#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.”

[seobinghard]

how to fix a broken heart in one day ;

pairing: best friend!mingi x fem!reader ✫ wc: 1.5k ✫ genres: fluff, romcom, feel-good, non-idol!au, best friend!au ✫ tw: none ✫ note: mingi's rich (duh). p1h's keeho mentioned ✫ synopsis: your failed situationship has left your heart shattered into pieces but lucky for you, mingi's good at fixing things.

when you told mingi you ended things with keeho last week, he hears angels sing; a celestial choir celebrating the demise of your situationship. is it evil of him, he thinks, to not feel sympathy for your situation? is it morally wrong that he even feels relief at the news of your failed romantic ventures? for it only means one thing; you're single again. and your broken heart? he'll be the one to fix it.

“mingi, you’re not listening to me. i just told you we broke up,” you bite back a sob, grabbing another tissue from the half-empty box on the coffee table.

‘how to lose a guy in ten days’ plays faintly on the your living room tv, volume on low. 

“oh, come here, you big crybaby” mingi coos, opening his arms for you. you're finally mine.

sniffling, you crawl into your best friend’s arms and sink into his embrace, basking in the warmth of his body and the familiar scent of his laundry softener mixed with his cologne; fresh rain and green tea; clean and woody. mingi wraps his arms around you like you’re his most prized possession, his hold gentle and firm. there’s a heartbeat against you, a steady rhythm only you can hear through the wool of his grey sweater. for a while, the morning feels less cold and the world far away.

mingi sighs, placing his chin on your head. “you know, for a situationship that only lasted two weeks, do you think you're over-reacting?”

you pull away. “are you calling me dramatic?” 

“i thought you said he's a walking red flag?"

“but you see, that's the thing about me. i'm kinda blind, mings,” you sniffle, burying your face in mingi’s chest, “and he just has go and break my heart like that.”

mingi feels his chest tighten at your muffled sobs. does he think you’re overreacting? maybe. but above all else, he hates to see you like this; blue and hopeless. you’re his sparkle bubble and some keeho guy came and popped it. what’s so special about this mf anyway, mingi thinks. sure, he’s very good-looking and successful, but can keeho make you laugh like he can? can keeho list the big three signs in your birth chart? does keeho know your gp's name off the top of his head? as if.

no one knows you better than him. and if no one loves you, mingi's dead. 

“hey," mingi mutters, “you wanna go shopping?”

your eyes light up like the lights on christmas day. “now?”

“get dressed, we’ll leave in thirty."

if you were crying over a man an hour ago, that wasn't you.

mingi watches you with a smile as you bounce through sephora with stars in your eyes. he trails closely by your side, a mini basket in his right hand, his left—a canvas for your shade swipes. dior, rare beauty, two-faced; he's got it all on his skin.

"oh my god, they restocked my favourite shade, mingi!" you bounce in joy, holding up the mac lip liner.

"anything you want," mingi smirks coolly.

"for real?"

"did i stutter?"

say less.

cha-ching! two-hundred and ten dollars at sephora. a hundred and ten dollars at aesop. thirteen dollars at crumbl cookie. seventeen-hundred fifty at acne studios. seventy-nine dollars, eighteen cents at barney's. twenty dollars at heytea. fifteen-hundred and ninety dollars at miu miu.

you thought you might've murdered mingi's credit card at this point but he only gives your hair a cute lil ruffle and says, "let's go have a look at the bracelets in tiffany."

you may be clueless but one thing you know for sure is; you don't just buy tiffany for anyone.

"y/n, come here," mingi calls.

there's a foreign tenderness in his voice when he says your name and it makes your heart flutter in anticipation. you've never felt like this about your best friend before.

as you make your way to mingi, you can't help but notice his height, towering over everyone else in the store, broad shoulders visible beneath the fitted black shirt he's wearing. his jet black hair is effortlessly swept back, rimless glasses—the ones he wears while gaming—perched his nose. he balances all your shopping bags in one hand, the other beckoning you to come over. you spot the chrome hearts ring you gifted him for his twenty-third birthday on his middle finger, and your heart skips a beat. rose-pink dusts your cheeks like the first cherry blossom of spring. has mingi always looked this good?

you're starting to wonder, maybe your heart isn't broken to begin with. maybe it's been crying out for attention from the wrong person, when, all along it should've been calling out to...mingi.

oh my god.

the world blurs, and you feel dizzy. mingi's speaking to you but his words only drift around you like smoke, your mind a storm of thoughts. it's only when his hand brushes against your waist that you're hauled back to reality.

"y/n, you alright?" mingi asks, concerned.

his hand is still on your waist. you're about to combust.

"miss, would you like to try it on?"

the sales assistant brings out a bracelet on a turquoise tray. it's a return to tiffany heart bracelet; the one you've always wanted since you were little.

you gasp in awe, "it's so pretty."

you're prettier, mingi thinks. especially when you're your truest self.

"you like it?" he asks.

you nod, smiling, "i do."

your smile. fuck. he wouldn't trade anything in the world for the ability to make you smile like that. money isn't an issue. and if it ever becomes an issue, he's got two kidneys for a reason.

when night falls and it's just the two of you in his car, you finally muster up the courage to ask, "mingi, what are we doing?"

your best friend chuckles, "what do you mean?"

"i know we're best friends but why are you doing all this for me?"

mingi almost chokes on his spit but manages to play it cool, "'cause you're my homeboy, duh. what kinda stupid question is that?"

"mingi, you don't just buy someone a tiffany bracelet," you comment calmly.

you notice the faintest tension in his jaw. mingi is quiet, his focus fixed on the road ahead, the familiar route back to your apartment just five minutes away. silence hangs in the air, thick with unspoken thoughts. you're glad you live downtown because if you had stayed in an enclosed space any longer with mingi, you don't know what you would've done.

mingi stops outside your apartment building and shifts the car into park.

you take this as a sign to leave, unbuckling your seatbelt. "i'll see you—"

"y/n, wait."

mingi swiftly takes off his glasses and pulls you in for a kiss. you blink, swept away by the sudden contact of his lips against yours—soft and sweet like a midsummer's dream. you can hear your heart pounding in your ears as he slowly pulls away, his chest heaving, breath mingling with yours. warmth floods through you in a million butterflies, pooling in your stomach as you regain your breath. the surprise in your eyes mirrors his as you both process what just happened.

"i didn't want it to be like this," mingi finally breaks the silence. his voice is husky, face flushed, eyes wide and glossy like brown boba pearls. "fuck."

your heart is about to leap out of your chest.

mingi takes your hand in his. "y/n, i know it's selfish of me to tell you this now and you can say 'no' anytime if you feel uncomfortable—"

"mingi, please," you whimper. you think you know what he's going to say and it's driving you insane.

"i love you," mingi confesses, his words weighted with confidence and truth. his gaze holds yours as if searching for a four-syllable answer to his sacred declaration.

"like in a homeboy way?"

mingi's face shatters. "are you really asking me this right now? really, y/n?"

"i'm joking!" you burst into fits of giggles before placing a kiss on his cheek. "i think i really, really like you too, mingi bunny!"

though you can't see it, mingi is over the moon at your answer—he'll take 'i really, really like you' any day and pray for the best that one day, 'like' becomes 'love'. but until then, he's fully content to just be in your presence. he's waited this long, what's a few more weeks, month, or years, going to do to him?

"sooooo, can we make out?"

"mingi, get the bags."

"yes, my love."

[ilykaveh]

yuuji itadori is a man full of love and adoration, and what better way is there to show it?

❀ — content: fem reader, aged up ! characters, dirty talk, praise, overstim, creampie, squirting.

"yuuji!" you squealed your boyfriend's name as he continued to pound into your warm cunt with unwavering vigour.

he'd been fucking you for what felt like forever. the sun was low on the horizon when the two of you had begun, and now the moon hung amongst a choir of stars. you would try to count the number of hours that it had been, though you were struggling to keep a count of how many times the pink-haired sorcerer had made you cum.

"so fucking good for me, baby," yuuji cooed, "you take me so well; 's like this cunt was made for me," one of his hands groped your breast, toying with your stiff nipple. he was enamoured with how your pussy fluttered around him in response.

"please, yu-" you begged, though were cut off by another moan ripping through your throat.

"please what, princess?" he teased, amused by how sensitive you were for him — something that only made him even more intoxicated by you.

"c-can't, 's too much!" you hoped he understood what you were trying to communicate, and being the sweetest man you'd ever met, he did.

"come on, baby. just one more, one more for me, yeah? you can do it, i know you can." his lustful ramblings only made the knot in your stomach grow painfully tighter, to which you whined in response. "i've got you, 'll even play with your pretty little clit 'nd make it faster, yeah?"

yuuji's filthy words made you feel like you were riding high on cloud nine. a warm, fuzzy feeling spread through your body and sent your neurons into a peaceful, blissed-out state. you babbles an affirmative for your boyfriend to resume fucking you at his desired speed, and simply laid back and enjoyed the final stretch of the ride.

"my pretty girl," he continued, "so fuckin' sweet, so perfect," yuuji wasn't thinking, he was just speaking from the heart. he could sense his orgasm nearing, and due to the way that your drooling cunt clenched around his cock, he assumed yours was too.

"doin' such a good job f'me, princes; 'm gonna cum all over y'r pretty tits, yeah? would you like that? g'na mark you as mine; only i get to see you spread out like this."

"no," you mumbled, reaching out to grip yuuji's arm.

"everything okay, angel?" he paused his movements, wide eyes filling with concern.

"wan' you to cum in me, please, yuu," you begged. "please, please, please," slowly, you trailed off.

it was a plea that he couldn't refuse. after all, he knew you'd taken measures to prevent anything unexpected happening. yuuji's pace became increasingly sporadic as he snapped his hips once again, bringing his hand down to massage taut circles around your clit like he promised.

your fists tangled in the sheets, tears threatening to spill past your lashline at the sheer volumes of pleasure. it felt as though your orgasm was a ticking time bomb, dangerously close to exploding.

more incoherent babbling from the two of you led to yuuji's final few pounds, weaker than those prior. with a particular sharp thrust that you swear you felt in your lower stomach, he spilled an unbelievable amount of warm cum into you.

the sensation caused your synchronous climax. white lights blurred your vision as you came harder than you ever had, dizziness taking over. without you having realized, a few jets of squirt hit yuuji's lower stomach. if he had anything left in him, the sight of you right now would be enough to make the man hard as a rock all over again.

without a second thought, he leaned down to entrap your lips against his own. the display of affection anchored you back to reality a little.

"you're perfect, baby." yuuji repeated. his smile as he pulled away made you feel so overwhelmed with love that it was indescribable, a purity that made you forget that you hadn't just spent the past few hours engaged in messy, messy sex.

he waited a moment before pulling out his softened cock from you, eyes transfixed on your cunt as his cum leaked out of you in small globs.

"let me go grab a rag, angel. do you need anything else? food? water? i can run us a bath if you'd like?"

you smiled back at him, giggling to yourself at the soft reminder of why you fell in love with him.

"'s okay, yuu. i just wanna be near you."

[poppy-metal]

it’s your birthday and you weren’t expecting your husband to do anything for you. he usually forgets and then buys you an expensive present weeks later, out of guilt, but tonight, he promised to take you out for dinner. after getting your makeup done professionally and dressing to the nines in a tight black dress and sleek black louboutins you head to the restaurant he told you to meet him at. after waiting for hours, you decide to go home where you find him pumping into a gorgeous woman, who you later on find out, is his secretary. you silently head to your walk in closet, pack your bags, and head to your range rover in the garage. with tears streaming down your cheeks, you call patrick after settling in a suite at a nearby five star hotel. wall street patrick immediately cancels his dinner meeting with a major potential client and speeds down the highway.

after arriving at the hotel, he finds your bare faced with your glasses on, wearing a silk nightgown and some fuzzy slippers. for a moment he’s taken aback. you always look so high maintenance and put together but to him this is the most beautiful you have ever looked – puffy eyes, pouty lips, wet lashes and all. you look up at him and beg him to hold you. he rushes to the couch you are seated on and lets you cry on his armani suit. he doesn’t care that you’re getting tears and snot on it. seeing you so comfortable and vulnerable around him makes his dick painfully hard. all he cares about is being there for you and probably ordering a hit on your soon to be ex husband tbh.

after you fall asleep on his chest he gently carries you to the bedroom, kissing your temple before tucking you in to sleep. you awaken from your short nap and ask him to sleep with you, it’s been so long since someone slept next to you, and he almost cums in his pants, the thought of you asking him to sleep with you consumes his mind, but after taking off his suit and washing up, he lays in bed with his undershirt and his boxers. he apologizes for not having any clothes with him because he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable or scare you off but you jokingly reply “usually i sleep naked…you’re fine”. being in his boxers, it gets harder for him to hide his thick bulge.

it’s 2am in the morning and patrick startles awake. you’re talking in your sleep and he’s worried. you’re having a nightmare…or so he thinks. you’re whimpering and moaning and he thinks it’s so hot. poor baby hasn’t been fucked right in so long, the only action she gets is in her dreams. he giggles a little until he hears you moan his name. to him, it sounds like a choir of angels singing the most divine melody to ever exist. he ends up rushing to the bathroom and spitting into his hand to take care of his problem.

you wake up to shlick shlick sounds and groaning in the bathroom. could patrick be touching himself? he forgot to close the door all the way and you could peep into the bathroom through the crack. you probably shouldn’t, it would make you a bad friend, but ever since the first day you saw him, a part of you has wanted to sit on his cock and fuck yourself through an orgasm. you slowly walk towards the door and see him in the shower, sniffing the used panties you left in the bathroom while furiously stroking his giant veiny cock. it looks so scary with its angry red tip but your mouth starts watering. you rush back to bed feeling guilty for overstepping boundaries and for wanting to gag on your friend’s dick while rubbing your clit. patrick on the other hand, being a calculating master manipulator left the door open to make sure you would hear him and see him, hoping that he would have the same effect on you, that you have on him.

- alien anon

so I need to touch myself .

[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

[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?

[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.

[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?