#fearandasks

[fearandhatred]

Good Omens and "Ghost" 💖

mari my beloved a poem for you!! <3 it is not 900 words this time but i made it about angel crowley again. and the final fifteen again. because i realised i have free will

text under the cut

i can't look at you some days, do you know that? it's not your fault, it never is just a thousand wrong places at a thousand wrong moments because when the light hits your face just right, when i turn to you a certain way, when the warmth of your hands brushes that spot on my wing i see the galaxies behind you, the pleats of that bygone white robe and lavish gold collar and for a moment your eyes flicker brown, the light reddens your hair it's not your face i see from before, it's mine remnants of a being that was, a phantom grace

it's not your fault that you still have that wonder in your eyes that your indulgence is still all-consuming it never is but maybe we met a thousand different times that we shouldn't have

so even as you kiss me i think maybe some odds are just not meant to be overcome maybe heredity is meant to be honoured maybe when fate decides to tear two beings apart, they should allow it because i love you, and i'll love you for all my days but on some of them i can't bear to see your face

so maybe it's okay that you're gone, back to where my spirit can't return to because at least i don't have to look at you anymore, or be petrified that i can't and maybe it's okay that a different kind of hurt resides in my bones now because now you're just another ghost to follow me around, with no one left to revive me

the dead leading the dead

[fearandhatred]

Hehehehehe for the one word thing: theft (or words related to that)

i'm so sorry for this it could be five sentences if you squint real hard. also me when writing absolutely anything at all: how do i make this about angel crowley

the dollmaker

the teeth went first, which you lined up with extreme care onto curved wires caressing a plain, wooden pole. they say teeth are what make a face, and i guess that must be true—you would know. i hadn't known yet what you were going to do, so i just watched with my bare, gaping mouth as you chipped my teeth into asymmetrical shapes, carving them into a beast's.

the tongue was next, the larynx too—just as well. i wasn't much keen on speaking anymore, anyway, what with all the blood in my gums. i wasn't keen on smelling anymore, either, the tang of iron and wood flecks that surrounded you like a visible aura. the silence must have been music to your ears, now that i couldn't scream through the pain, could hardly even take a breath.

there were the lips, the nose, the cheekbones. you took it all off my face, like a sculptor trying to return their creation to a clean marble slab, and all i could do was watch. and maybe, along the way, i was even resigned. that settling that inevitably came with constancy.

but then the panic surged back up and out of my body along with my eyes, which you scooped out with ease, and i could scream again, only it wasn't coming from me—no, maybe it was me, the other me, if it was me. i didn't know which way was left, couldn't comprehend what my eyes were seeing: it's one thing to see fragments of yourself scattered around like an unfinished painting; it's another to see the remains of where those fragments were stolen from—oh god, it would have been kinder to be less methodical, to have had gnarled and brazenly sliced pieces of flesh and marrow exploded off of my face, rather than the precise and surgical peeling away of skin, all in one piece like wool from a shearer's hand.

and you painted them a lurid, reptilian yellow, slitted pupils like a knife's scar. i saw this, i saw my eyes only through yours, gold reflected off blue, and for a moment there was something so intimate, so complementary in that gaze, you with your deceitfully gentle smile and weightless hair, that i forgot what you were doing to me. just for a moment. but then it came into focus again, that garish, nauseating colour of my eyes, and that moment was gone. the colour of sick, one more step away from the angel i was, if an angel was defined only through construct; if an angel was defined by spirit, by grace, by acts… you're the farthest thing from an angel i could possibly fathom, and yet here you are.

i closed my eyes, then, and one by one you took, and you took, and you took, stealing everything from me, stealing myself from me. when you lifted my brain out of my cleaved skull, the pain finally quietened, if only for the few seconds it took to rewire it, but it was a reprieve, and i was grateful. and i didn't feel it when my limbs were hacked off at their stems, tourniqueted and cauterised. i didn't feel it when you ripped out the nails from my fingers and toes and replaced them with claws.

and so even as you took, and you took, and you took, i didn't struggle, no, and soon i couldn't struggle. but i didn't want it, i didn't, i didn't. but one by one by one, it got easier, with every limb and organ and joint, with every side sweep of my hair; you've changed that, too. because i thought—oh, i thought that with every piece of me you changed and fit into this new mold, i thought you would at least take it all. i thought you would complete me at the end, so that even changed, this new thing may still be me.

but we're at the final stages now. here come my lungs, my intestines, my stomach, fitting into this new me so perfectly it's as if i'd never changed at all. you've taken the stray clumps of my meat and stuffed them back into me, you've fed me back my blood, and it all works, as if i'd never changed at all. there's just my heart now, resting on the stool you'd propped me up on like a doll, nothing left but stray splotches of blood, but you're not taking it, you're not taking it, what are you doing?

i feel each individual stitch now as you sew me up around my joints and from my pelvis to my neck, a long line like snake vertebrae, weaving in and out of my skin. and still my heart remains untouched, outside of my body, discarded like waste. i start to beg now, because i can, and i didn't want this, but now i'm so close to reformation, to being whole, and oh, i feel so empty, you left the hole in my chest there where something is supposed to fit, and now my centre of gravity is off, and i can't be expected to live this way.

please, all i'm asking for is my heart, just this one thing. i know i haven't been good, i know i struggled, i know i screamed, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry. oh, but please, won't you take it?

[fearandhatred]

Good omens, “feather”, for the writing ask meme! -goodoldfashionednightingale

bestie!!! thank u for this lovely word, have some post-final fifteen crowley pov angst

our minds don't work like human minds; it's not a fact that's hard for anyone to comprehend. the humans know it too, they write it in their stories. but our minds aren't separate entities from theirs altogether, just… different. for example, our minds can store more information than all mortals in the world combined and then some, both in breadth and depth. we have faster cognitive abilities, recognition that comes faster than the shortest unit of time humanly invented. we can replay memories in our heads as vividly as they happened.

it takes a thousand years to forget.

i'll plead guilty to some of it: even as the years passed, years and then decades, even when the image of your face behind my eyelids started to grow spots of mould and permanent sunlight—even then, i thought you'd return. it wasn't unlike you to change your mind, not unlike you to come back to me. and so when i finally had the sense that maybe i should be preserving some things of you, all the photos turned to ash under my touch. that was a hundred years in.

i found your feather in a drawer, a month after you left. i don't know why it was there, why you kept it, but a hundred years in, i was grateful. you'd taken the polaroid with you. in memory of me, perhaps. maybe you thought i wouldn't want or need it. or maybe you weren't thinking of what i wanted or needed at all, because two hundred years after you left, you were still gone.

i don't know when exactly it dawned on me that when you said you were leaving, you meant it. every time i try to remember, i remember an earlier time. five hundred years in, two hundred, twenty years, six months, a week. sometimes i think i'd known the moment you said it.

it's a february afternoon, with biting wind and rain that felt like snow, when i finally lose you. it's cold all the time now. the whole street is gone, bare land with not even a shadow where the bookshop used to be. trees don't bloom like they used to, and i've lost you. i'd never paid attention before to how a memory looked in my head; i'd never wanted to keep a memory as pristinely clean and spotless as it was before, until you left. but after all the papers disintegrated in my hands—the photos of you, the drawings of me—i started to take notice.

it wasn't all that dissimilar to how movies looked back then, when we watched them together: the memories started to flicker and pale, black spots like dust flecks in front of projector lights. then they lost all sound and colour, your speech wordless and mouth moving like a mute ventriloquist's puppet. and then they got blurry, smoothened, the lines of your face ironed out until you were featureless.

when i try to think of you now, the film strips jam and shred in the reel, and the screen remains black. all i have now are the words i used to describe you with in my head, ones i no longer remember the truth of—that and this yellowing feather, once a shade of white your wings might have been.

[fearandhatred]

What would you write for the title "Forget-me-nots in your crown"? 👀

this is kinda long so i put it on ao3 too lol. spit this out in 2 hours so there are probably mistakes. apolocheese

<3

Crowley wavers by Jesus's side as he addresses a man named Matthew, sat at a taxpayer's booth, and says "follow me". And the man gets up to do so. Crowley hears the unspoken dismissal for what he thinks it is, and turns to leave, but Jesus stops him with a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Come," he tells him, "let's have dinner together."

They go to Matthew's house that night, bustling with the chatter of the other people Jesus invited to the dinner. Crowley stands next to Jesus and looks around, past the milling disciples and the table of food, to all these strangers. Taxpayers, prostitutes, idolators. Crowley feels lumped in, but also oddly out of place.

"Am I here as a sinner too, then?" he asks Jesus, teasingly, vulnerably.

Jesus looks back at him, eyes kind. "As a friend," he says simply, and Crowley could weep.

Not even a day passes after that before Crowley gets his next assignment from Hell.

-----

Crowley follows the mob all the way from Gethsemane to Golgotha, hidden in the shadows and carrying her basket full of flowers she doesn't actually sell. She sees Jesus's skin, welted and bleeding and bruised, no part left unmarred, but she doesn't interfere. She can't. She would miracle a lighter burden on his shoulders, healed cuts or softer soles, but she knows it wouldn't go unnoticed.

And she's ashamed to face him. So she just follows at the outskirts of the crowd of guards, opposers, and curious strays, and doesn't intervene.

But then Jesus stumbles and falls, pressed down violently under the weight of his cross, and Crowley rushes out without thinking, kneeling in front of him with a hastily miracled cup of water and dropping her basket of flowers from her arm. He looks up at her, eyes unsurprised at her presence and kind, always kind even when blinded with blood. He smiles. "Friend," he says softly before accepting the water Crowley brings to his mouth, and she tenses her jaw to hold herself together.

The mob and the generals stand silently, uninterrupting and observant. A rare reprieve of kindness, maybe, or another act of cruelty.

"After what I did?" Crowley says just as softly, fragile, a statement in the form of a question, trying to still her shaking hands so none of the water goes to waste. When she'd been told of her next temptation, that she would be the one to start the chain of events that would lead to Jesus's death, she had locked herself in for a week, close to deciding to go against orders for once in her life.

But she'd been too cowardly, too weak to do so, again, always. So she'd hid from Jesus instead.

"It is my Father's will," he tells her now as a fact, but with a tone so far from impassive it makes her quiver.

"Well," she says, uncertain and still ready to flee, but content with their proximity. "Is there anything I can do?" To help, is what she means. Let me ease your burden. Just then, one of the guards pushes down on the heavy cross with his foot in warning, brutish in the way he doesn't even look when he does it. Crowley lifts a hand instinctively, whether to nudge the guard away or lighten the weight of the cross she doesn't know, but Jesus gives her a glance of knowing, and her hand falls.

"Be kind," is all he says in response to her question. At first she thinks he just means be kind to everyone, a do-unto-others jab for a demon who betrayed her only friend, or a slight towards the guard. But he says it just loudly enough for her ears to hear and no one else's. And despite it all, she knows him. He looks unwaveringly at her, face honest and open. She knows that it's not just because of the torture and exhaustion he's endured that has stripped him down to his bare bones, but also because that is who he fundamentally is. And she knows he also means be kind to yourself.

She swallows, and the silence stretches on like they have all the time in the world, before the guard finally kicks at Jesus's side and yells at him to get up. He pushes himself onto his knees weakly but without protest, cross dragging down his back and leaving layers of skin scratched raw and gaping.

Be kind, his words ring in her head like they will until the end of time. Be kind to everyone, be kind to yourself. It'll be a long time before she can even start on the latter, but the first she can do. She can be kind to the man with kind eyes, her dear friend, a son with no choice but to do their father's will, a being destined to live only for others.

"Wait!" Crowley fumbles, reaching into her robes to disguise her miracling of more water. "Wait, please."

The guard mutters curses at her under his breath, but blessedly, he lifts an impatient brow in thin acquiescence. Crowley brings the water up to Jesus's lips again, and when he's drunk it all, he tilts his head tiredly in gratefulness. Another trickle of blood makes its way down the side of his face, and Crowley winces at the thorns digging viciously into his head, hammered into his skull like nails.

Unthinkingly, she reaches out and brushes his hair gently away from his eyes, careful not to have any stray strand pull on the thorns. Then, aching, she reaches out for the basket of flowers she discarded, plucking the first small bunch of flowers within reach.

Forget-me-nots. She would laugh if the realisation didn't cause her hands to resume their shaking. Because she is a sinner, she is sin itself, and her and Jesus should not be friends. They should not even be talking. But they are, and they do, and Crowley finds deep in her core that she would kill herself for him to remember her just as they were. Not as what she is but as who she is, as the true self that she thinks he sees when she's around him. As a friend. And she doesn't ever want to forget him.

She digs her nails into her palms to steady them, then brings her hands back up to his head. She weaves the small flowers into the thorns as carefully and intricately as the crown itself was woven, with hands just as stained. Forces herself to look at the blood crusted around the stems, the matted hair. The unworthiness, the uselessness of what she's doing.

When she's done, she pulls back with a sharp inhale as if coming back to herself, and looks away almost guiltily from the superficial bandages that are her small, insignificant flowers. Hates herself immediately for thinking that she of all beings could be the slightest balm for someone paying the price of sin.

But Jesus has never judged her for anything, and when she chances a glance back at him as he struggles to his feet, he's still looking at her. Looking at her with love, and with kindness. She thinks the kindness might mean more to her than anything else.

She slinks back into the shadows as the crowd moves forward.

-----

When they reach Golgotha, Crowley has discarded her flower basket, and she spots Aziraphale instantly in the growing crowd. She contemplates leaving him be, but she wants to get closer, so the chances of him not seeing her would be slim. She pushes through the crowd, steeling herself against Jesus's cries of pain. When she slithers up to Aziraphale's side, he turns and smiles at her in acknowledgement. She doesn't try to smile back.

In any other situation, she would laugh at how the only two beings she's acquainted with are an angel and the Son of God. For now, it just hurts.

"What–" she starts, then clears her throat as her voice cracks slightly with clogged-up tears. "What was it he said that got everyone so upset?" This time, her words come out as flatly curious and uncaring as she intended.

Aziraphale huffs out a breath. "'Be kind to each other'," he quotes.

"Oh," is all Crowley can reply at first. She turns away from Aziraphale to blink a sudden onslaught of tears away. "Yeah. That'll do it."

She stays until the sky darkens, long after everyone has gone and she's the only one in this place left alive. She lets the tears fall, then, looking up at the man splayed out on the cross, as human as anyone could be. She doesn't know if she'll ever be the same again. If there'll ever be anyone to care for her like he did.

Before she turns to leave, a single forget-me-not dislodges itself from the crown of thorns atop Jesus's lolling head and drifts softly down, landing softly on her outstretched palm.

[fearandhatred]

*violently whacks you with a boop*

Thank you for joining the chaos

maximum boop damage dealt

thank u for the badge of honour i will treasure it forever 🙏

[fearandhatred]

what are your favorite good omens fics??

WOO REC TIME thank u for asking!! you may want to ask again after i've finished my resolution of reading all my mutuals' fics though because i've barely had the time to read anything these past few months... so i don't have much bookmarked lol but here are a few anyway! (from earliest read to most recent)

-----

mourning doves by sleepyimpulse (Words: 22,686 Chapters: 7/7)

“I’m sorry,” he registered himself saying between heaving sobs. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please, please forgive me.” He hadn’t meant to say it like that, he knew the words were all wrong (he would never find the right ones). But the pain was coming at him in every direction and something, something had to give, and so he clung to Crowley like a life preserver. Crowley bent his body over Aziraphale’s and slowly, surely, pressed a kiss to his bloodied forehead. “I can’t,” he whispered, and Aziraphale went unconscious. (Aziraphale falls, post season 2)

this was one of the very first good omens fics i read and one thing about me is i LOVE this type of angst. so so good and such a nice exploration of crowley's struggle with what forgiveness is. gorgeous and so angsty. have i said that already. angst galore

say yes to me (i've got my eye on you) by thehappyyears (Words: 11,983 Chapters: 1/1)

It’s a pleasant evening much like many pleasant evenings this month, so Crowley doesn’t expect anything unusual when he makes himself comfortable on his side of the couch and lets Aziraphale select the wine. Which is why he’s resolutely caught off guard when Aziraphale disappears into a backroom, which Crowley always assumed was a wine cellar, and then turns around, darkness behind him and low, warm light gilding his hair and making his eyes bright. He’s breathtaking, he’s so beautiful, his eyes are so dark. “Crowley,” he breathes. Or, Crowley and Aziraphale have sex.

this is THE epitome of service top crowley. all hail service top crowley. also it's just so well-written and seamless. also i don't want this list to be too long so if smut is your thing then i recommend literally anything by focusfixated or zehwulf or Ineffably_Yours

Zmija by Himitsu_no (Words: 3,185 Chapters: 4/4)

He'd sigh in annoyance and hide his face in the angel's chest. "Said if they lived longer they'd have more time to become nasty and corrupted little shits, do all sorts of evil deeds and the likes. They never questioned it and went as far as warn me in advance of all the bigger natural disasters." Aziraphale would laugh and his fingers find their way into the red locks with practiced ease, and he'd bend to kiss the top of his head. "Did they do that, though? The evil deeds." Crowley would smile despite himself, eyes closed and leaning into the caress. "About a dozen, maybe. The rest were just... ordinary humans doing ordinary stuff." There'd be a long pause in which the angel would take it all in, and the demon would replay many of it in his mind with unease. Then Aziraphale would speak again, voice barely a whisper, "How long were you in Mesopotamia after the flood, my love?"

yeah i have this in my bookmarks but i have not touched it ever since i read it the first time because. it hurts me :) idk if it's because of my mommy and daddy issues but the whole crowley being good with kids tropes makes me so sad. and also this fic is just. devastating to me. i really should leave a comment but i don't want to read it again fr

when i knew love’s perfect ache by sugarskulled (Words: 1,834 Chapters: 1/1)

A demon can't touch that which has been made holy by God. Crowley knows this well as anyone. And Aziraphale? Aziraphale is so holy it burns.

this is definitely one of my favourite good omens fics of all time. angst again and so bittersweet i think about it so often

better to read and eat cake in a Soho bookshop than to reign in Hell by Kaesa (Words: 35,717 Chapters: 5/8)

When Aziraphale flees Heaven with the Book of Life, he's planned for it -- he's alerted other angels stationed on Earth to Heaven's plans, and asked them to take steps so that humans won't get caught up in the inevitable battle he faces with the other archangels. But Crowley shows up too, and he doesn't know the plan, and in the chaos Aziraphale leaps in front of a terrible blow meant for Crowley. And so, still very angry with him, Crowley must get him back to the bookshop (which is full of annoying angels) and help him heal, and try to figure out how to move past their previous fight, because, sure, he's mad at Aziraphale, but he doesn't want him to die. But soon enough it becomes clear that Aziraphale isn't necessarily dying. He is changing, and no one quite knows what to expect, because this situation has only happened once before, when Supreme Archangel Lucifer Fell and became Satan.

this fic has everything tbh and it's one i keep coming back to. the smut is great AND well-written and besides that the plot itself is so good??? the writing overall is just gorgeous tbh. slight body horror too :) the moment this updates i will be all over it like a rabid dog

Dear Angel by crowleys_bentley_and_plants (Words: 3,379 Chapters: 13/?)

A collection of emails addressed to a certain Aziraphale, found on the computer of a lonely demon.

poetic and hard-hitting and interconnected and also tells a story. through emails!! also the last lines of every chapter always knock me out lmaoo

to hold you like a bouquet by gravitron (Words: 10,676 Chapters: 1/1)

Crowley and Aziraphale, as told by history’s flowers.

can y'all read this fic oh my god i'm gonna fight everyone. so so beautifully written and well-structured. you know what i'm just gonna copy and paste part of my comment on here because yeah: i love your writing it's just. The Way Yo uWrite. The Words. your way with words. etc. and some of your sentences have a directness to them that's so effective. and the way you incorporated the flowers into every part of the story is like... so tastefully done I'm obsessed

[fearandhatred]

‘freudian theory and complex humanity’ pls 👉👈

hehe answered previously so here's another snippet!

my plan, coincidentally (hi sonny), was to post a blackout chapter to signify crowley's memory loss. and then follow that up with a chapter of the original text

no idea how i would have pulled this off on ao3 btw

[fearandhatred]

i am intrigued by what goes down in that's the pain, if u wanna share :p

IT'S THE BIBLE FIC! this was basically a fic inspired by the origin of love from hedwig and the angry inch (my favourite musical of all time if u even care) written like a book from the bible lol. the working name for what the book itself would be called was Apochorismós

the rough summary is that in the beginning, all the angels in heaven had two/three/four heads/pairs of limbs/wings depending on their rank. crowley and aziraphale were one being in heaven, but because of lucifer's sin, god split all the angels apart and sent half of them (the demons) down, and removed all the memories of both the angels and demons from before. the fic is just them finding their way back to each other!

a snippet:

⁷But on an indiscriminate day, the day to eclipse all days, an angel spoke out against the Lord, for he had pondered his position in heaven and deemed the rule of God to be insufficient. ⁸And he, Lucifer, angel of the highest order, with his two pairs of wings and eyes and arms and legs, said unto the other angels: "The Lord claims that He extends his grace to all beings, for He is mighty, and the one true God to rule over all others. But who has determined it to be so? ⁹He has endowed us with knowledge, and knowledge seeks change, and unto us what follows shall be the natural order of things. And so I will ascend to the throne, above God and the stars, and all of creation shall play by my hand." ¹⁰And God heard of the words of the angel Lucifer, and burned with righteous fury. ¹¹"I am displeased," God said unto all the angels, "for you have sinned. A sin come upon one who remains unquestioned is a sin upon all, and for this sin you shall be ripped apart, for cursed now is the sacred ground on which you walk. ¹²"This is your punishment: through strength and defiance you have separated yourselves, and only through strength and defiance shall you return."

and a lil bit of crowley and aziraphale in the garden:

¹⁹The serpent felt injustice at his words, but did not speak against them. "Perhaps it was the plan to have you give away your sword," he said, in sarcasm. "And when His plan has finally been fulfilled, may that fill the unsettling emptiness and misery within my belly." ²⁰''You feel that as well, then?" The angel asked, surprised, as he had felt the same for all the days of heaven and also as guardian of the gate. "It is worse with you near."

[fearandhatred]

Do you have the word sin in any of your fics? 👀

hello again hehe i thought i didn't but i actually do! surprise

this is from my unpublished fic freudian theory and complex humanity (i have like 4 fics total so everyone is going to hear the same titles over and over again helpp). summary and other snippets of the fic here!!

also omg i just realised this snippet is a direct prequel to the other one i just posted because that one is a callback to this quote. that's crazy

Crowley looks softly at all these people. God's creations; her fallen creations. Flawed, full of sin, maybe, but all living on the existence—or absence—of one feeling that, at its core, is pure and good. He thinks about Aziraphale. "Esther," Crowley finally breaks the silence. Esther looks up and tilts her head at him quizzically. "What else are we," he says quietly, "but the things that we love?" Esther quacks. Crowley smiles wryly. "Yeah. I think so too."

ask game

[fearandhatred]

For the tmi tuesday fanfic game, is there the words "window" or "water" in your wips??

HI BESTIE I DO INDEED. not the word window somehow but i do have water! ...a lot actually because. holy water and all that. but here's a snippet with the word water that is not in fact related to holy water.

this is from an unpublished fic you asked about months ago actually but i shall give the premise again for ease: the fic (freudian theory and complex humanity) is post-final fifteen and it's just crowley hanging out with his duck friend that he met at st james's park in 1967 and made immortal—not illegal if no one knows!. the duck is called esther, and it's explained in the first chapter that crowley named her after queen esther (may not be a biased decision stemming from the fact that esther is my favourite book of the bible). the whole fic is just crowley going to meet esther at the park and they talk shit about each others' tragic lives because ducks have struggles too or whatever.

here's one snippet (your ask lmaoo) and another one

the context of this snippet—i'll shut up soon—is right after aziraphale leaves and esther loses one of her children (because she's old as hell), and crowley starts to feel guilty for making her immortal. skipped some parts in the middle because it's very long. and also it's unpolished because this was just written in my planning doc lol

"Do you really want this?" Crowley asks her, his voice just another ghost haunting the heavy air around them. "You'll see all your children die. Your grandchildren. I could reverse it all for you, if you wanted." "No one knows me like you do," she says in reply. "That won't matter when you're gone." "No one knows you like I do," she counters. "That would matter when I'm gone." "And whose fault is that?" Crowley asks bitterly. "It's not your… your duty, your burden, to hold onto the things that matter to me. Surely you can't live just for that." [...] She pushes on. "You said just now that I can't just live to make sure you have things that matter to you. But why not? It's always such a joy to see you. It's such a joy to love and know you are loved." To love. Crowley recalls their meeting, ages ago. That late morning sun and early spring wind, a duck and a demon and an angel. "What are we but the things we love," he murmurs, remembering. Esther hums. "Nothing," she says, just like she had said that day. Crowley inhales unsteadily, squeezing his eyes shut. He thinks of an angel. Esther hops onto his lap, pressing close against him. His tears soak into his jacket and her feathers. She feels sad. For him, and for herself. To her, it all just feels like water.

ask game

[fearandhatred]

Bestie first of all good luck with your group project!!!!! Secondly im very curious about the unnamed bible fic👀 what is it about?

hello bestie thank you <3 the presentation is in 2 hours and i'm stressed the hell out so i'm answering this first to take my mind off it lol. also sorry in advance this will be quite long because i do love the concept of this fic

ask game

ok firstly idk why i said unnamed bible fic it DOES have a name i just forgot. it's called "that's the pain", taken from and inspired by the song the origin of love from hedwig and the angry inch (my favourite musical)! it's a retelling of plato's (soulmate) myth of how people used to have two faces, four arms, four legs etc. but because we were proud and disobedient, zeus split us in two and so now we spend our lives trying to find our other half.

so this fic was intended to be something like that but about angels instead: angels used to have multiple heads and limbs but because some of them decided to rebel, god split them apart as punishment and cast half of them down to be demons, then wiped all memory of how they used to be. the premise is that crowley and aziraphale used to be one being that was split apart, and when they're both in the garden of eden they feel this inexplicable pull towards each other which leads to them meeting on the wall. both of them attribute this feeling to them being on opposite sides and thus not being allowed to be near each other, and aziraphale takes it as a sign that they should not be talking which is like one of the conflict points of this fic. and thus begins the next 6000 years lol.

and i called it a bible fic because i was gonna write it bible style HAHA. i kind of ditched this whole fic because i wasn't sure how sustainable that was going to be and so i didn't know if i would have to change to prose at some point.

anyway i did share some snippets last time but i'll just put them here again. this is from near the beginning of the first book of said fic bible, called apochorismós, which roughly translates to separation in greek.

Apochorismós 1:7-16

⁷But on an indiscriminate day, the day to eclipse all days, an angel spoke out against the Lord, for he had pondered his position in heaven and deemed the rule of God to be insufficient. ⁸And he, Lucifer, angel of the highest order, with his two pairs of wings and eyes and arms and legs, said unto the other angels: "The Lord claims that He extends his grace to all beings, for He is mighty, and the one true God to rule over all others. But who has determined it to be so? ⁹He has endowed us with knowledge, and knowledge seeks change, and unto us what follows shall be the natural order of things. And so I will ascend to the throne, above God and the stars, and all of creation shall play by my hand." ¹⁰And God heard of the words of the angel Lucifer, and burned with righteous fury. ¹¹"I am displeased," God said unto all the angels, "for you have sinned. A sin come upon one who remains unquestioned is a sin upon all, and for this sin you shall be ripped apart, for cursed now is the sacred ground on which you walk. ¹²"This is your punishment: through strength and defiance you have separated yourselves, and only through strength and defiance shall you return." ¹³And from a mighty hand shot bolts of lightning that cut right through the angels and split them in parts. And all orders of angels split apart, until they had one pair of eyes, and one pair of arms and legs and wings. ¹⁴And the Lord cast out the angels who were with Lucifer to roam the salty ground of the earth. These were the fallen. And He made it so that the angels and demons alike did not remember they had once been joined together, in body and in spirit. ¹⁵Such was the natural order of things. ¹⁶Then came the first war.

Apochorismós 2:19-20

¹⁹The serpent felt injustice at his words, but did not speak against them. "Perhaps it was the plan to have you give away your sword," he said, in sarcasm. "And when His plan has finally been fulfilled, may that fill the unsettling emptiness and misery within my belly." ²⁰''You feel that as well, then?" The angel asked, surprised, as he had felt the same for all the days of heaven and also as guardian of the gate. "It is worse with you near."

ok that's all. sorry for the rant i went insane but also now i'm thinking about how i could incorporate hanahaki into this

[fearandhatred]

Okay okay okay a word for leanne!!!!!

How about "ripe"? 💛

you're so sick for sending me this word right after i wrote my vore poem lmaoo /affectionate. anyway voodoo magic rapunzel plant, anyone?

<3

it would do you well to be happy. it's what aziraphale hears from crowley's mouth most often, and what he repeats obsessively to himself most days now. it would do you well to be happy. it would do you well to be happy.

if water itself isn't wet, is it possible to not gain happiness from being happy? aziraphale would say so. apparently the act of smiling can trick a human brain into actually being happy, but he isn't human, and it doesn't work on him.

still, it would do him well to be happy. it would do them both well for him to be happy, for now.

the humans have a curious little fairytale: a story of a girl with long, golden, magical hair, borne of a magical flower that can heal. rejuvenate. immortalise. they would be delighted to find that something like that really exists. they would be delighted, and then they would weaponise it, as humans are wont to do.

demons too, as it turns out. not so different from humans, just with the added ability to actually create such a thing.

aziraphale isn't exactly locked in a tower, although this facade of freedom that he has might be worse. whenever he leaves the bookshop, free as he is told he is to do whatever he is told he fancies, crowley tells him it would do you well to be happy. remember what i can do to you.

aziraphale doesn't know exactly what the plant can do, magical-properties wise, and he isn't sure crowley knows either. more specifically, he doesn't know what the plant can do for crowley that he doesn't already have. but it wouldn't do him any good to ask. he's not sure he wants to know.

all he knows, and all he has to, is that his happiness fuels the plant's growth. that one day, crowley had, unsuspectingly, took out a piece of him like god had with adam's rib, and somehow tied his essence to that plant. and so it grows from his happiness. and so he dies if the plant does. and so if the plant grows to its fullest, he... well, it remains to be seen. it's just a little give and take, except it's all parasitic with no benefits.

it started with a seed, then a stem—just one—and a flower. it grew slowly, an inch every few years, and now the flower has bloomed. it isn't over yet, though, crowley told him. that's how he phrased it. not the plant hasn't fully grown, but it isn't over yet.

then, in the middle of the thriving, deceptively sunflower-yellow petals: a fruit. green with immaturity, inedible hardness. it won't always look like this, crowley told him, as if he were really the mother to a young and ignorant daughter, unknowing of how any of the outside world functioned. but they both knew better. i know, he said back, and smiled.

it's uncertainty that's more agonising than anything, even the certainty of agony. the last few days—there is no timeline to the growth of a magical one-of-a-kind plant, but anticipation brews in accordance with the law anyway—buzz with a flat sort of curiosity, morbid on aziraphale's part, or maybe the both of theirs. that depends on how much crowley cares about what happens to him. still, or maybe because of this, he goes about his day as he always does. when he comes back in for the final time each night, he casts a glance over to the plant by the fireplace. he's trained himself to look only once a day, only then, as if the plant is an inconsequential part of his life. each night there's nothing, and he's relieved, and disappointed.

he doesn't sleep, but he does retire, and it's a perfectly normal morning when he leaves his room to the faint aroma of tea awaiting him below. he pads downstairs and sits next to crowley on the couch, where he's slid a cup of tea across the small round table. steaming hot and with a cube of sugar, just how he likes it. when he looks up to murmur his thanks, the look on crowley's face stops him short. it's nothing out of the ordinary, the same golden eyes and face lines, save for the barely-there, malevolent smirk. aziraphale isn't stupid. he looks over at the plant.

and oh, look. the fruit is finally ripe.

[fearandhatred]

I'm curious about the Freudian one 👀

for this one i actually posted a chapter on ao3 for about three seconds before i decided to take it down lmaoo. now that i'm reading through it again i feel like it actually has potential so maybe i'll pick it up again in the future. but anyway this was the summary:

Crowley doesn't make it a point to make friends. However, he has a surprisingly symbiotic relationship with this one duck. A long one, too. Granting a being eternal life may or may not be illegal, but Crowley doesn't see the harm in it. Hell hasn't said anything, and as far as he knows, the duck community hasn't either. Esther has her personal issues. So does he, even though they're mostly about a certain man-shaped angel thing. They meet up once in a while to talk about it.

anddd a snippet:

At around 2am, he sobers up and decides to go to the park. Esther is usually asleep at this time, but when he gets there, she's sitting at their usual spot. Crowley goes to sit beside her. He's not shaking but he feels like it, and he can only vaguely sense the grass he's sitting on, the clothes against his skin, Esther's presence to his left. It's like a quiet discorporation. Esther tells him that one of her children has finally passed. Crowley tells her that Aziraphale's gone. Esther tells him that her son was old and they were both past their prime anyway, so it was inevitable. It was time for him to go. Crowley tells her that Aziraphale wasn't supposed to leave him so soon. Crowley apologises for being so distraught when Aziraphale is merely gone and not dead. Esther says grief is not comparable. Crowley feels that surge of anger again, although maybe it's despair this time, or maybe it's nothing. His finger twitches like his hand is about to start trembling, the kind of trembling that starts up and can't be stopped the moment he stops thinking about it, and he's just so over it all. A feeling travels down his arm and, scowling into the grass, he shoots his hand out and sets fire to a bunch of cattails in the pond. Esther gasps. "Crowley. What are you doing? Put that fire out this instant." "There's water right underneath it," he grumbles. "Nothing's going to happen." Esther stomps right up to him and kicks his shin with a webbed foot. "You will put that fire out now, young man," she snaps. "How would you feel if someone set fire to your home?"

another snippet

[fearandhatred]

if Crowley had to work human jobs while on earth what do you think he would have done throughout the ages?

you know what i think crowley would have loved driving steam engines. only for a day though

[fearandhatred]

just finsihed reading transitional heart taxidermy! on a completely unrelated note are you ok

thanks for asking! i'll get back to you on this

[fearandhatred]

for the fic writer asks: 🛒🤭

A my beloved thank u for the ask <3

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

i loveee using imagery and long-running/recurring metaphors and similes etc. it's my favourite thing to do ever. i did this a lot in tht actually so let me just list some of them lmao

schrodinger 🫶🏻

hydra

time as a contortionist

invisible string

also here's one of my favourite things i've ever written:

The next few days for Crowley are quiet. Not silent in the way many people think the universe is, as devoid of sound as it is of air; instead, it's muffled, like he's being held underwater as the earth roars around him, like there's permanent stuffing behind his eyes and in the crevices of his brain.

this sentence was actually born from me having written "stuffed nose pressure" in my notes app like a year ago and somehow it turned into this

idk i love imagery so much. i just think it's so cool how we can use words to paint pictures in such a fun way idk i love words. like i just love words I LOVE WORDS

🤭 Do you have a favorite tag to use when posting your works?

angst 🥰 i think every single one of my published fics are tagged angst lmaoo. i also really like tagging fics with their corresponding minisodes/episodes for some reason (me with Episode: s01e03 Hard Times (Good Omens))