is emphasised with a hard thrust from behind, causing the mortal to yelp, hand slapping up against the fogged glass to keep themselves steady.

Crowley lets out a deranged throaty chuckle, hand coming down to grip harshly at his pet's hip.

"I've lived eons on this pathetic excuse for a planet. This Earth-" The hand wraps harder around the mortals' hair. The hand on the glass slips, smearing through the fog marks. It's a wonder they can hear Crowley over the sounds of their own whimpers and moans. "This breeding ground for sin. I have seen eons of pain, and I'll see eons more!"

Crowley's head tips back, baring his throat's apple. A little lock of hair falls over his forehead- the only indication that he was at all affected by the pleasure of his hips snapping forward into the tight heat before him.

His mortal whines out Crowley's name, lost in the haze of being fucked by a Demon. Crowley had had thousands of years to learn how to fuck the way Humans liked it. More than enough time, clearly, given the fact they'd already come twice and another was well on the way.

Of course, the mortal knew deep down that this was not a convincing way for him to show them that Crowley was okay. That was obvious to anyone with half a brain cell, but this didn't mean they were going to argue- what with Crowley's decidedly not entirely human-feeling dick buried inside them.

"Fuck- Crowley-" They whined, eyes squeezing shut.

"No," Crowley hisses, twisting their hair so the mortal could just see him over their shoulder. They couldn't see his eyes though, sunglasses still hiding those from them. A coping mechanism, they suspected. "Look at me, pet. Look at me when you cum."

The mortal whines, hand reaching back to brush Crowley's hip in warning. They were sure the human body wasn't quite meant to be this flexible, but Crowley didn't care. He needed this, whether he knew it or not.

Crowley's thrusts increase with urgency, both for himself and his mortal. They're both close, and they know it. Crowley lets go of his pet's hair, allowing their head to flop forward and their cheek to press against the Bentley's leather backseat.

With his other hand free, Crowley is able to grip both sides of their hips and pull them back against him, thrusting hard and fast to reach that blissful peak where he might be able to forget. Just for a moment.

His mortal finishes with a cry, fingers grappling with the leather as they try to work their way through the assault. Crowley fucks them through their orgasm, prolonging the pleasure they're feeling without mercy.

It takes only a few more thrusts before he finishes too, coating their insides with ropes of his cum, an almost-roar ripping its way through his throat. The pleasure hazes his brain for a minute or two, courses of pleasure wrapping around his nerves.

Slowly, he pulls out, watching the way his mess starts to drip out of his mortal. He chuckles breathily and waves a hand to miracle away the mess. He's kept the Bentley in such pristine condition all these years. He's not going to let it go now.

"I- do not- need your pity," he pants, pointing an accusatory finger at his mortal who promptly nods and collapses against him, snuggling up close. They know it's not true. They know he needs them right now.

They're happy to wait as long as it takes though.

Crowley's worth it.

[naegleria-nfowleri]

Back to High Pollen Count event with another collab, this time with @mikaaccidentaldemon!

I was so excited, and had so much fun working with them again 💙💙💙

If you like this fic, please consider checking out Mika's AO3 and their Twitter!

Somewhere Between Love and Abuse (E, 9588 words)

TW/CW: Dubcon because of pollen.

(Fic contains 3 pieces of NSFW art)

"You have to know how much this pains me, Aziraphale. I had such high hopes for you! I thought you would rise to the occasion, once I removed you from earth and its temptations, not to mention that demon’s harmful influence. I am severely disappointed. But it doesn't matter. It’s already done. What do you think was in the tea you just drank?" ------------- The Metatron decides it's time for some drastic measures.

[demonsandpieohmy]

Snatched 3: Weekend at Crowley’s

Final chapter of Snatched is up! Thanks to @kneelbeforeyourdogbabylon for the beta and general support 😊

Aziraphale and Crowley are on the run with the Son of God in tow, trying to avert the Second Coming, but they run into a spot of trouble when they get Jesus discorporated. Luckily help is on the way, because as it turns out, body snatching? It runs in the family. The thrilling conclusion to the Snatched Saga.

8k words, rated M

TW/CWs: blood, dead bodies (no one actually dies they just get inconveniently discorporated), transphobia (very brief and justice is swiftly dealt), references to Sharknado

Read on AO3

———

“That was such a fun time,” Jesus said. “Crowley really is a great guide.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve heard some of the stories.”

“Did he tell you about the time in Sweden when we got laid?” Jesus said.

Crowley spat out his coffee all over the steering wheel.

“No, no, we didn’t–” he sputtered. Aziraphale was looking at him with absolute horror.

“Yes we did, we laid together under the stars.”

“Jesus, that’s not the phrase,” Crowley said quickly. “Your translation from Aramaic isn’t quite–”

“When we slept together?” Jesus amended.

“So much worse, dear Satan, I think you mean when we slept adjacent but separately, respectable distance apart, to watch the northern lights, and do absolutely nothing else.”

Aziraphale was glaring daggers at him.

Things had been weird between the two of them since they reunited. Neither of them were good at talking about their feelings, and they’d been so busy running around trying to figure out what The Metatron was up to that they’d barely had time to do anything more than have marathon sex in the Bentley. And now here they were, on babysitting duty for the Son of God.

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@goodomensafterdark

[yellingmetatron]

Expanding on this in a way that makes Metatron's life even harder and more unpleasant, because I love him:

I am going to invoke the concept of a finite multiverse, or at least a "smaller" infinity, by which I mean: Not everything that could happen does happen. Some choices people make prune, as it were, potential branches in spacetime. Some things which are possible simply do not come to be.

The problem is, Metatron can see them anyway. And while normally it's very obvious to him which alternate realities are objectively real, seeing rejected timelines can still be disconcerting or even traumatic. Normally he can "keep custody of his eyes", but if he's super stressed and tired? Or just unlucky? He catches glimpses, or more than glimpses, of Things Which Are Not. At best, it leaves him even more confused. At worst... well. Sometimes branches are cut off for a reason.

When Metatron is really exhausted-- rare, but it happens-- sometimes he shows symptoms that could be mistaken for dementia. What's happening is that he's too tired or stressed to focus clearly on one instance of spacetime. There's a Terry Pratchett character I can use to illustrate this:

Old Mother Dismass was temporarily unfocused. This meant that if you spoke to her in August she was probably listening to you in March. It was best just to say something now and hope she’d pick it up next time her mind was passing through.

Note that this could refer to either next or last March. Metatron has the added difficultly that he perceives more than one timeline-- he might refer to events that took place, are taking place, or will take place in a totally different reality. He will always know who it is he's speaking with, but might not be able to align their correct iteration with his perception.

In the same way that certain people who don't like to admit they're hard of hearing kind of fake understanding what's been said to them, Metatron tends to fake knowing which reality he's interacting with. It's easier to fake if you're known to be angry all the time for no apparent reason.

That said, if somebody understands what's happening, he does appreciate being reminded where and when he's engaging someone.

[sparkly-key]

A small kindness

Aziraphale returns to Earth after weeks in Heaven, covertly slipping messages to Crowley about the Second Coming so they can figure out a way to thwart it. He should have known better than to think he could keep secrets in Heaven.

Whumptober 2023 Day 9 - "Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days" | Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | "You're a liar"

The panels of lights passed over Aziraphale’s body as he ascended into Heaven, his mouth a thin line.

This wasn’t tickety-boo. Not good at all. In fact, it was looking rather disastrous.

---

“Muriel?” he called as he stepped over the bookshop threshold, the bell cheerfully tinkling above him. “Are you here?”

His favorite scrivener popped their head out from around the corner of a bookcase.

“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale! Hello!” they greeted, tossing something to the ground.

Aziraphale fought hard not to wince at the noise of books clattering to the floor. “My dear, I told you the title isn’t necessary.”

“Oh. Sorry.” A crease appeared between their brow for a second before Muriel’s smile bloomed. “It’s just confusing. You telling me not to call you that. And The Metatron telling me I have to.”

The Archangel’s smile faltered. “The Metatron was here?”

“Oh yes,” Muriel informed him. “Just last week.”

“I see,” Aziraphale murmured, his mind racing. “Muriel, do you know where Crowley is?”

“Oh, I haven’t seen him since last week.” They picked up a full cup of tea and held it out to him. “Since just before the Metatron asked me where he was. I told him he was at the duck pond this time of day usually. Cuppertea?”

“N-no, I’m sorry, I don’t have time,” he apologized, fidgeting with his bowtie. “I’ll be back shortly, my dear.”

“Oh. Would you like me to wait for you? Ms. Sandwich said young women – that’s me. I’m a young woman here, apparently! – should always have somebody waiting for them at home and since this was your home, I thought it might be good to have somebody like myself waiting for you.”

Aziraphale smiled kindly at the scrivener. “Thank you, Muriel, but there’s no need.”

His throat closed up for a second. “And you should really think of the shop as your home as well. You’re doing a good job with it.”

The nearly blinding smile directed at him buoyed his spirits significantly.

---

The elevator dinged pleasantly as the doors parted and Aziraphale left the metal box, striding briskly toward the Metatron’s office.

“What did you do,” the Supreme Archangel snapped, planting his face on either side of the impressive oat desk and leaning toward the Voice of God on Earth.

“I merely thought our plans would be more effective this way,” the Metatron explained, reclining slightly in his office chair. “You can’t focus properly on the Second Coming if your attention is being split between that and Crowley.”

He tapped a stack of papers on his desk, their handwritten content more elegant than the efficiently typewritten forms in his outbox.

Aziraphale stilled, recognizing the documents. “You’ve been reading my journal.”

“Of course I did,” the Metatron said briskly. “You didn’t expect to have secrets from Heaven, did you?”

--

Aziraphale breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw the familiar figure on the bench by the duck pond, newspaper unfolded in front of his face. He nervously straightened his vest, picking off an imaginary piece of lint.

Well, no use putting off the tongue lashing Crowley was sure to give him.

“Lovely weather we’re having, my dear,” the angel greeted as he sat next to the redhead.

The newspaper remained in place. “You’re looking for the Swedish prime minister. He’s here on Wednesdays.”

Aziraphale’s smile wavered. He should have known Crowley would be like this, bitter over his departure. He thought the coded messages he’d been sending would have soothed at least some of the sting from their last encounter but apparently not.

“No, I assure you, I’m not,” Aziraphale insisted. “I’m here for you, Crowley.”

The demon lowered the periodical and peered over at the angel from behind his glasses. “Do I know you?”

“Oh not this bit,” the blond sighed, thinking about the time with Furfur, with Saraquel. “We’ve known each other for 6,000 years. You’re my best friend.”

Crowley frowned, concentrating. For a second, Aziraphale thought he saw a glimmer of recognition, but it transformed into a grimace of pain. “Nothing coming to mind.”

It wasn’t a lie, Aziraphale realized. It was all too similar to Jim.

He needed Crowley to remember, if they were going to figure out how to thwart the Second Coming. He needed Crowley’s harebrained schemes and clever mind to see the flaws in Heaven’s plot. He reached out toward Crowley, a bit of Grace on his fingers to heal this ailment, but the demon flinched and recoiled from him.

“Get that thing away from me,” Crowley hissed, his glasses slipping slightly.

Aziraphale could see the yellow filling his eyes, pupils their typical narrow slits. In al their years, Crowley had never been afraid of him.

Crowley took advantage of his pause to jump to his feet, the newspaper falling to the ground.

“Wait! No, don’t go,” Aziraphale pleaded, drawing back. He clasped his hands in front of him and stood, aware of the way Crowley was tense and ready to flee. “I-I’m sorry. I was mistaken. No need to spoil your day.”

The angel hurried off.

---

“You should have left him out of this,” Aziraphale snapped, his hands curling. He dug his fingers into his palms, the whisper of pain nothing compared to the ache in his heart. “If you had told me, I would have stopped. I wouldn’t have –“

“But you did,” the Metatron interrupted, rising. “I wasn’t lying, Aziraphale, when I said Heaven needed someone who thinks outside the box. But Heaven needs somebody dedicated to this task. And even the thought of Crowley corrupts you.”

The Voice of God circled his desk, coming to stand toe to toe with the newly promoted Archangel. “If anything, I was being kind. You should have seen him, Aziraphale, an utter mess, moaning about losing his best friend and never being enough. You did that to him.”

[nosferatini]

🕊️ The Season of Nightingales - Ch.23 🕊️

It’s Friday the 13th, exactly one year after the publishing day of this fic. I haven’t added to it since maternity leave, so as a fic anniversary present, I’m pushing the word count over 100k with this new chapter! 🥃🎊

~I will post chapters on Friday going forward!~

Fic Summary

The Second Coming looms large. Aziraphale must keep his vow to fix Heaven before it’s too late, without asking the impossible from Crowley. As the effort is complicated by unexpected friends, an ex-Inspector Constable, a guileful Metatron, and a Heavenly floor full of the Blessed Dead—Aziraphale and Crowley find navigating their relationship is not mutually exclusive from saving the world from Armageddon.

Chapter Excerpt:

When Aziraphale replaced the whisper glass in his pocket, the words of Agnes' prophecy began to play in his head, and this was mildly irritating—until the post-slumber haze cleared from his mind.  ‘When golden band rests o’er the fallen in the dark, provide ye on my box of apples a ring for a ring upon Anathema’s device, and the last ring shall thee wear.’ “Oh my.” His eyes went wide, and his [redacted] over Crowley's [redacted]

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Or…

🕊️ Start From the Beginning! 🕊️

CW: Tooth rotting fluff and plot

Huge hugs and gratitude to my beloved betas, @addledmongoose, @dbacklot99, @demonsandpieohmy and u/blackjeans93 from @goodomensafterdark for helping me scrub and polish my baby, and to the lovely @searchingforakeythatdoesntexist for making me a writing logo at the last minute (which she did not have to do!)

@whickberstreetwriters

[drfrankensteinvsthequeerborgs]

Metatron: “But then, after a rousing speech, his true weakness is revealed: he’s in love...with humanity.”

they really just wanted to be as homophobic as possible without actually committing to making him gay (but then they made him gay anyway so now it’s both homophobic and coded for plausible deniability, love that for us)