#nine choirs of angels

[sapphic-bats]

Let’s talk about Pre-Fall Crowley’s choir.

I’m still learning, so if someone more expert than me has a correction, be my guest.

There are, by my awareness, nine choir of angels. A helpful list is below.

Muriel claims that they are of a lower rank, and hence cannot open the logbook.

"You'd have to be a throne, or a dominion, or above."

And once Crowley manages the book open, at the nonchalant claim of an unchanging password, it stuns Muriel.

This, to even an untrained eye, is intentional. They want us to know which two options could fit Crowley, seeing as evidently he is, or was, quite powerful.

So let's talk about that.

First Argument: Throne

The description of a Throne angel is:

"The 'thrones'; also known as 'ophanim' (offanim) and 'galgallin', are creatures that function as the actual chariots of God driven by the cherubs. They are characterized by peace and submission; God rests upon them. Thrones are depicted as great wheels containing many eyes, and reside in the area of the cosmos where material form begins to take shape. They chant glorias to God and remain forever in his presence. They mete out divine justice and maintain the cosmic harmony of all universal laws." [Wikipedia]

So we can break that down.

Thrones are supposedly submissive, and peaceful angels. They are the chariots, or literally, thrones, of God. Being in the First Triad, with direct contact to God, they contemplate Her/His power and judgement.

Sound familiar?

Let's lay out a few of the reasons Crowley could have been a Throne.

"Submissive" angels. If he had foregone that demand, and questioned God by unintentionally challenging Her decisions, he would have been an unworthy angel.

2. He would have had direct contact to God, and therefore could have asked Her himself. That would have been inexcusable, and perhaps a seeming abuse of power.

3. To contemplate Her power and judgement, he could have truly and utterly contemplated. Been too good at his job, and disagreed with a "flaw" in the plan.

All evidence points to Throne, right?

Second Argument: Dominion

Now, the definition of Dominion angels is:

"Dominions are a group of angels in Christianity who help keep the world in proper order. Dominion angels are known for delivering God's justice into unjust situations, showing mercy toward human beings, and helping angels in lower ranks stay organized and perform their work well." [LearnReligions]

Right, not a huge eye-catcher, there. Doesn't sound like what we've seen of Angel Crowley.

But wait.

"The Dominions (lat. dominatio, plural dominationes, also translated from the Greek term kyriotētes, pl. of kyriotēs, as "Lordships"). Traditionally, they are held to govern the movement of stars, planets, and other celestial objects." [Wikipedia]

Oh.

Now that sounds more likely.

So, our reasons here are:

Being in the Second Triad, they fulfill God's plan, and directly govern the procession of it.

2. They, quite literally, rule the stars, planets, and celestial objects. What more evidence do you need?

3. They're known for delivering justness into unjust situations...

In summary, there are many different options for what Crowley's hierarchical position once was. The two most blatant, and likely, were not being an Archangel (in my opinion), but rather either Dominion, or Throne.

That being said, I am unsure which one he was. There is more obviousness in seeing that he made the stars, and saying he was a Dominion. But, then again, there is more logic and reason in imagining he was a Throne.

What do I think? Hard to say. I'd imagine, considering the blatancy of the plot, that Crowley was a Dominion, but in theory, I wouldn't be surprised if he was a Throne. Honestly, while writing this, I started thinking he might have been a Throne.

Please, do share your thoughts and theories!

[krist-420]

Latin

Nine Choirs of Angels

[zanderism]

daddy issues on max today!!

[fanaticsnail]

My Favorite

(Image Source: Artist: Inpolariis)

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 5,114

Summary: Sir Crocodile has founded a league of highly trained assassins named "The Choirs" - all coded after the nine choirs of angelic influences. You are his favorite: his prized "Seraphim" who's ferocious brutality is only outmatched by your incredible beauty. Not truly knowing if your affection is all an act to continue being paid a wage in berry, he has not made a move of his own aside from calling upon you to sit on his knee of an evening, and have you utter praises into his ear. It is only when the two other members of the Cross-Guild begin flirting does he find his limit being tested. Will he bend, or will he break?

Themes: Boss!Crocodile x Assassin!Reader, lap princess, Croc is in love with you, begrudgingly in love, mutual pining, “I don’t want to fix him, I want to make him worse”, wealth, Cross-Guild dynamics, partial Buggy x Reader, partial Mihawk x Reader, sign language, afab!reader.

Notes: This fic is dedicated to the wonderful @discordantwritings who wrote a beautiful Benn Beckman fic recently. I had to return the favor with some Cross-Guild content, although it became quickly a Sir Crocodile fic. Based on this prompt, because it has a hold over my very soul.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @carrotsunshine @cinnbar-bun @writingmysanity @gingernut1314

The broad right hand of the brutish Sir Crocodile massaged his temples beneath his thumb and index finger. He began rotating them in an attempt to rid the swelling migraine caused by the crackled whines pouring from the lips of his clown companion. Barely paying attention to the whinging words strung into messy sentences, his ears pricked and spine tingled at the knowledge there was another presence within the hollow chambers of the Cross-Guild meeting space. 

Bringing his hand away from his temple, his smirk broke the displeased position of his lips, as his eyes rose to meet with the yellow hue of the gaze of the swordsman. Mihawk narrowed his eyes, no longer processing Buggy’s words as he attempted to locate the source responsible for the expression change of the larger gentleman in front of him. 

“-And I wasn’t the one responsible for that screw up, so I shouldn’t be the one paying for it. Really it should go to the one with the most berry. Who was it again? Between the reptile and the hawk, who has the most-.” Buggy’s voice halted as the shadows split to reveal your presence, stalking closer to the largest man in the room with an aura of silent danger. 

Mihawk reached for the hilt of Yoru, ready to strike your approaching silhouette: armored and cloaked in the darkest black to blend within smoke and shadow. Your hood concealed your face, your facial mask shieling all but the intensity of your eyes smeared in darkened war paint. You made no sound; no tap, no whisper as you wordlessly approached Sir Crocodile.

“Returned so soon, my Seraphim,” his voice purred, leaning back in his chair while placing a thick cigar between his teeth, “Did all go according to plan?” You wordlessly bent your knee, bowing your head to the large gentleman to whom you entrusted your implicit loyalty. His smile drew further up his scarred face, the purple hue of his eyes dancing with a dangerous twinkle at your wordless confirmation. 

“Good,” his voice praised you, reaching for his lighter lying atop the table. You rose to your feet, quickly reaching for the golden object, flicking open the lid and igniting the flint to spark its flame. Sir Crocodile leant forward, holding his eyes firmly on yours as your concentration was fixed on the task of lighting the tip of his cigar. 

He narrowed his eyes, noticing a small smear of red atop the darkened warpaint and streaking down your face mask and onto your leather breastplate. He sighed, reaching into his left hand breast pocket and fishing out a silver handkerchief and passed it to you within his index and middle fingers. 

“Is it yours?” he asked, gesturing to the blood congealed and spattered against your uniform. 

“No, sir,” you whispered with no vocal tone depicted within your silence. He hummed in response, narrowing his eyes as he scanned your body further. 

“Are you unharmed and unmarked?” he asked, his left brow raising in question. You stiffened your shoulders, arching your chin within the air and confirmed with a simple utterance of: “Yes, sir.” 

“Very good, my Seraphim,” he complimented further, inhaling a deep lungful of the nicotine laden cigar smoke, exhaling through his nose. Buggy did not know what to make of this interaction, feeling completely and utterly ignored as Mihawk and Sir Crocodile’s eyes and attention remained fixed on your statuesque figure clad in cloak, leather and dark plated armor. 

Leaning forward, Sir Crocodile ushered you to stoop forward to receive the next whisper of a command parting from his lips for your ears alone.

“I have laid out a new uniform for you to wear,” he uttered intimately, reaching up his left hand with his golden hook threatening to touch your shoulder. “See to it you are bathed, perfumed and clad in the ensemble within the hour,” the tip of his hook brushed with the rivets of your shoulder plate, dragging down your bicep to the inner crevice of your elbow, “And I will have you sat as my trophy upon my knee for the evening, my Seraphim.” 

At that final utterance, he withdrew his hook from your arm and focussed once more on your eyes now depicting a darkness within usually withheld for victims beneath your concealed daggers. 

Bowing to your boss, eyes now closed, you rose from your deep and respectful stoop and paid no mind to glance at the other two members of the meeting space. If Sir Crocodile found no reason to introduce you to these men, you did not deem them important enough to care who they were. Silence followed you as you trailed outside of the room, resubmerging yourself within the shadows and hastily making your way to the suite gifted to you by your boss.

“Baroque Works employee, Crocodile?” Mihawk uttered, his eyes fixed on the exit you withdrew from. 

“A thing of the past, Hawk,” His smirk not leaving his face for each deep inhale of his cigar, “I no longer put my faith in an amassment of bounty hunters to get their hands dirty for my berry.” He took the butt of his cigar from his teeth and pushed the ignited end against the glass tray with his thumb. “No, my faith is no longer spread to the many, but to the few.” 

“How many o’ them you got?” Buggy’s nasally voice chimed in, his brow furrowing and lips curling back in an uneasy smile, “Like twenty or thirty?”

“I have nine,” he confessed, eyes now bored with the conversation and lip curling down into an arrogant snarl, “And that one,” he gestured to the door with his chin, “Is my favorite.”

“Why?” Buggy asked, his voice cracking in a small apprehensive whine at the end of his question, “What does that one do that the others don’t?” Sir Crocodile’s lips curled into a darkened grin, his teeth revealed in the light. 

“You will see.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

After bathing and cleaning yourself of the debris and carnage of the last assignment, you glanced at yourself in your large, ornate mirror. Looking over the new uniform set aside by your boss as it clung to your body, you couldn’t help the pull of a shy smile at the corner of your lips.

Of all of “The Choirs” founded and financed by Sir Crocodile, it was no illusion that you were absolutely and without a doubt his favorite. Your titles held your specialist skills as covert assassins within your roles; each skilled with a unique ability to complete your tasks to the utmost quality. 

Principalitie, Archangel, and Angel were charged with gathering information and relaying it from a great distance. They were to look like civilians; innocent and coy with the ability to blend into a crowd seamlessly. 

The Devil-Fruit users; Dominion, Virtue, and Power, were charged with carrying out tyrannical punishment and wrath without care for the casualties they caused under the utterance of a single command from your hook-handed leader. 

Cherubim and Ophanim, the two of the higher in the chain of command, followed your explicit instruction in covert operations taken either together or separately. They were your trusted confidants, you could even call them your friends if it were not too bold to say so. 

You, his ‘Seraphim’, were silent and embraced by shadows with such flawless success that it was rumored you were born in them. You were lethal with your daggers, your skill with a blade a sight to behold before life was drained from your intended target. The last thing they saw as their breath was claimed by your hand, was the ferocity in your blown pupils and lengthy eyelashes beneath the dark warpaint smeared atop your eyelids. 

Glancing over your features once more, the pale white of the dress held stark contrast to the dark armor you adorned almost an hour prior. While your armor kept all of your features hidden to the world around you, the anonymity shielding you from emphasis on your features; this dress left little to the imagination. 

The deep hook of the backless dress clung low to your hips in an ovular shape, bodice dipping down to above your navel with a thin band of fabric dancing above your cleavage to suture the bust shut with barely any support. The length of the dress halted little below your hip bone on the left-hand side, the right hand side down to the ball of your ankle to allow for the straps of your gold heels to be revealed with each step you took against the floor. 

Your mind begins to wander the longer you stare at yourself in the mirror. This was the most provocative and scandalous item your boss had ever asked you to don. You almost allowed yourself to rush to the conclusion that your boss harbored more than simple favoritism for you, you assumed you were wearing this ensemble to impress a guest with your presence on his lap. 

Silence was nearly impossible with the gold-dipped base of your heeled shoes. Each step you took after exiting your suite echoed in a foreign clack that you were unaccustomed to creating with your foot-falls. 

Immediately upon entering the large celebratory area of Sir Crocodiles casino, you scanned the perimeter of the room for your boss to begin your new role for the night: the princess sitting upon his knee and doting on him with small caresses and whispers of praise within his ear. This was not a role you were exposed to often, but one you did well enough for him to continue asking for you after the first night you played it. 

You would be lying to yourself if you said you did not harbor affection for your boss. Nothing ever transpired between you after you had finished this role for the nights he asked you to fulfill. No brush of lips meeting yours, no writhing while sprawled out beneath him against the green fuzz of the gamblers table. He would bow his head in gratitude to you, his eyes blinking shut out of respect, and dismissing you without a further word. 

Adoration, respect, loyalty, and your wage is what bound you to that man. At each moment he spent with you on his lap, or performing a deadly task for him, your desire grew. You knew, without a semblance of a doubt, that you would cast aside your wage with an instant for the luxury of remaining by his side. You loved him, and it was the only thing that truly frightened you.

After concluding your brief scan of the room, you noticed Sir Crocodile was yet to make an appearance to darken the tables with his brutish figure. However, you smiled upon meeting the eyes of ‘Ophanim’ dressed in a simple waiter's uniform, with her sleeves rolled to her elbows and shaking a steel container filled with ice, syrups and hard liquor. She shot you a wink, gesturing with her chin to wait with her at the bar. 

An honest smile sprung to your lips as you grasped the barstool within your hands, taking a seat atop it and hooking your left knee over your right; the slit of your dress revealing the entirety of your left leg to your thigh. 

Immediately as you began to open your mouth to converse with your fellow “Choir” about her latest mission, your eyes were thrust into an amassment of lengthy cerulean hair. The person seemed to ignore you as their voice informed your friend of his order of a fruit-forward and harsh liquor cocktail with an insane amount of complex ingredients. The products he asked for sounded as if it would split and separate, with the immediate souring of creamy liquid with the acidic elements. 

Grimacing with your lips curled in disgust, the individual turned to meet your disapproving gaze: his eyes widening and breath hitching in his throat. A large, rotund red nose lay central to his features, his dark vest cinching his waist beneath a white shirt and dark trousers. He looked as if he was not comfortable wearing the assortment, as if it was a mask he was given to wear akin to your arrangement set aside by your boss. 

“You are fucking gorgeous,” he stumbled over his words, the syllables falling from his lips quicker than he could silence them within. Immediately your grimace upturned into a smile, forcing a laugh to flee from you at his unbridled compliment. You arched your left brow up, leaning in close to the individual in front of you and tightening his dark tie with your right hand. 

“You are very easy to look at, yourself,” you purred in return, assuming your flirtatious role with ease. You darted your gaze between his two teal eyes, a coy smile now pursing your lips together innocently, “And who might you be, bright eyes?” Your question had his heart swelling, his cheeks filling with a boyish fluster. 

“B-Buggy,” he wheezed, gulping back his words and grunting out a small cough to mask his uneasiness. “Captain Buggy D Clown,” he attempted to meet his elbow atop the bar, missing the polished wood entirely and instead stumbling under the uneven distribution of his weight. As air met his elbow with the heel of his palm capturing his chin, he flew his head down and met it against the wood with a harsh thump. 

Wincing in empathy, you immediately reached forward and claimed his cheeks within your palms and raised him back up to his former stature. You brushed his shoulders, readjusted his collar and checked over the rising swell atop his left temple. 

“Honey, can we get some ice please?” you asked your colleague who attempted to halt her laugh behind her palm, nodding as she retrieved the frosty cubes and placed them within a checkered tea towel. She passed it to you and shook her head, you nodding your thanks at her for the object and immediately reaching for the blunt-force trauma the blue-haired clown brought upon himself. 

“Are you alright Captain Buggy?” You asked him, holding your hand against the towel and pressing it firmly against the rising bruise. He clasped his left hand around your right, leaning into the touch you were providing him and closing his eyes. 

“I like the way your tongue makes my name sound,” he confessed in a breathy gasp. You again found yourself laughing at his words, the melodic ring of your voice stirring something dangerous within the purple hues of Sir Crocodile’s eyes. He continued watching your interaction with Buggy from his place darkening the threshold of the entrance to his casino. 

“What happened, Clown?” A voice called behind him, the curve of a pale shirt clinging to the back of a dark-haired individual you could barely see. Buggy apprehensively turned away from you and lulled his head towards the man with a snarling expression. 

“It’s her fault,” he gestured to you with his thumb, “She was sittin’ on that chair all innocent-like, as if she doesn’t look like walking sex.” 

“Hardly walking if she’s sitting,” the man called over in a bored and disinterested tone, without sparing so much as a glance in your direction. You found him intriguing, but you decided to match his energy and remain aloof to his comments yourself. 

Turning away from the two men beside you, you began moving your hands in a flurry of wordless gestures to your coworker as discreetly as you could.

‘Where is he?” you asked her, watching her hands flicker in response as she continued to attempt to uphold her own persona as bartender.

“Approaching slowly,” she managed to signal to you, before she placed a glass of wine in front of the broody aloof gentleman beside the clown. The corner of his lips ticked at the corner, a whisper of gratitude depicted on his face as he turned to face you with the crystal glass rising upwards. 

The small widening of his honey-coloured eyes told you all you needed to know within his gaze. Your head cocked to the side, your eyes wide and feigning innocence to the best of your abilities. 

“My, my,” he commented, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body from your decorated toes to the follicles of your styled hair, “I do see why you would be the cause for such a stumble.” He expertly brushed the blue-haired man away from you, extending his right hand forward to seek out your own and collecting your four fingers within his grip. 

He raised your hand to his lips, his mustache tickling the knobbed joints of your knuckles before his lips brushed against your flesh. Your eyes turned sultry, not once either of you breaking your eye contact against one another. 

Unable to control the rapidity of the thump within his chest and the dry lump forming in his throat, Sir Crocodile began a stalking approach towards you. How dare they fawn over you. You: his favorite of his Choirs. His angelic muse and harbinger of brutality. 

He knew you would make heads turn with the uniform he laid out for you, but he did not anticipate the primal urge swelling beneath him to pull you into himself and shield you away from their eyes. He wanted you all for himself, in any capacity you were willing to give it to him. He didn’t care that you were paid berry to serve him, it felt real enough for him.

“Dracule Mihawk,” he uttered against your flesh, withdrawing from his stoop and arching his back to puff his barely shielded chest to you, “And you are, my darling?” Before you could answer with your name, you felt a warm graze dancing up your spine. His breath tickled against your skin, tingling your spine beneath his lips as they pressed intent and longing to your flesh. 

On any other occasion, you may have been alarmed by such attention from an individual without seeing their face. The cologne dancing with the whisper of his last cigar floated with each kiss against your skin, informing you exactly who was giving you such a touch. 

He had never offered you this unbridled affection in the past, not allowing himself to give into his craving for you, and you not willing to test your place serving under him. This touch felt natural, his lips continuing to press into you, as you continued to hold your gaze on the eyes of the dark-haired man in front of you. 

Sir Crocodile’s lips found your left shoulder, his purple eyes pulling the swordsman’s attention away from you to meet with your boss as he continued to map his lips up your neck to your jaw. His left forearm circled around your front, the golden hook firmly secured against his wrist collecting your chin beneath the smooth surface. He turned your attention away from Mihawk to look into his eyes through lowered eyelashes. 

He leant forward, drawing your lips against his by the gentle tilt of his hook against your chin. Darting his tongue out to stroke yours, his nose brushed against your own as he circled his jaw to deepen the embrace. Your hands clutched the base of the stool you were sat atop to anchor yourself down for fear of floating to the roof. The hum of his lips in joy had a small moan pull from your lips the longer he was joined against you. 

You felt his right hand brush against your bicep, curling his firm grip around it as he pushed his chest flush with your own with a gentle turn of your body. He pulled away from the kiss, his eyes immediately falling to your rapidly swelling and kiss-bruised lips, slightly smudged paint falling below the perimeter of your bottom lip. Tapping your chin with his hook, your eyes darted from your own gaze against his lips to meet with his purple eyes. 

“My Seraphim,” the rumble of his voice and the small smirk of his lips had your attention hyper fixed and hanging on his every word. You held your gaze firmly affixed to his, watching as he turned away from you and greeted the men in front of you with the nod of his head and the small utterance of their names.

“Mihawk,” the rumble of his voice rubbing within his throat had your spine tingle with anticipation, “Buggy.” He turned back to meet your orbs that had not yet broken from his face, but raked your gaze over his face with half-lidded lashes. Your eyes continued to float in a daze against his lips and flittering back up to meet his gaze. 

He extended his right hand in a gesture for you to take it, you reacting immediately by placing your hand within his larger palm to encircle his digits around it. You allowed him to pull you away from your former position atop the barstool, your heels clicking against the floor as he escorted you to the desired table for the night. Now in the shroud of seclusion, he leaned down and uttered a small apology in your ear. 

“Forgive me,” he began, taking his seat within the plush armchair and patting his left knee with his right. Without hesitation, you gracefully placed yourself atop his thigh with the small flick of your hair, crossing your left knee over your right and arching your back. 

“What sins am I forgiving, sir?” you asked him, feeling the dangerous caress of his hook brushing against your spine and collecting a small portion of your hair within its curvature. Your boss took in a deep breath through his nose, expanding his broad chest beneath his suit jacket. His exhale had a small quake to it, his eyes closing as he basked under your attention.

You reached your hands and began to dance your fingertips against the hem of his collar. Although this was a routine you had practiced with him over man a night on his lap, this touch felt almost forbidden as his brows furrowed. 

“I should not have kissed you like that,” he uttered in a voice below a hushed whisper, “You deserve better than something so public. I desire you-... -for you to be treated as a seraphim I know you to be.” His vocal catch had your attention completely focussed on every word, your body leaning itself further as your hands halted their movement. 

“I am not a seraphim, sir,” your lips were now almost brushing with the shell of his ear, your hypnotic perfume, intoxicating and mesmerizing the larger gentleman the longer your presence remained atop his lap. He angled his head away from you, exposing the side of his neck to reveal the rapidity of his heartbeat displayed against his pulse. 

“And what are you, if not a seraphim,” he whispered darkly, allowing to be disarmed by your presence as he leant into your touch, yet away from the descent of your lips upon his ear. 

“I am your seraphim,” you confessed as your lips grazed against the sensitive flesh of his cheek, his dark hair tickling against your eyes. 

Sir Crocodile was glad he had withdrawn you to a secluded portion of his casino at this moment. He truly did not desire for the other two members of the Cross-Guild to notice how much of a grip you truly had around his heart, but refused to break away from your display of unrestrained physical affection. He knit his brows together, furthering their descent down his face as he processed your words.

“Because I pay you to be,” he uttered, leaning away from your touch and forcing the mask of his arrogance back onto his features. He dropped the hook from your hair, reaching his right hand into his left breast pocket to locate a thick cigar and his golden lighter. Placing the bitten end between his teeth and clamping down on it, he drew the flame up to his lips and attempted to ignite the end. 

“I will return my wage to you,” you uttered quietly after swiping the golden lighter from his hand and reigniting the flame, “I have no need for it when you take care of me so well.” His eyes held an aloof boredom to his expression, refusing to meet with your face as you lit his cigar for him. 

“And if my wealth was taken from me?” He questioned before inhaling the smoke from his cigar, exhaling it away from your face, “If I was to go to prison once more, what then?” Your eyes narrowed, your lip curling up to reveal your displeasure at the question.

“I would claw tooth and nail to free you from your confinement, sir,” you confessed, reaching your left hand forward and collecting his chin beneath your thumb and index finger, turning his jaw for his eyes to meet with yours once more, “And although living in luxury is a welcome experience, I would stand by you regardless.” His eyes depicted his craving for your words to be true, although not believing it yourself. 

He began to open his mouth to speak, silenced by your words cutting through the air like your daggers meeting with the jugular of your foe. 

“You have my loyalty, my blades, and my body at your disposal,” you leant forward further, darting your eyes between focusing on each of his. “Should you order me to jump, I will ask how high. Should you ask me to kneel, I will fall to my knees,” you continued, your grip holding more firmly against his chin, “Should you wordlessly aim your finger at an enemy, I would be a channel of your wrath as I claim their lives for you.” 

Allowing a few moments of thick silence to swell between you, you felt the scrape of his hook trailing itself against your spine, hovering over the soft point of your rib and pressing his point firmly into your flesh. 

“While your words are as beautiful as you are,” he whispered, looking down at the plunging neck of your dress and back up into your eyes, “They are as decorated by the impact of my wealth as your body is in that dress.” You narrowed your eyes at his comment, taking the expression as a challenge. 

Shrugging away from the point of his hook, you rose to your feet between his legs and slowly drew your hands up to the thin straps on your shoulders. You hooked your thumbs beneath the material and began to slowly slip the material over your shoulders and down your biceps. Sir Crocodile’s eyes widened, immediately reaching his right hand and left forearm to halt your hands from revealing more of your flesh to him. 

“What are you doing?” His growl should’ve had your actions stuttering in any other setting, but his rasp had your heart beating in desire in place of fear. 

“I have already informed you that I will be returning my wage to you,” you cocked your head to the side, arching your back towards him and looking down at him under your lustful expression, “Why not start with the dress you claim to despise so much.” The rise of his fluster depicted in his eyes at your words had a smirk drawing up to decorate your lips. 

“What has someone like me done to deserve such devotion from you, my seraphim?” he whispered, his right hand elevating the strap of your left shoulder and securing it firmly in its prior place. You followed suit with your right strap, securing it firmly against your shoulder and leaning further into his welcome embrace. 

He leant his torso closer to you, his broad forearms circling over your own with his fingertips brushing against your skin. You began to open your mouth, confessing your adoration for your boss further upon the tip of your tongue before crudely interrupted by the presence of the blue-haired clown followed behind by the broody gentleman from earlier.

“Are we playin’ cards yet, Croco?” Buggy’s voice hitched as he met with an intimate moment shared between you and Sir Crocodile. Your boss’ hands caressed your skin, pulling you against his torso as he aimed his disapproving gaze over your right shoulder. 

He growled at the interruption, his voice holding more feral animosity than he felt he should. You drew your hand up to claim his cheek in the palm of your right hand, looking down at him with your eyes holding your unspoken answer of lustful adoration at him. His breath hitched as his gaze met with yours, prompting his right hand to grasp the flesh of your back firmer within his spread fingertips. 

“I recall you having barely enough berry to survive the last time we played, Clown,” Mihawk’s aloof tone called from beside him. Neither you nor Sir Crocodile paid either man any mind, too wrapped up in the intimate moment you were sharing holding one another. 

You removed the cigar from Crocodile’s teeth in your left hand, stooping forward and claiming his lips beneath your own. Your nose brushed against his, the kiss as hastily departing in severance of the connection as it did in its descent. He arched his chin up, chasing your retreat with his eyes closed. 

“Shall I get the table ready, sir?” You asked him in a subtle whisper, relishing in the small hum of pleasure falling from the lips of your boss. His eyes split slowly open, remaining half-lidded as he lulled his head on his neck to glance at you. The silver mark splitting his face danced in the illuminance of the soft bar light, his striking features appearing more chiseled under its glow. 

“Please,” he spoke slowly, his tongue darting out and danced as the ‘L’ passed his lips. You raked his hair back over his scalp, replacing the fallen strands in their rightful place, while leaning down once more with a smirk.

“Right away, sir,” you purred at him while returning his cigar to his teeth, watching as he bit the tip with a small snarl. Turning and walking away to collect several items to place atop the green felt for your boss to engage in a game of cards with his two unlikely colleagues, eyes fixed on your back as you exited the secluded area.

“Who is she?” Buggy’s shocked voice cracked out the stuttered question also plaguing Mihawk’s mind. Sir Crocodile relaxed in his chair, inhaling the cigar smoke deeply into his lungs and holding it. Upon it exiting from his lungs, he confessed the place you held within his heart with the utterance of two words.

“My favorite.”

[woodchuck019]

Crowley was Raphael?

WARNING: MAJOR GOOD OMENS 2 SPOILERS

Ok, so in the last few years we all enjoyed the headcanon that Crowley was the Archangel Raphal pre-Fall. To be completely honest, in season one this theory didn't make a lot of sense because we knew basically nothing about Crowley as an angel except for the fact that he helped create the stars and fell because he asked too many questions. So, even though it was a nice and interesting theory, I thought it would remain that, a theory.

Well, seems like this theory is basically confirmed now at the end of season 2. But let's start at the beginning.

First, we have to talk about the Hierarchy of Angels in Christianity. This Hierarchy was theorized by Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite in his book De Coelesti Hierarchia (On the Celestial Hierarchy). Dionysius described nine levels of spiritual beings which he grouped into 9 orders.

Highest orders:

Seraphim

Cherubim

Thrones

Middle orders:

Dominions

Virtues

Powers

Lowest orders:

Principalities

Archangels

Angels

Now, a lot of people asked Neil why the Archangels have so much power if they are so low in the Hierarchy and he said that he and Terry actually tought of archangels and Archangels as different beings.

So we have the arch-angels, in thre sense of being just above the lowest Choir of angels, and then we have the Arch-angels, in the sense of being above all angels.

Actually, the term archangel itself is not found in the Hebrew Bible or the Christian Old Testament, and in the Greek New Testament the term archangel is used referring to Michael, who is called 'one of the chief princes,' and 'the great prince'.

The idea of seven archangels is most explicitly stated in the apocryphal Book of Tobit when Raphael reveals himself, declaring: "I am Raphael, one of the seven angels who stand in the glorious presence of the Lord, ready to serve him."

In Judaism the Archangels are given the title of śārīm, meaning "princes", to show their superior rank and status, so they are also called "Princes of Heaven".

In season 2 episode 6, when Crowley is in Heaven trying to find any info on Gabriel, Muriel gives him the missing Archangel's file explaining that even if they wanted, they couldn't show it to him, since only angels above the rank of Dominions could access it. Immediately after, without putting in any effort, Crowley opens the file, saying that he was an angel once and they never bothered to change passwords. (I totally read a fic like this btw).

When the Archangel Saraquel meets them and recognises Crowley, she says that they worked together on the Horsehead Nebula. So Crowley must have been pretty high up in the ranks if he worked with an Archangel.

When they show us the scene of the trial, Gabriel is ready to be cast down to Hell, but the Metatron stops him and says:

"You are not going to hell. For one Prince of Heaven to be cast into the outer darkness makes a good story. For it to happen twice makes it look like there is some kind of institutional problem."

So we know that one of the Seven Archangels has Fallen, and it could be Lucifer, even though in the bible it is never stated that he was an archangel, but wouldn't they have said so if it were the case?

Also in episode 2, when Shax tells Crowley that Heaven and Hell think Aziraphale has something to do with Gabriel's disappearence, she says:

"A miracle of enormous power happened last night. The kind of miracle only the mightiest of Archangels could've performed".

Reminds you of something? Raphael, one of the mightiest of Archangels?

I really hope they will confirm the theory in season 3.

[neil-gaiman]

Uhm hi, so i am confused about some power dynamics in heaven in good omens. In the show Aziraphale (who is described as a principalitie) always acts as if Gabriel and the other archangels are his superiors, yet in the actual angelic hierachy as described in the bible, there are apparently nine "choirs" (ranks) of angels and principalities stand above archangels. Did you change that for the show/book? Or is Aziraphale actually more powerful, but just too nice? I'd love to know. Also sorry if my english is weird, its not my native language.

I've answered a few times here. Does this one help?

[talonabraxas]

9 Types of Angels 𖤐 Kris 𝖃 Riot Goblin 𖤐 @KristinaSOSKi

Angels are heavenly beings that are usually believed to be servants of God who can carry out his wish on Earth. There are different orders of angels that are called angelic choirs. There are three main types of angels, with angelic choirs within each larger type: first sphere, second sphere, and third sphere.

9 Types of Angels

[santoschristos]

9 Types of Angels

𖤐 Kris 𝖃 Riot Goblin 𖤐 KristinaSOSKi

Angels are heavenly beings that are usually believed to be servants of God who can carry out his wish on Earth. There are different orders of angels that are called angelic choirs. There are three main types of angels, with angelic choirs within each larger type: first sphere, second sphere, and third sphere.

9 Types of Angels

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

Kabbalistic angels

Examples of the nine choirs of angels

[secretwhumplair]

Reunion

1,700 words | No Warrior (sequel to Smith)

Content | Injury, past trauma

Notes | Exactly what it says on the tin! Also, throwback (for everyone) to when Yves first arrived.

Taglist | @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​ @whump-me-all-night-long​​​​ @whumpadump1939​​ @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight

@whumpzone @angel-stars​​ @kixngiggles​​ @whumpsy-daisies @yet-another-heathen

@rosesareviolentlyread @cupcakes-and-pain @hollowtreesinhollowwoods @pleasancies @much-ado-about-whumping

@nine-tailed-whump​​ @whump-em @itsleighlove @newbornwhumperfly​​​ @tears-and-lilies

@deluxewhump @whump-cravings @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning @neverthelass

@whumpsday @silent-orchid-lady @everynameistakencarrots @scoundrelwithboba

»Sails!«

Yves was with the weavers when the call sounded through the village, picked up by voice after voice, and he had never seen them drop their work so quickly. And he understood, more completely than he would have believed — his heart, too, leapt at the message, and following their example, he didn’t feel bad abandoning his work just as swiftly.

It took a long while for the ship that had been spotted to actually reach the shore — long enough for a whole crowd to gather at the pier. Yves stood with Runar’s family, next to Ingunn holding little Bragi on her arm.

Runar would be so excited to meet his nephew. The thought warmed Yves’ heart, even as it hammered against his chest a little too fast. He had been thinking of Runar a lot. Had been thinking about what he wanted to say to him once he returned. About how to tell him how his life, his feelings, his whole heart had changed. How everything was different now.

He wondered whether Runar’s summer had changed him, too.

As the ship drew nearer, its shape seemed more and more familiar, calling back to when he, himself, had sailed. It seemed somehow wrong now that he hadn’t gone with them.

Cheers erupted when the ship came into earshot, from both sides, greetings and welcomes, and Yves, too, called out, his voice just one of the choir.

And yet, amidst the joy, something darker reared its head — a reminder of how he had been when he arrived, the way Runar and the others arrived now, all those months ago, of all that fear and all that pain. Perhaps it had never been away, only dormant.

He had to push it down, that memory of how he had cowered in that same ship as the warriors landed, frozen with cold and terror.

He forced a smile, determined to make it true before the day was out.

* Runar always looked forward to coming home, but this time was… different. And it wasn’t even that he was hoping to meet his sister-child for the first time.

He should pull himself together. Things had been complicated when he left, and if he didn’t fuck it up, this could be a fresh start. But it was hard when they approached the pier, and Yves was right there in the front row, wearing a blue tunic with a striped pattern that seemed just the right level of complexity to be personally made by someone who was, though still with much left to learn, progressing in his weaving skill, and — Runar’s heart skipped a beat — his dark hair, now past chin-length, braided as one who was waiting for someone who had left to sea.

He seemed happy to be standing there, up front, too — at ease and confident enough, and when he set eyes on Runar, a smile broke across his face.

Runar’s heart did a weird little hop, as if it were about to leap out of his mouth.

He swallowed. He had to be sensible.

And there was Ingunn, too, standing right by Yves, a tiny little baby on her arm.

That did not make him feel more normal, but it did help distract him from Yves a little. He’d have to take it easy for him; the baby, on the other hand, wouldn’t care, not yet.

He was among the first to leap off the ship, and his heart was still in his throat, and he couldn’t even decide who he wanted to greet first, swaying like a leaf in the wind for a moment, overwhelmed with joy and love, before Yves, still smiling, waved him towards Ingunn.

»Welcome home! Meet Bragi!« Ingunn sounded as excited as he felt. »Bragi, that is your uncle.«

The little glob of human gripped his finger with a tiny hand as he reached out to him. Runar didn’t think he could get any more emotional, but that nearly brought him to tears.

Eventually, though, he pulled himself free, and that was when — before he could even fully turn — Yves slammed into him, pulling him right into a hug.

And Runar’s heart just melted.

As much as he had tried to be sensible over the past months, he couldn’t deny that as he wrapped Yves into his arms. He had hoped Yves was doing well, of course, but then how could he have expected his poor heart to be normal about actually seeing him before himself with all that newfound confidence and — dare he say — happiness?

The brilliant smile Yves gave him, looking up at him, sure seemed to allow the word. »Welcome back.«

»Thanks. Hi. Are you — you look good.«

Yves nodded, pulling out of his arms. For a moment, Runar was tempted to catch his hand, but he would never hold Yves against his will.

»You look alright,« Yves replied, the smile making way for a more serious expression.

»I’m fine. I’m great, actually. It’s good to be home.« Yves. There he was, right in front of him. »How has your summer been?«

The smile returned. »Good. It was — yes, it was good.« A moment’s hesitation, and then he added, so quiet that Runar almost might have believed his ears were playing tricks, »I missed you.«

Gods. How was he supposed to act normal?

It didn’t help that next on the schedule was the long-awaited bath.

He remembered how it had been last year — how Yves was so insecure on his feet Runar felt compelled to support him, how terrified he had been. They had barely been able to communicate. And now, Yves confidently walked along with him, carrying fresh clothes for them both — just like he had done then. He could barely listen to Ingunn on his other side, chatting away about the news in the village.

As usual, she abandoned them when they reached the hot springs, if a little more careful than usual, with the baby.

Runar undressed, prepared to go ahead and give Yves some privacy. He had taken him to take baths multiple times, of course, last winter, but he had quickly realized it was a sensitive matter for him, and had avoided watching him while he was naked and bare.

But Yves didn’t even hesitate to undress. He seemed so confident that Runar allowed himself a covert look.

He was still slender — he always would be — but nowhere near as agonizingly thin as he had been a year ago, recovered muscle padded in just enough fat now not to be concerning. All his wounds were healed, the scars fading into the skin. There were a few bruises, but nothing, Runar remembered after a moment of alarm, that wasn’t explained by training. He was proud, even, that Yves could apparently handle these minor hurts without being pulled back to darker times. He’d still check in with Yves about that later, just in case.

* Yves had gotten used to taking his baths alone, but he found it didn’t frighten him to undress in company, now.

Not in this company, anyway.

He found his eyes tracing Runar’s form as he went ahead into the hot springs; soft, round shapes moving with such strength, thin white scars here and there-

His heartrate picked up again before his eyes caught on Runar’s left forearm, tidily wrapped in bandages Runar started to undo when he was mostly submerged in the warm water.

»You’re injured.« Yves splashed into the water himself, now hurrying to catch up to him.

Runar turned, smiling. »It’s nothing, just a scratch.«

»Let me help you.« His breath caught in his throat at how easily the words fell from his tongue; his hands barely hesitated when he reached out to undo the bandages Runar was struggling with, with only one hand reaching.

It was so different from how it had been, a year ago. His heart was in his throat, but in a way that was so very different.

When he was done, revealing a long, thin, scabbed-over cut, he looked up to see Runar’s eyes resting on him, softer still than he remembered.

He didn’t know why he blushed.

They bathed together, helped one another clean their backs. Yves’ skin drew into goosebumps, and he almost could have blamed the cold air.

Freshly cleaned and clothed, they went down to the feast.

Yves paused in the doorway to the longhouse, and Runar noticed immediately.

»Are you okay?«

Yves could only nod, unsure how to put into words how overwhelmed he was, not with fear, but with its absence. Maybe there was a little undercurrent of nerves somewhere, but compared with last year, when the filled room with its delicious scents sent him into a panic? He found himself blinking away tears.

Runar gently laid a hand on his shoulder. »Are you sure?«

»Yes.« Yves smiled up at his concerned face. Even Runar’s worry no longer seemed suffocating — just endearing.

They took their seats in the hall, and feasted, and exchanged stories. Yves, with an easy heart, helped serve the table.

That was when Brandr approached him.

Yves straightened. He would not let Brandr take away his happiness — happiness? him? what a breathtaking thought — again.

He was ready.

»I owe you an apology,« Brandr said bluntly.

Yves was so taken aback he couldn’t respond, and to his immense surprise, Brandr reacted by stepping back a little.

»Yes. You do.« His voice came out a little louder than he planned. There it was, that anxiety again. He was talking back.

He pushed it away. He wasn’t even doing that.

Brandr threw up his hands. »So. ‘m sorry. Seems you recovered alright.«

Yves nodded, then after a moment’s hesitation, he said, »Thank you.«

He knew why Brandr was doing this. The community needed to stick together, and he, Yves… he was one of them. It wouldn’t be right for him to hold a grudge.

»Everything alright?« Runar met him halfway back to the table after he and Brandr parted.

»He apologized.«

»Oh.« Runar seemed almost as surprised as Yves had been, but then he nodded. »Right so.«

They sat and feasted long into the night.

And then, when everything was done, Yves and Runar walked home together.

[ardentprose]

the day matt murdock became devout

Type: angst, no relationships, young!matt murdock

Length: 1.5k~ | 6 min

Warnings: grief; mourning; mention of bullying; religious subjects; mention of blood and injuries; depression

Feel free to message me if a necessary warning isn’t mentioned.

Summary: A short scene exploring the time shortly after nine-year-old Matt Murdock loses his father.

Read on AO3

A/N: (I am still figuring out how to format these...) So this one was written after a downward spiral of emotion. I wrote it in one sitting and lightly edited it, but it's not beta read. I'm not Catholic, so forgive me if anything is amiss. However, I was raised in a religious background and this draws inspiration from that.

This is the song that inspired the work and which I kept on repeat while writing, if any are interested.

__________

Nine years old is too young to know the taste of blood.

It smells like acrid dust that burns the throat.

It smells of rain and rotting wood and moth balls.

It smells of claustrophobic velvet.

Matt doesn’t know where he is. All he knows is he ran with hands outstretched, stumbling into walls and corners until he found a closet deep in the recesses of the church.

It’s dark. It’s quiet. It’s safe. For now.

Sobbing until he chokes on the blood running into his mouth and spewing from his lips. Salt and iron.

Dust. Cobwebs. He knows there are spiders in the corner above his head. He doesn’t know why but he knows they are there, on webs that thrum like pricked violin strings.

Loneliness, like a dagger, tears with every inhale. It deepens the black gash of loss that has bled into the cavity of his chest for weeks now. His ribcage thunders against his heartbeat. His veins strain with agony.

Matt falls to his knees in scuffed jeans. He swallows, grasping at oxygen before the next round of grief wracks his body.

He’s scared.

He’s alone.

Alone.

So very al-

May we sing.

Together.

Always.

Matt huffs, trying to stop the momentum of soft cries tumbling from his lips. His panic stops only because his curiosity outweighs it. He tilts his head, his ears ringing with voices.

May our voice be soft.

Soprano. Alto. Tenor. Bass.

A choir.

Angels.

May our singing be music for others

And may it keep others aloft.

Matt sucks in a sharp breath, determined to stop crying so loud so he could hear. It wasn’t that the choir was distant, it was that his body was too close. He could hear everything, from his heart, to his blood, to his organs convulsing and squelching and it was scary. He was so scared.

He wanted a hug. But his father was gone.

He has no mother.

He has no one.

A wail tempers at his mouth, threatening to spill, but he bites his lip until it stings. Matt bows his head, screwing his eyes shut and holding his breath so he could hear better.

Sing,

Sing gently,

Always.

Sing,

Sing as one.

He releases his breath slowly. His body shudders.

May we stand together,

Always.

May our voice be strong.

The voices blend together as they carry to the ceilings of the cathedral and echo throughout the church. Matt can picture it. He can sense it. His eyes flit back and forth, chasing fiery impressions behind his eyelids as they continually morph into different shapes.

He rests his forehead on his crossed forearms, bowed into a shivering ball on the ground. His cries become ragged whispers.

The voices rise once more and caress his senses. They lull him into a state of temporary stability. Nowhere near alright, but just enough to be fascinated.

To be transfixed. To have a shred of comfort.

Guilt flashes across Matt’s chest. Maybe he shouldn’t be eavesdropping. He shouldn’t be here, hiding from Sister Maggie and the other nuns. He’s going to get in so much trouble if he doesn’t show up for dinner.

But he can’t bear to leave the four walls he’s cowered in, listening to the choral melodies reverberate around him. It feels like a cocoon. Like a safe haven.

May we hear the singing and

May we always sing along.

Fresh, hot tears pour from Matt’s obscured eyes. Peace, or at least a semblance of it, takes the tension from his shoulders. He presses into the floor, now sobbing for a completely different reason.

Now he cries for the beautiful music soothing his heart. He cries for the comfort he’s longed for since everything changed for the worst. He cries for the choir with their sacred voices singing for a divine love towards heaven and one another.

How badly he wants to be apart of it all. To not be alone anymore.

He hugs himself tighter and tries to remember his father’s scarred hands on his stomach and back.

No one hugs here. Not law enforcement, social services, or reporters. He’s too old for the nuns to give him more than a reluctant pat on the back, pushing him towards his next activity on the itinerary.

For one sacred second, here in this closet, Matt Murdock feels comforted, held, and loved. Through their voices alone, Matt feels the presence of God wrapped around him.

If the church was the bride of Christ, then maybe it could be his mother as well. Embrace him with the maternal affection he will never experience in the flesh.

_____

Matt jolts awake, startled at first.

Why is it so dark? Where is he? Where did the voices go? Did he fall asleep and for how long because it’s so dark and- oh.

Right.

His heartbeat settles as he remembers everything. Then his brow crumbles, threatening to repeat the entire process of the previous moment.

A firm hand squeezes his shoulder.

“Matthew? Matthew Murdock?”

A low, soft voice. Father Lantom. He recognizes that quiet authority from mass.

Matt is half asleep, eyes swollen and aggravated. His temples pulse with the start of a migraine. His lips are puffy from being chewed on, drool and spit and blood crusting on his round cheeks. He flushes with embarrassment at how he must look in front of the priest.

“Son, what are you doing in here?” He’s in huge trouble now.

How can he explain to the priest that he wasn’t trying to disobey? He just needed to-

He only wanted to…

Hide.

He doesn’t remember how it started. Only that the other boys made fun of his father for losing a match and that he must not have been that good. Jack Murdock was probably so embarrassed he killed himself and then, Matt’s hands were flying out in wild directions until they struck someone. Then he was shoved. Kicked. And a fist flew into his nose.

The sound of his cartilage crunching and the blood bursting from between his skin cells terrified him more than the pain of being beat up by three other boys. Somehow he crawled far enough away to scramble to his feet.

Their laughter and feet were loud and so he ran. He ran, collecting more bruises on his knees, face and feet as he kept slamming into things, unaware of his surroundings and too terrified to orient himself.

Then he found the closet. The choir. God’s divine bride cradling him in heavenly voices.

“I…” Matt shuffles into a sitting position, still half-coherent. He felt drunk on the music and now that it had stopped, he felt the stark emptiness that was quickly taking over his whole life and becoming a constant companion.

Father Lantom hums and Matt can feel he’s being stared at.

“Never mind it. You’ve made quite the mess. Let’s get you outta here and cleaned up. We’ll have you back to the nuns before anyone’s the wiser.”

“Sir? I-I mean Father…” Matt is confused by the lack of punishment. He’s trying to sort through why he can hear Father Lantom’s skin stretch into a smile and further away, hear the sound of churchgoers arriving in the sanctuary. Footsteps and coats and soft greetings.

“Unless you have something to confess?”

“What?” Now, Matt’s truly confused. Did the boys lie to the nuns? Well, Matt did instigate it…but it was in self-defense so technically speaking-

“Matthew, you’re sitting on the floor of the confessional and by the look of that guilty face, something awful is weighing on your conscience. It’s enough that you’ve made quite the mess in here and those blood stains won’t come out that carpet for a good while. Now, either tell me what’s on your mind or let’s clean you up.”

“Oh…sorry.” Matt sniffs. He runs the back of his arm across his face, unbeknownst to him, smearing the snot and blood garishly across his young face.

Father Lantom sighs. He stands up, then offers his hand. “Up you go, Matthew.”

Matt accepts the hand that pulls him to his feet as if he weighs nothing.

Father Lantom clamps down on Matt’s shoulder and Matt expects him to turn his small body in the direction of the nearest bathroom to clean up.

Matt nearly twists his ankle as Father Lantom pulls Matt into his chest instead. Matt finds his face buried in the priest’s shirt, buttons pressing into his cheek. The priest hunches slightly to wrap both arms around the young boy.   

Hugging him.

Matt’s lips tremble, but he couldn’t face anyone if he cried again. Besides, he was too exhausted. Everything hurt.

Father Lantom pulls back, keeping his arm across the young boy’s shoulders. Matt turns his face up at him, waiting for some explanation.

“You just looked like you could use it.” Father Lantom smiles. Then, satisfied with his appraisal, Father Lantom turns Matt’s stance the opposite direction and begins to walk with him towards the back exit, towards the orphanage.

“Now, we’ll keep this a secret between us. Priestly confidentiality and all that. I’ll tell Sister Susan a wild rat got into the booth and I had to do what I had to do.”

Matt snorts. Pain flares up his nose, across his face and to his temples.

But he keeps smiling. Bloody face and all.

[sapphic-bats]

If I, say, began writing a post-season two fic that had to do with the Second Coming and a bunch of succubi/incubi and lords of Hell getting restless, would anyone be interested?

[tel-farkas]

"Seraph"

Digital drawing, March 2024.

Canonically official? Definitive not (yet).

Biblical correct? Yeah, sort of.

Big part of my head canon? Hell, yes!

Crowley has to be a Seraph! This thought is carved into my brain since I deep dived into the mythology of the nine choirs of angels. Seraphim, also known as "the bruning ones" , are high ranked angels often described with snake-like body parts.

So why not drawing Crowley as a Seraph?

What do you think, what kind of angel he used to be?

[thegreatyin]

angel trivia is second nature to me so it's easy to forget the average person probably only knows the names of the nine choirs and one or two traditional colorful renaissance paintings of cherubim and seraphim. and the named archangels, of course

[a-spicy-reader]

Sativa

Synopsis: Lee SooHyuk raises his heavy eyes, the black cap covers him a little and it bothers you. The man places his palm in front of the cigarette and lights it the first time his finger rolls around the lighter. The first drag is strong, he bites in, letting the smoke penetrate his lungs for a few seconds and then slowly releasing it.

---------

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

English is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes

-----------

The beat of the music numbs your ears as you peek through the gap in the curtain at the number of people that night. A packed house, no other girl was at your level when it came to entertainment and it was exactly for this reason that there were two security guards in front of the stage so that no guy would touch you.

The limits are established between touching the garter attached to the thigh and the panties tight inside the ass, practically invisible when standing. Her heels click against the floor as the name is announced and the screams intensify like a choir.

You didn't dream of being a stripper when you were younger, you didn't want to have that life for so long… that was the thought you walked through the front door of Holy Girls Night.

The first time on stage seemed scary and you felt like giving up everything, but it was that guy who looked at your show and said: — You'll be the best in this place, I have no doubt.

The tone of voice was as deep as thunder, that statement sounded like a prophecy. It didn't take more than nine months for Cheryl to be the best-known name in all the nightclubs in Los Angeles.

The transformation happened on stage when the white light on your face meets the spotlights that illuminate the pole, the noise around you doesn't intimidate you and you become the woman that all those men would like to take home.

Such a short dress without any staging, her bare back amidst her hair loose in curls that reach the top of her ass, she smells her own perfume exhale and likes it, she feels the vibration of the sound pulsate in her body and begins dancing slowly to the beats of the chosen song.

The first turn around the pole makes you see your audience from the front, not smile. Just see them as they really are, a shower of money. Sensual music plays in the background, concentrated on the beat as you walk in front of the catwalk and go down to the first man who looks mesmerized at your thighs, squats with his legs squeezed together and rolls as if he were on top of a dick. The first notes start to be played on top of her without so much effort.

A delicious and exorbitant euphoria grew in your chest, the feeling that there was no woman in the world who was as hot as you. She gets on all fours with her ass stuck out towards them, rolls slowly and then gets up, moving her hands from her ankles until she reaches her thighs.

She turned around and placed her hands on the hem of the silver dress she was wearing, moving her hands up her body and grabbing her breasts. The euphoric screams increase when she puts her fingers on the curve of her neck and pulls the metal strip that holds that piece of cloth that she called a dress.

At the exact moment the piece falls onto your acrylic platform sandals, money rains down like a storm outside. The breasts were completely exposed, with only the nipples covered with a small silver sticker. The panties are so small that they barely cover your crotch and yet you don't care about that, you love and vibrate with every scream of your name, with all the nasties that could say… it's exciting. Being hot turned you on, you know you're too good not to be a pure exhibitionist.

Among familiar faces, the man in the black cap is near the bar, you can barely see him due to the reflection of the lights. But, his golden chain shines among the others, his presence is marked as usual. Every Friday he would be there, watching his work from afar.

This encourages her to be much more provocative, makes her want to be the devil in the heads of all those men. I wanted to turn them inside out every time I spun around on the pole, slowly climb up letting them see my ass, use my body weight to float one foot behind the other, walking on air while my hands are firmly holding the post. The sensuality increases when it rises to the top and quickly descends, reaching half of it, with the legs around it, grabbing it between the thighs and falling back with the torso looking at the others in front.

Everything is about the size of your ass, how those panties would be swallowed up on the next climb and that it would end the next second you hit the catwalk again. He climbs the pole once again and comes down, spreading his legs in a perfect scale, the eminent madness of all those men when his ass moves sensually one side at a time, swings it with such ease and the rain doesn't stop falling in over you.

Standing on all fours again, he adjusts his posture for his final act. Crawl to the middle of the walkway and lie down with your belly up, raising your legs in the air and open them slowly as you get up to sit down, it is possible that he will see you on the side of the bar, the perfect view of the woman who left him completely mad.

Not so different from the other men there, completely maddened by the idea that that woman would rip out his soul if she could, she would transform him into her faithful slave.

Cheryl ends the show and the lights go out, now was the exact time to collect the money as she gathered the bills she won in her arms. It takes exactly 60 seconds for her to do this.

The clothes were collected by the team that cleaned the stage for the next girl, but there was no next girl after her show. It was the grand finale, the best in the house, the one she was keeping in that place just by showing her ass.

Backstage is not as glamorous as it appears to be on stage. The number of girls who dress up for the salon, willing to make more money from their audience seems formidable.

It excites you, it stirs up the lioness hungry for meat, money and everything those men could offer. Cars, jewelry, mansions, marriage proposals and the most common: drugs.

You could stay to move around the room, make the house profit with drinks and also have much more in private dances. But, today is Friday… you know he would never let her enter the private room since they took over a bid.

Your only mission was to get home before any crazy people could follow you out of the club - this had happened frequently in the last few months.

All that shine makes her black skin shine in front of the dressing room mirror, she shakes her hair, combing it with her fingertips to unwind the curls that were forming again as a result of not holding the brush for too long. Those wild waves make everything more attractive when it was about you.

She gets up from her chair and says goodbye to some friends. She goes towards the changing room with three showers available to clean all that shine from her skin, getting rid of the small silver sticker on her nipples and the panties with the silicone sides taken off. He ties his hair in a high bun so it doesn't get wet, and turns on the shower.

A sudden relief when she felt the water wet her sweaty body and all the glitter dripped off as she cleaned herself. The smell of the foam from your liquid soap exudes in the bathroom, just as the bath oil perfumed your skin afterwards, you wouldn't touch your makeup now, you would leave it to take off at home where you would feel more comfortable.

The bath is over and now your only mission is to leave.

She wears a dress similar to the one she was on stage, the difference is that this one at least covered her butt completely and the halter top makes her more comfortable. She lets her hair down before taking her suitcase from the closet, all the bills were thrown into a black plastic bag and she would take it away anyway, without even counting a note.

She would receive her pay for the show the next day, too tired to drag herself to the register or past customers.

He didn't want him to do that, to attract attention from others off stage. He should just do his job and leave because you are exclusively his.

You take a deep breath as you put your bag aside and leave through the back of the club, the sound is not audible on that side and the parked cars appear to be on the other side.

the way is not to your car, much less would you go home alone that night. The route is straight through the staircase at the back of the nightclub that led to a small gate facing left, you know the access password and then enter without making any fuss.

He closes the gate and soon feels his shoes sink into the green lawn until he reaches the concrete floor that leads to the entrance of the house, a beautiful house hidden by walls more than two meters high and an electric fence. The interior light is on, the yellow color shows that the room is occupied and you think about retreating…

If he was with one of his friends or work occupied him once again. The camera at the entrance demonstrates how dangerous it could be, not only because of the image of you entering that place, but also of your security guards outside.

Strategically, there were three more men in that garden and you know, they all already suspected what he was going to do there.

Danger excites her in an uncontrolled way, she feels butterflies in her stomach every time she sees a gun in front of her. When you enter the main door and have your bag of money in your hands.

That was nothing compared to what was on the coffee table, four guns like an ornament amidst tablets wrapped in black plastic. You don't need to be intelligent to know what he was about, you know what he is… and that's exactly why you felt so attracted to him.

The smell… that delicious smell that makes her smile. He goes up the stairs to the first floor confidently until he arrives in the main room where there is a huge white sofa, where the man is sitting with his shirt open and his hands working on carefully rolling up the silk.

His glock on the table catches the eye, silver with some gold details, underneath it is his initial and that's so… sexy.

He rolls the silk between his fingers and uses the tip of his tongue to seal the joint. Tired of holding that bag and purse aside, she throws it on the floor.

— You didn't stay until the end of the show. -she says disappointed. Lee SooHyuk looks up with heavy eyes, the black cap covers him a little and it bothers you. The man places his palm in front of the joint and lights it the first time his finger rolls over the lighter. The first drag is strong, he bites in, letting the smoke penetrate his lungs for a few seconds and then slowly releases it.

Your goddess is there, wearing a blue mini dress and a nice pair of heels. Cheryl… that was the name of the slut who had taken all that strength from him, the woman who made him kneel at her feet and kiss them as if he were devoted to her.

-Come here. -she says, releasing the smoke on the second drag. She walks as if she is about to swallow the man, a sensual walk that goes unnoticed every time she appears at her house… or rather, their house.

Standing in front of the man, she raised her leg to the height of the sofa, sinking her heel into the upholstery. Lee puts his right hand that held the cigarette between his fingers and slides it gently, brushing its softness. He touches his lips and the tip of his nose, rubbing it against the inside of his thigh.

She takes the joint between her fingers and inhales slowly, lets the smoke enter her lungs and relaxes her shoulders, bends her right knee on top of the upholstery, sitting down facing the man and sitting on his lap. Lee SooHyuk's big hands go directly to her ass, flattening them, squeezing the soft flesh and you let go slowly with a chuckle on your face. — How much did you make tonight? -he asks, you put the cigarette back in his mouth but don't let him hold it. After all, Lee's hands roam his ass with devotion.

— I didn't tell you.

— You never have to worry about that. -laughs breathlessly. Its smell is so good that it is more numbing than the herb I was smoking, that good smell of musk mixed with vanilla… which when added to marijuana would be so delicious. He loved it when Lee SooHyuk was tall, with his eyes almost closing and his smile slow, because he knew that was how that man would destroy his life if he could.

He takes his right hand off his ass and takes the cigarette back to inhale and the moment he takes off his black cap, the big strands fall onto his face. His hands tangle in Lee's thick hair, pushing the strands back and he soon gets a whiff of smoke in his face. The man takes his other hand off your ass, holds your jaw while he inhales the cigarette once more and releases the smoke into your mouth, you inhale taking it into your lungs. You feel the lightness in your body every second that Lee SooHyuk stares at you as if he could eat you.

You move slowly to position yourself better, and without waiting you receive a sharp slap on the left side of your ass, making you jump a little. She locks her fingers around the back of Lee's head, the naughty laugh completely takes you off her feet, and that mix of sensations that makes her go crazy almost instantly. He puts the tip of the joint for you to inhale and this time it's you who blows the smoke in your face. His hearty laugh amuses you, as does he slowly moves his thighs on top of your lap where you feel his dick growing.

— I think I should go back to doing private dances. -babbling. I get up from Lee SooHyuk's lap and he shakes his head no. — The money is good, and I should take advantage of the fact that I'm becoming famous…

— Oh, of course! There are a hundred rappers wanting you to appear in a video. -he ironizes, the man leans his back against the backrest and slides a little further down the sofa. —What more could you want right now, Cheryl?

-At the time? -an innocent question, she opens the bag of money, leaving it next to Lee's revolver. —I only think about one thing.

— What would it be, my dear? -you shudder when he calls you that, a shiver rises on your neck causing a small spasm. She turns the bag upside down, letting the bills fall all at once onto the coffee table.

-Money. -she whispers. She leans forward, resting one knee on the small wooden table to pick up Lee's gun. — And one of those.

— Do you want a gun?

— Uh-huh. -he says slyly, placing her back on the table. Her position is suggestive of her and almost an invitation to the man, who appreciates the fabric of the dress rising up against her skin and showing her tiny panties being swallowed by her ass. Lee feels his dick throbbing inside his underwear, he squeezes it tightly over his pants. The excitement increases every time she was by her side, no matter the time or place, and that was exactly why she couldn't watch the show until the end.

The tiny panties are almost reaching his pussy lips, they are too small and he can have the perfect view of his favorite place in the whole world.

— Why do you want a gun? -he asks mesmerized, the woman turns around, lifting her torso and facing Lee.

Power.

— More than you already have? -she notices that he passes his hand over his pants, the lump in the fabric excites you. —What do you want to do with that much power, my dear?

— Tame you. -he answers wisely.

— Tame me? -laughs breathlessly. The joint was gone and now he just stares at you like you're his only focus now. - Why do you want that?

-I don't know. -she responds. — I just want to.

— And for that you need to go back to doing private dances? -you shake your head positively at him, stretch your lips in a half smile and then bite the lower one. — Then dance for me. -the intensity in his voice makes her vibrate. — You've shaken your ass long enough for other men, now you're going to shake it just for me.

-I go? - asks innocently. Look for the sound control in your field of vision, it was turned on softly and then you switch to exactly the song you wanted to hear, turning it up a little. — What makes you believe he would do that?

— First: you are mine. -he says, with his arms open, resting on the back of the sofa. — Second: You have no choice. -he sighs and looks at me. — Third: I want you to do this for me, now.

Sativa starts playing next. The heaviness in my body seems to disappear when Lee SooHyuk wets his lips and rests the back of his head on the sofa, swaying his body slowly to the rhythm of the music when the man finds himself completely numb to you.

She runs her hands sensually over her body, going down to the middle of her legs and goes around them, slowly going up, a few steps forward, standing between her legs, goes down between them, placing her hands on her knees and then slowly turns around, pretending that she is going to sit on his lap, but he just rubs slowly and the man takes a deep breath. Try to touch your hair and you immediately get up, moving away, lifting your butt up and lowering your torso completely, touching your ankles, you see Lee when she gets up, throwing her hair and slowly lifting her dress.

He moves to the rhythm that makes his ass jiggle so deliciously that the man takes his right hand to his dick, he squeezes it hard trying to control the desire he feels for the woman in front of him. It's impossible!

As she passes her right hand through her hair, moving it to the side and lowering it between the neckline of the dress, holding her own breasts. He goes down again, getting on all fours, and when Lee SooHyuk weighs his breathing, he bites his lower lip.

Stop. -order. You don't let him command now, you first pull the box between your thighs and take it out slowly, rolling it, throwing the piece towards him and smiling. He sits on the edge of the table and opens his legs, laying the rest of his torso behind him.

Next to him the gun and the bills slide to the floor, then he raises his legs high and slowly opens them after turning. The man mumbles something, he is going crazy.

Stop now. -you're completely naked, high, too excited not to continue teasing him. It's different when you have Lee SooHyuk, because he knows exactly what to do, he knows you're going to be fucked so hot that your only weapon against him was to tease him until he had his hands around your throat, choking you until enjoy.

Lee got up from the sofa and walked to where she was sitting, the height of that man is intimidating, he was huge in every aspect, from his hands, his height, his strong and defined torso, his nose and his… stick.

The man reaches the back of her neck with just one hand, grabbing it firmly under her hair and in that pull his fingers gently caress her. The brutality bends down to his face and steals a small kiss, presses his lips together and between his lips he sucks his bottom, gently passing his tongue and then enters his mouth. You surrender to the kiss, but you can't take the reins, he holds your head, letting it stay like that, positioned just for your pleasure.

Lee SooHyuk climbs up the torso and still holding the back of his head does something with the other warm hand that leaves him euphoric. You moisten your own lips when you see his cock being pulled out of his pants, you raise your eyes to his and feel that delicious twinge inside you, a flame that excites you and makes your pussy wet. His dick is big, I liked the slight upward tilt that let it touch her most sensitive point inside her pussy, the bulging veins and that slightly pink wet glans, everything that reminds me of this man is extremely delicious.

He held the cock slowly and rubbed the glans against his parted lips and slowly tapped it against his cheek.

Go. -he speaks. — Put it in your mouth. -immediate order. You let out a naughty little laugh at him, you open your mouth, putting your tongue out and Lee rubs his head against it, wet and then slides it in, forcing it all the way in, this chokes you and you hold your breath to get it in completely. in the mouth.

He takes his hands to Lee's hips and presses the tips of his nails, going down the exposed skin and reaching the man's ass. He takes his cock into her mouth and lets her suck it as she liked, the guttural moan when her mouth is around him, so soft, wet and warm.

Slide back and forth while feeling the entire length of your cock. With the help of one hand, he masturbates at the same intensity as he uses his mouth to move up and down, he removes his hand, sliding it down to his balls and caresses it slowly. She increases the rhythm of her mouth, feeling her excitement reach its maximum, her hard breasts and her luscious pussy, dripping to feel that cock inside her.

Lee SooHyuk takes his dick out of his mouth, and the hand from the back of his head went to his jaw with that thread of saliva that connected it to his dick. She looked so hot, her lipstick was smudged, her eyes were watering and her face was ready to be fucked.

The man gathers saliva in his mouth and slides it between his lips, spitting in his mouth, in the most degrading moment of that sex.

Then, he takes off his clothes, leaving him completely naked. He knelt between her legs and rested his hands on his knees, where he made the most ordinary gesture he could make. He puts his hand under her right thigh and pulls it towards him, placing her legs between his face. Before sucking her pussy, Lee moved up to her breasts, and even though her right leg was being lifted over his arm, it doesn't make a difference to him. Because he wants to fuck you, destroy you completely.

The lips gently rub on the hard nipples, passing the tongue slowly on the right one and then moving on to the left one, where he wraps it completely, sucking harder to the point of making you arch your back on the wooden table, pressing the strands of your hair with forces against her breast, feeling her clitoris pulsate, begging to be touched. You try to take your hand there, but you are stopped by the hand that was holding your right breast. It squeezes so tightly that you moan loudly, much louder than the sound itself.

He changed breasts and it drives you completely crazy, you take your hands to the edge of the table, supporting yourself there, trying to control everything that was about to happen. The sound of the gun falling to the floor makes Lee raise his head and see me scared, ironic laughter appears on his lips that return to sucking my breasts.

He descends slowly in a trail of kisses that cause me a frenzy, the sensation that sensitizes my skin every time he kisses, reaching the pubic mound where he rubs the tip of my nose and descends a little further touching the critical point with his rigid tongue, the pressure he exerted when covering it there, and then he moved slowly as if he were pushing him and that leaves me ecstatic for a few seconds, my legs tremble on top of the man's broad shoulders.

A feeling building inside his chest, the flame burns and the more he uses his mouth on your pussy, the more you want him.

She sucks deliciously well, uses the tip of her lips to suck with the same cautious pressure that makes her vibrate, arch her back and curse the man for so much torture. You want him so much, to the point of begging to be fucked.

He doesn't let go of you until he feels necessary, he doesn't stop until he fills your mouth with your liquid. You're sweaty with the bills sticking to your back, panting when the man simply pulls your body to the floor.

You are so sweet. -he whispers between your lips, the smell was on him, his taste, everything that reminded him of you. I feel his right hand surround my throat, squeeze it between his fingers, pressing firmly. Your breath stops the second you position yourself between your legs and force it into my entrance, so wet that your cock enters easily.

You delight in that small movement that causes a new sensation, the one that makes you moan his name loud and clear.

— Lee… -escapes from his throat, begging him to fuck you hard. And so he does, the firm thrusts of the man's hips against you make you more and more excited, they are thrust hard, hitting your groin feeling the firm impact in which your bodies move against each other. The tightness in your throat increases, and he lifts his torso holding your legs at shoulder height, his dick reaches the bottom, you feel it touch the inner wall that makes you feel a small pain in your uterus… he is completely devastating you.

Her face red, eyes watering with lust, ready to be hit with a slap in the face. And this excites you much more than touching your own clitoris, another slap is given and this time your face burns.

Lee SooHyuk comes out of you and it distresses you as if you were committing an act of madness, in fact he just gets up and pulls you up, resting his knees on the upholstery of the sofa and his hands on the backrest, partially on all fours.

The first slap is given firmly to the side of the ass, the side burns and pulses with pain that mixes with pleasure. A kiss is given as he holds my throat to slowly turn his face, bending over you.

Your index finger goes to your open mouth, and you hold it between your teeth. Rolling his ass slowly when his dick enters again, he moans deliciously.

With her finger stuck between her teeth, the other hand squeezes her hair, pulling it back, making her let go. The impact of Lee's hips against your ass is so strong that you can feel his balls, he devastates you, fucking you with delicious precision, so strong and hard… you roll your eyes, squeezing the upholstery between your fingers, panting and sweating as the man looks like he wasn't even close to cumming.

High to the point of feeling everything doubled, it was much more sensitive, his touch, the kiss, that fucking. He felt everything with greater intensity until the moment when Lee bites his shoulder in the most brutal act, squeezing the side of his ass, supporting himself to continue fucking.

You shake your ass slowly, grinding against the man, pushing your hips against him and feeling him more and more. The orgasm leaves her in agony, the sensation that she was falling in free fall, her body tenses and two seconds later the sensation increases, raising the level. You cum and as soon as you feel the viscous liquid mixing with yours, the man slowly comes out and you lie down on the couch, looking at Lee SooHyuk completely destroyed.

His hair sticks to his sweaty forehead, he puts his hand behind it. Panting to the point of lying down on the upholstery next to you, he rests his head on your shoulder, slowly rubbing his face against the curve of your neck.

Lee pulls her into a soft kiss, their tongues touching in delicious pressure, moving in perfect tune. The fit, the soft lips, the moan between kisses when your lower lip is bitten.

That man had all of you, and he knew exactly how he liked to be fucked… how to make you cum.

He loves to satisfy you.

And you… knew exactly how to tame that man.

[indragonsaur]

Helluva Boss/Hazbin Hotel: Vepar

Vepar is a strong Great Duke of Hell, and rules twenty-nine legions of demons. Veparis depicted as a mermaid

Vepar was once of the angels that resided in Heaven only to fall after rebelling against the Almighty with Lucifer and his fellow renegade angels. Before she fell it is unknown which choir she was a part of though it is believed to be the Virtues.

After her fall from Heaven and into Hell, she was elevated in the position of Great Duke/Duchess of the Inferno by Lucifer. As one of the seventy-two demons of the Ars Goetia, Vepr governs the waters and guides armoured ships laden with ammunition and weapons; she can also make, if requested, the sea rough and stormy, and to appear full of ships.

Vepar can make men die in three days by putrefying sores and wounds, causing worms to breed in them, but if requested by the conjurer she can heal them immediately.