#the Metatron keeping tabs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

onceuponapuffin · 8 months ago

Text

Fanatic Intervention Part 13!!!

Wow, you're probably thinking - That was fast, Puffin!! Yes. I saw the votes come in and was stuck with sudden inspiration and HAD to get this done and up before bed. Huzzah for manic creative energy!!

You're either going to love it or be very angry with me. Not sure which (maybe a bit of both) - but here we go!

Beginning || Previous || Next

*****************

Newt was worried.

Now, this wasn’t uncommon so it wasn’t normally a problem. This time, however, he was very certain he had a very good reason to be worried – and it was, in fact, a problem.

He couldn’t find Muriel.

It is here, dear Reader, where I need to take a moment to remind you of a few things. First of all, we all learned, not so long ago, that not everyone can manage to stay in a building and keep their sanity. Not even in a place like Aziraphale’s bookshop, not everyone. Second, it is very possible to reason things in a way that makes them seem harmless. Third, everyone makes mistakes. Newt is just learning that some mistakes cost more than others.

In his defense, things had seemed safe enough at the time. Newt and Anathema had been keeping in touch, and she’d told him about the Metatron tailing them at Heathrow. He had therefore come to the conclusion that the Metatron was keeping tabs on Anathema’s group. It made sense, what reason did Metatron have to watch the bookshop when his biggest threat was traipsing around America openly looking to disrupt his plans, and with no wards to keep them safe. Besides, it was just the cinema. It wasn’t even very far away. The plan had been a short trip to see a Disney film, then straight back with no distractions. It would have been a couple of hours at most. What could go wrong? Right?

Everything, of course. Everything could go wrong.

It was fine at first. The film had started, and the film was fine. Muriel was enjoying themselves. Then Newt had got up to use the toilet, whispered to Muriel that he would be right back, and left. When he came back, he couldn’t find them again. He looked. He found their seats. Then he thought perhaps they just needed to use the toilet too, so he sat back down and waited. After a minute he remembered that angels don’t need the loo, and thought that maybe Muriel had wanted more snacks. The film finished, and still Muriel hadn’t come back. Newt looked through the entire cinema. He asked the employees if they’d seen his friend, but none of them had. They helped him look in other screens, the lobby, all the toilets, everywhere. Muriel was gone. In a move of desperation, Newt returned to the shop, hoping beyond hope that Muriel had simply gone home without telling him, but no. The windows were dark, the shop was still locked and empty (although the doors were kind enough to unlock themselves for him).

Now he sat on the floor of the kitchen, breathing heavily into a cup of tea that was doing a very poor job of calming his nerves. He had to do something. He took a final deep breath before pushing himself off the floor and into one of the chairs at the table. Alright, panic time was over, now he needed to think. The only thing he was very certain of was that something had gone very very wrong. While he wasn’t entirely certain where Muriel was, by now he felt he could make a reasonable guess that they were back in Heaven. It was possible they had left of their own accord, something going so terribly wrong that they had needed to leave immediately without time to leave a message. It was also possible that nothing sinister was taking place. But the fear that had put him on the floor a moment ago was that Muriel had been taken by the Metatron back to Heaven against their will. And his biggest problem right now was that he had no idea which it was.

So he considered his options. If he messaged Anathema, he ran the risk of separating them. Their mission was important, and they had discussed at length before leaving why splitting up the group would be a bad idea. If he messaged them, they might drop everything and come back to the shop to help find Muriel, and end up playing right into the Metatron’s hands. At the same time, he wasn’t sure what he could do without them. It wasn’t as though Muriel had a phone that he could call.

Although...weren’t angels and demons basically the same? Like, they started from the same place right? And he knew by now that people could summon demons. Maybe he could just...summon Muriel back? He got up to go back into the front room of the shop – he was fairly sure he’d left his phone on the desk when he came in – and his foot caught on the area rug, making him trip and fall face first into the hardwood.

He groaned as he pulled himself up. Now wasn’t the time for this. He looked back to find out what he’d tripped over, and instead saw that the rug had pulled up a bit to reveal white lines on the floor underneath it. Huh. Now that was something. He got to his feet and pulled away the rest of the rug, revealing the entire drawing. By this point in his relationship with Anathema, he recognized a summoning circle when he saw it, and clasped a hand to his mouth in equal amounts of surprise and relief. Thank goodness! He could use this to summon Muriel! And it would bring them straight back to safety! Then he swore to Agnes Nutter he wouldn’t ever suggest they set foot outside of the bookshop again until this whole Second Coming business was well over.

Alright, candles. He knew he needed candles.

He searched the entire shop, and the only candles he could find were battery operated. Unorthodox, surely, but after considering for a moment, he decided that if Aziraphale had these candles around, then they must be good enough to do the job. He began placing them around the circle, similar to the way he’d seen Anathema do on the solstice. Seven places, seven candles. Made sense. If Newt recalled correctly, Heaven liked sevens for some reason. He turned on the last candle, placed it on the designated spot, and stepped away. Anathema had told him once that things could go wrong if someone stepped into a summoning circle, so he made sure to watch his feet and stand well outside of it.

Great. That was done. Um...now what? He wasn’t a witch. Or wizard. Or warlock? Or whatever a male witch was called. Alright, time to think again. He was trying to contact Heaven so...well, people usually did that by praying, didn’t they? Carefully, he brought his hands together and raised his eyes towards the ceiling of the shop. He felt downright silly, but no worse than he had in church while growing up he supposed. Besides, literal angels and demons were his life now apparently. And Muriel was depending on him.

“Um,” he said, honestly unsure of how to begin, “Hello, my name is Newt. Is...um...is anyone there?”

Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but a pillar of white light appearing between the candles hadn’t been it. His hands separated on instinct and he stumbled backwards in surprise, nearly topping a pile of books as he did. Wow, alright, so that worked. Huh. Strange feeling actually – things didn’t normally work quite so well or so quickly for him.

Anyway, focus up!

“Uh, right,” he continued, bringing his hands back together – it only felt proper now that he knew someone was actually there and listening. “I, er, well you see I’m looking for an angel called Muriel is...um, are they there?” Silence. Newt cleared his throat and tried again, firming his tone to feign confidence. “I summon the angel Muriel!”

This time the light blinked. A tone sounded. A tone he recognized actually….was it….no it wasn’t...dial-up was it??

But that’s what it was. The dial-up tone from Newt’s childhood internet experiences come back to haunt him. After a moment of blinking and beeping, a voice finally responded. Calm, yes, angelic, also yes, and oddly generic. Definitely not Muriel.

“The angel you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try your prayer again later.”

The light disappeared, leaving the room dark and the circle dull once again.

Well bugger.

❤️ ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 🖤

Beginning || Previous || Next

40 notes · View notes

marlynnofmany · 1 year ago

Text

So this exists now, and I couldn't be more delighted. Have a brief Season Two fix-it fic / epilogue, because it definitely needed to exist.

~~~

I Will Face God and Walk Backwards Into Hell 1296 words

Aziraphale felt ill at ease from the moment he reached Heaven. He was always on guard there, ready to be judged harshly, but this was … unprecedented. Trying not to show it, he squared his shoulders and soldiered on. He’d made his clothes presentable to Heaven’s standards in the elevator as usual. He did his best to act as if following the Metatron to an extremely unexpected new post was nothing out of the ordinary.

But oh, the Metatron hadn’t told the other archangels yet. And that interaction went just as well as you’d expect.

They were polite, mostly. A bit shocked, which was understandable, and Michael visibly stopped herself from saying something unwise. Sandalphon did nothing but glare. Aziraphale managed not to fidget purely by force of will.

He told himself to remember the greater good, and he kept regally silent while the Metatron smoothed the way for him. This would be okay. A bumpy start, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He was going to change things for the better.

And he thought he actually could, for a while. There was an office, which was nice and posh, and there were meetings that the Metatron facilitated in which his now-subordinate archangels listened to the many ideas he had for the betterment of humanity. They even agreed to roll some out immediately.

But there were also meetings which the Metatron did not attend, and those were very different. The others talked over him ruthlessly, Michael in particular, and focused on the business of Heaven with little regard for Earth.

Aziraphale suspected that there were other meetings that he himself was not invited to, where they discussed the twice-delayed Armageddon that he was so firmly against. The Metatron still hadn’t brought up the subject of the Second Coming, which he’d hinted at before.

Never mind the fact that Aziraphale had put forth several well-thought-out measures for how to sway humanity as a whole toward the path of good, thus making any kind of conflict unnecessary. And the fact that God still hadn’t made any official pronouncements in a very long time. Aziraphale would have liked to question the Metatron directly on that matter, but he didn’t want to press his luck.

So he focused on doing good. Implementing what changes he could, keeping tabs on Hell’s actions as best he was allowed, and leading by example.

He tried not to think about Crowley. Sometimes it was hard not to, especially when checking up on Hell, but he did try. And he shared his thoughts with no one.

He’d managed to convince himself that he was doing a respectable job of things by the time he arrived at a regular meeting and found that all of his plans had been stalled, and some even rolled back entirely. Michael had a smug list of excuses. Uriel backed her up while Sandalphon grinned, and Saraqael just looked unimpressed. The Metatron acted as if everything was business as usual.

Aziraphale held his tongue and pressed with ultimate politeness for the resumption of at least the most important. Michael gave him the barest of concessions.

After the meeting, he cornered the Metatron in his office and demanded answers, afire with righteous indignation and no little amount of hurt. What was this insubordination, and why was the Metatron going along with it? Why even promote Aziraphale if this was what it led to? Was the role he was supposedly so well-suited to just as a figurehead? Was this God’s plan??

The Metatron was an unflappable as usual. He said simply that Aziraphale was welcome to ask God herself, if he doubted Her wisdom. The assumption was clearly that he would back down, shrink back into himself like he’d always done, and let the rest of Heaven have their way.

Instead, Aziraphale regarded him steadily. “I think I’d rather like a chat, if you please,” he said. When the Metatron didn’t move, he gestured for him to get on with it.

Aziraphale wasn’t privately sure who was calling whose bluff, but he stood tall while the Metatron went through the motions of requesting God’s presence. Was this even how it was done these days? He had no way of knowing. He pretended that he did.

A column of light shone into the room. The Metatron’s flourish for Aziraphale to proceed was more than a little sarcastic.

Aziraphale kept his cool and spoke into the light. He asked of his plans to improve humanity’s moral standing, to turn the Earth onto the path toward an endless Eden, with no need for war and no place for Hell’s influences to gain a foothold. He spoke of the resistance he’d gotten from the other archangels. He even spoke of thoughts he’d never shared with anyone: that someday even demons might redeem themselves enough to be forgiven. He could certainly cite one example that deserved it. He didn’t look at the Metatron as he said so.

Finally the voice of God filled the room. “You mean the Archduke Crowley? He’s served his purpose. Hardly doing much to redeem himself these days.”

Stung, Aziraphale demanded, “And is that part of your ineffable plan??”

The smile in God’s voice was absolutely infuriating. “That’s for me to know and you to find out, Aziraphale. Now why don’t you get back to work and do as you’re told?”

Aziraphale gaped, lost for words.

When the Metatron chuckled condescendingly and started forward, Aziraphale held up a hand.

“No,” he said to the Metatron. Then he repeated, “No,” to the shaft of light. “In fact,” he continued, making the first rude gesture in Heaven since Crowley had pulled one behind Michael’s back. “Hell no,” Aziraphale hissed, setting both of his middle fingers alight with holy fire.

He held them up proudly and strode backwards out the door while the Metatron sputtered and God was silent.

(If there was any ineffable snickering at how well this was playing out, God kept it strictly to Herself.)

Aziraphale continued walking backwards through Heaven, fingers held aloft and aflame, now with his wings spread for maximum emphasis for anyone who was watching. Judging by the gasps from all sides, many were. He didn’t turn his head.

The escalator down was slow, but he was patient. He simply angled his arms upward at all the staring faces. Then when he reached the ground floor, he stepped to the side and continued downward.

An angel glowing with holy fire blazes quite a trail in Hell, even one walking backwards.

It didn’t take him any time at all to find Crowley. The door opened behind him, and he finally lowered his hands to turn around. He let the flames go out.

Crowley sat on a throne much more grand and terrible than the ostentatious chair in his old flat, with elaborate robes patterned in snakeskin echoing the scales that crawled across his face. His eyes blazed yellow. His expression was stony. Minor demons cowered on all sides.

Aziraphale gathered himself, saying nothing.

Then he did the dance.

“You were right. You were right. I was wrong; you were right.”

He held the final pose while Crowley quirked an eyebrow.

“Very nice,” said the demon, starting to smile.

Aziraphale stood and held out a hand with an answering smile. “I hear Alpha Centauri is lovely this time of year.”

Crowley was silent for just long enough to make him doubt, then he surged to his feet, shedding robes and pretense as he crossed the room. Ignoring Aziraphale’s hand completely, he grabbed his fancy shirt and kissed him deeply. His teeth were sharper than usual.

Aziraphale found that he quite liked it, and kissed him back. The scandalized noises of the crowd of demons faded away as they left to just be an “us.”

#making it look like an institutional problem #Good Omens #fanfic #I will face God and walk backwards into hell #such a delightful mental image #that I of course want to draw now #my writing #this was fun #GO season 2 #BTW they can of course still get that cottage in the South Downs afterward #all things are possible

22 notes · View notes

canarybell · 1 year ago

Text

I don’t think Metatron left Muriel on Earth just “to take care of the bookshop”. But why exactly?

To keep a low-ranking angel knowing about Gabriel’s story on Earth? Or to keep tabs on Crowley?

They are terrible at being a spy, but they already have…well, not a friendship, but still some sort of non-hostile relationship with Crowley, and Crowley finds them amusing and non-dangerous (and if Metatron knows about Crowley’s trip to Heaven, he should know it); yet they still are actually loyal to Heaven. And Metatron considers them to be “dim”. Can it be that he wants to use it for his own convenience?

We all are imagining sweet scenarios where Crowley looks after Muriel while they are learning about life on Earth and they eventually become friends, but what if this exactly what Metatron wants? So he could fool Muriel into reporting to him about Crowley’s movements?

I don’t think it would work as intended - it’s dangerous to underestimate the “dim ones”. But can it be Metatron’s initial plan?

#good omens #good omens season 2 #good omens s2 #crowley #good omens theory #metatron #muriel #muriel good omens #metatron good omens #oh look another post about metatron in this blog

35 notes · View notes

tonydaddingham · 1 year ago

Note

Yeah one hole I've noticed with the argument against Crowley being an Archangel is that Crowley doesn't seem to be an average demon, even from the start? We know that AZIRAPHALE was sent to Earth as a punishment and he's low on the hierarchy. That's something that gets repeated. But they never indicate its the same for Crowley. He scored Hell's first and arguably most important victory. He constantly gets commendations. He's chosen for the "starring role" of delivering and raising the Antichrist, which Dukes of Hell are openly envious of and gets him direct praise from Satan, albeit with warning that not even Crowley will be exempt from punishment if something goes wrong. Shax refers to his place on Earth as a huge promotion she had to work hard for and he was just handed. They never actually say what Crowley's position is.

hi anon!!!✨

please would you mind referencing where aziraphale is described as being sent to earth as a punishment? i genuinely can't remember this detail from the show or book.

and also, in terms of hierarchy, my understanding from what neil has told us is that aziraphale is middling in rank (i will find the ask im remembering and link it, or correct if im wrong); that it goes:

god > metatron > gabriel > high archangels (eg michael and uriel) > lower archangels (eg sandalphon) > principality > angels lower ranked than principality (eg muriel).

i would imagine that the number of angels that form the lower ranks are the majority of the 10 million that gabriel mentions, and so would hazard that whilst not high ranking, aziraphale is by no means low ranking either.

but otherwise yes, completely agree with you!✨✨ but to anyone reading that still doubts, this is my logic (and by extension i imagine is anon's too!):

crowley re: his power, his recognition, and that he ensured original sin, this all indicates that he is in fact a ranked demon. so why would it not stand to reason that he is indeed a lord rank? hastur would rank above him as duke, which explains why he's the one to keep tabs on crowley, and then beelzebub as prince which would put them on the same ranking as gabriel, essentially ruling over their respective dominions (not a ref to the angel class, i mean hell and heaven respectively).

so by that same logic, wouldn't crowley indeed be a lord? a rank higher than whatever aziraphale's equivalent in heaven would be (ie a lower archangel)? and again, this would all fit with what shax is intimating; that if crowley was a lower archangel, he'd naturally fit for a lord of hell and his station on earth, whereas if she was lower-ranking she would have had to work to be promoted for it.

as for the scene i snipped, i can't imagine that hastur wouldn't call out crowley for saying he was a lord if he wasn't. yes, crowley was bluffing the situation to stall hastur (ie the legions of the damned), but it seems strange that he wouldn't immediately call out crowley for placing himself in that rank if he wasn't... does that make sense?✨

#good omens #crowley #honestly happy to discuss this further #im probably a bit behind but now after the s2 pre-fall info it seems like people are guessing at what rank he was #but this seems suddenly logical that hed be at least a lower archangel #question is: which one??? 👀#*eyes raphael headcanon-ers*#good omens spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #ask #not a shitpost but its good omens babyyyy #the great go angelology debate of july 2023 #aka 'was crowley an archangel and was he raphael? answer: fuck knows'

47 notes · View notes

justtellher · 1 year ago

Text

Fic Update: give me peace (in a lifetime of war)

Drops chapter two onto your dash. At first this chapter gave me a bit of a struggle, it's one of the only few I didn't have already plotted out, yet was so necessary to get us firmly into the story. In the end, I finally figured out where Aziraphale wanted to start his side of this tale--I only had to watch and cry through the last 15 minutes of Season 2 about 30 times to get it right. Send tissues.

As always you can find the fic here on ao3.

Summary: A Story of the Second Coming, or How an Angel & a Demon Find Their Way Back to Each Other and Maybe Save the World Along the Way.

Prologue | Chapter 1

---

Chapter 2: do you know i could break (of the goodness, love)

He’s not sure how long he stands in the middle of the bookshop, unmoving, a trembling hand pressed to his lips. His legs have turned leaden, anchoring him to the worn wood floors, and he stares blankly at the now closed door, his chest a painful flutter of warring emotions. He wants to run after him; he wants to hide for another 6000 years; he wants the firm press of Crowley’s lips against his again; he wants to never again feel this kind of temptation. In short, Aziraphale wants.

And isn’t that the crux of the problem?

Do that again.

His heart pounds as he fights simultaneous guilt and elation, cursing Crowley mildly for deciding to show his hand at what might possibly be the worst timing in their shared existence. Because what was he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to reconcile this chance for change with the overwhelming desire he has to run out into the street and grab the confusing demon he calls his friend and beg him to do it again. To kiss him again and again until Aziraphale can make sense of the fluttering in his chest and the burning of his lips. It took everything in him to repress the words in the moment, to tamp them down while he grappled for just a moment to think. In their stead, he’d fumbled at half processed words of forgiveness. A misnomer, he realized as soon as the words left his mouth. The only person in the room who needs forgiveness is Aziraphale himself.

Because, oh, for an angel to want this much, it must surely be a sin.

A shimmer of sunlight catches his eye, and his gaze wanders over to the window as he releases an uncertain breath; which his lungs then immediately attempt to reclaim on a sharp inhale as he takes note of the lanky figure leaning heavily against the Bentley, all sharp angles and red hair. Crowley’s eyes are hidden behind his usual dark frames, but Aziraphale feels the intensity of them all the same as the demon watches the shop with a sort of resigned sadness. Honestly, Aziraphale is surprised to find him waiting there at all.

He never leaves first, you know that, a small voice inside him chimes, and the truth of it is a knife stabbed deep into his gut and another tally in the list of his sins that only seems to grow. It’s a verity he’s always known even when his mind attempts to ignore it: Crowley has never left him. Aziraphale is always the one to push away first, to reset the distance between them lest anyone take note of its shrinking. Crowley would gladly keep pushing forward, a reckless fixture at Aziraphale’s side even at the threat of his own existence, while Aziraphale struggles to keep a careful tab on measured space and attempts to be a voice of reason that keeps them alive another day. No, Crowley will never truly leave unless Aziraphale does first.

I need you.

If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want to leave. He’s so tired of separation.

Tell me you said no.

He replays their argument over in his head and tries to understand his own mind. It’s a good thing right? The Metatron’s offer would allow them to really fix things in Heaven. Surely Crowley was just being too stubborn to realize the opportunity they were being given to influence how the show was truly being run; to share their perspective on how to serve humanity without the need to end it all.

To finally be valued for the differences they had forever been derided for.

I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.

Wasn’t that the whole point of it all? If Heaven could accept Beelzebub and Gabriel seeing the beauty in each other and let them be, then didn’t that mean that they were finally ready for change? Why else would the Metatron offer the highest ranking position of heaven to the angel who was already most like his predecessor if they didn’t see the value in their shared opinions? He glances again through the window; perhaps he should go try to speak to (and definitely not kiss) Crowley again—get him to see his misunderstanding.

I think I understand a whole lot better than you.

The memory makes him want to stamp his foot slightly in frustration because he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with that line. What chess piece is he supposedly missing, and why didn’t he press Crowley to explain rather than let himself get distracted by the sadness of the demon’s yellow eyes and the temptation of his frenetic lips. He glances toward the door again and presses a still shaky hand to his mouth once more.

You idiot.

In this moment he rather feels like one.

The bell above the shop jingles softly into the silence, and for a moment his heart gives a hopeful lurch, positive that it’s Crowley, come back from his brooding across the street and ready to plan this out together, only to shutter rapidly in his chest at the wizened figure of the Metatron as he steps confidently into the shop. Aziraphale turns away quickly and tries to force his countenance into some semblance of composure.

“How did he take it?”

He fights a sudden urge to laugh or cry hysterically, unsure of which to choose. “Uh not well,” he settles on a disparaging chuckle as he turns back around.

The Metatron seems unfazed by this gaping breach in Aziraphale’s orbit, “Ah, well, always did want to go his own way.”

We need to get away from them, just be an us.

Aziraphale swallows the sudden lump in his throat and gives into the urge to look back through the side window at Crowley. Our way, he finds his mind automatically correcting, and he startles slightly as he glances nervously back at the Voice of God as he continues to talk, Aziraphale only catching something about questions as his gaze is pulled magnetically back to his demonic counterpart across the street, thoughts spinning. When had that become a habit he’d let slip in? This universal entanglement of ours in his speech? He’s not sure they ever talked about it.

Did Crowley not realize they were already an us?

“Right, ready to start?” The Metratron’s voice startles him back to the present, his face expectant as he looks at the floundering angel.

“I…” Aziraphale stutters, feeling a bit unmoored as to how he seemed to have officially agreed to this position, and oh, shouldn’t this question be easy? He should be ready right? He’s an angel of the Lord, his highest calling is to serve, this shouldn’t even be a contemplation, only a quick affirmative. He flails haplessly, watery eyes flitting around the bookshop as the rigid guilt of his mind tries to convince the traitorous pounding of his heart.

“...but um…my bookshop,” he offers up uselessly, trying to buy himself a moment more to think, even though he’s not sure how long it’s going to take to reconcile this sinking feeling in his gut. The Metratron easily deflects his excuse with some comment about Muriel watching over it that Aziraphale barely registers as he glances helplessly back through the window at the unmoving demon, and realizes he may never be able to rectify how this all got so horribly muddled.

“But..” he murmurs, no longer sure of what he’s protesting.

He could stand here until the end of time and never have an answer for this warring anguish between his holy duties and his selfish wants.

“Anything you need to take with you?” Metatron implores.

Yes, his heart whispers. Everything, him, Us. “No,” his propriety wins the minor skirmish over his tongue. He forces his gaze back to the angel in front of him, and wills himself not to cry.

We could have been…us.

He’s going to have to do this without him, Aziraphale realizes. Crowley made it clear that he didn’t want to join him, so if Aziraphale wants to serve his purpose and fulfill this role he’s going to have to do it alone. He would never force his friend to go somewhere he so vehemently opposes. No matter how much he desperately wishes to indulge his gluttony and have both.

“Nothing I can think of,” he continues. Lies, his heart volleys in retort.

“Ah,” the Metatron murmurs contently, turning without further preamble to depart the shop. Aziraphale feels the expected pressure to follow behind him like a stone slab heavy upon his chest, crushing the air from his lungs. He can’t help but steal another glance through the window.

“I think I–,” he starts suddenly, stepping forward with a lurch, because damn him, but he can’t do this. This can’t be right. He glances again at the window, at the unwavering constant of his life who is still standing, unmoving, a sad hunch in his shoulders. Why is he even doing this without him? He doesn’t want to do this without him.

He’s breaking his own heart.

But maybe he’s supposed to? He wavers and cuts himself off mid step. Because he’s supposed to say no to the demon and yes to Heaven, right? If they’re at odds, he’s supposed to want to do the right thing and help fix the broken system that’s asking for his help. He’s supposed to put righteousness above his own desires or at least go along as best he could, no? Even if Crowley couldn’t see the bigger impetus or picture, Aziraphale had to try, yes? To give into the quiet temptation of his own heart would surely be wrong by both their standards.

Angelic guilt settles over him, a reasoning he expected to feel more like a soothing salve rather than metallic prison, but he forces himself to smile. He could do this. For the sake of good for them all, he could do this. And then surely, he could get back to his quiet life and selfish wants. Provided those wants were still willing to speak with him. He takes a steadying breath.

“Nothing at all,” he finishes, blinking away any remaining vestiges of tears, and then forces himself to walk out of the bookshop.

Outside Soho is a clutter of people, a tumultuously wonderful display of humanity, as he trudges the seemingly infinite block to the Lift. His steps are heavy and the gnawing in his stomach rises to a rather worrying level as he pushes forward.

It takes thirty-seven steps to reach the Lift, and every single one of them feels more and more wrong.

“Well, I can’t think of a better angel–,” the Metatron chatters idly, and Aziraphale might feel flattered, except he can think of better angels. One of them is currently burning through the soft fabric of his jacket with the force of his gaze across the way. Not that Heaven would see it like that.

Come with me.

We can make a difference.

Oh, how he had wanted to change that for them, make them see what they had given up.

“--to wrap things up, and to set into motion the next step in the Great Plan,” the Voice of God continues, and Aziraphale’s mind ceases its dithering as it focuses on the Metatron’s words.

“Um, yes, you mentioned that,” he inquires as they stop just outside the Lift, “Can I know what it is?” Maybe this will give him the clarity he needs to stop himself from turning around and running from the wrongness settling into his bones, the despair he feels raging against his ribs.

“Well, it’s something we need an angel of your talents to direct,” he notices how the Metatron doesn’t meet his eyes fully on the flattery, but tries to take no heed of it. After all, change is hard; he’s rather terrible at it himself, “An angel who is familiar with how they do things on Earth.”

“Ah,” he murmurs. See, he attempts to soothe himself, this is the point, the divine mission. Aziraphale can make a difference with his angelic duties. It’s almost enough to tamp down the ache of his chest. Then, the Metatron turns around to open the Lift as he delivers a final line,

“We call it the Second Coming.”

Aziraphale feels his heart freeze in his chest as his mind draws a panicked blank.

When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it’ll be just as dead as if Hell ended it.

Oh God, he was so wrong. Crowley was absolutely right. His mind reels and his heart gives a feeble attempt at continuing to beat while he vaguely remembers to take shallow breaths. He should turn around now; supposed holy purposes be damned. The Metatron gives him a raised eyebrows glance of come along now, and all of Aziraphale’s instincts scream at him to run–his head and heart in a temporary truce of agreement.

He makes a stuttered turn of his head to the one person he’s been trying valiantly not to look at since leaving the bookshop. Crowley’s stare is resigned, steady, and practically unreadable behind dark lenses, and Aziraphale is going to owe him so many apology dances for this monumental fuck up of logic. He contemplates how he’s going to leave this situation gracefully, sending up a small prayer of thanks to Crowley for always waiting him out as it means at least the Bentley is still here.

He’ll never be safe now.

The thought whispers with the force of an omen, and Aziraphale stands frozen and bereft, a wild animal caught in the snare of his own sudden realization. Heaven will never let them live if they think he and Crowley will stand against them again. He takes an aborted glimpse at his steadfast friend, who will never let him face Heaven alone once he knows about this plan. Heaven will never let Crowley live. His vision swims slightly while his stomach lurches with the crash of nauseating reality, and Oh, he does have a purpose he finds, a calling written so strongly in his veins that it’s easy to decide, simple to choose. It’s not heavenly at all; instead it’s long-limbed and red haired; it’s 6,000 years of existence spent in parallel to a dastardly, funny, and good demon, and Aziraphale now understands he will do anything to make sure Crowley stays that way. Safe and alive.

Even if it means damning himself.

He squares his shoulders and takes one last deep breath of the warm, love drenched air he’s come to think of as the general background scent of Earth, ignoring the gentle pang in his chest and the welling of his eyes for how much he’ll miss it all, and steps forward into the Lift with a newly determined ease.

The doors slide closed. Beside him, the Metatron gives him a sideways glance and sigh that belies some underlying relief. No doubt, he thinks he’s succeeded in bringing a righteous Angel back into the fold for the Glory of Heaven. Aziraphale suppresses a laugh of hysteria at the thought and wonders if his multitude of sins can even be absolved anymore. Tries to decide if he even cares if they are.

Decides it maybe only matters that Crowley will someday understand and perhaps Forgive him.

They move increasingly upward in a mildly awkward silence, and Aziraphale attempts to formulate a plan, his mind swirling with possibilities and a latent hope that he can still somehow salvage all of this. After all, Aziraphale may be a bad angel of poor motive, but surely Heaven was just misguided and would see the real truth and light of the situation once he’d had time to explain it to them. He’s going to stop the Second Coming, he resolves with a small but confident smile.

Just as soon as he can get someone to tell him what and when it is.

The Lift slows to a stop and the doors slid open soundlessly into the vast expanse of Heaven. No one is around, save a lone Archangel–fellow archangel now he supposes which feels surreal. Michael arches a disdainful brow as Aziraphale and Metatron step off into the heavenly lobby with a soft click of shoes on tile even as she puts on a forced smile,

“Ah, Aziraphale so glad to see you’ve agreed to the job.”

Aziraphale gives her a strained grin in return, slipping back into the vice of civility he has long cultivated to carry him through many a performance review pre-Armageddon. “Yes, so pleased to be here, really.”

Metatron claps him on the shoulder with a pleased chuckle, “Well I shall leave you in Michael’s capable hands, then.”

“Oh, well what about the Second…” he begins, but the Metatron is already turning to putter down the hall with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Yes, yes, all in good time,” he calls out before disappearing around a corner.

Aziraphale turns back to face Michael, her smile now soured into a downturned sneer, “Hmph, follow me I suppose.” Twisting on her heel, she takes off in a direction that Aziraphale can only assume still leads to the offices of the Archangels at a brusque clip, forcing him to jog slightly to catch up.

It’s endless rows after endless rows of white walls, windows, and desks. No doors, no dividers–he’d forgotten it was Heaven and not Hell that had invented the open office floor plan. Aziraphale finds it all disorienting to put it mildly, and a tired overwhelm lingers on the fringes of his brain as Michael prattles on endlessly through the halls about his new duties, expectations, and the array meetings they’ll need to get on his calendar.

“...and then of course you’ll want to rid yourself of that corporation as soon as possible, I’m sure…,” which snaps his attention back to the present as they arrive at an empty corridor with a grand but blank office that he supposes is now his.

“Of course,” he murmurs out of ingrained politeness.

“We can take care of it now if you’d prefer,” she offers with a raise of her hand, and then it all really does become too much.

“No!” he replies firmly, and it’s another sin to tally for his selfishness, but he can’t give up another thing today. God forgive him; he’s already given up more than he can part with. He straightens his stance and attempts to force as much of his newfound authority as he can muster into his voice as he continues, “No thank you, Michael. I’ll take care of it another day.”

“Well if you’re sure…” she begins, a perplexed frown forming lines on her forehead at his abrupt refusal.

“Yes, quite,” he interrupts, only capable of the slightest guilt at his potential rudeness as a profound exhaustion settles in around his temples, “I think I’d rather like some time just to settle in, if you please.”

She gives him a once over that suggests exactly how she feels about the lunacy of staying even one second longer than necessary in something as mundane as a body before rolling her eyes and giving an indifferent shrug, “Whatever. Suit yourself.”

Then she’s finally leaving him. Aziraphale lets out a heavy sigh and stares around aimlessly in the resulting quiet. There is none of the ambient background noise he’s come to expect from everyday life, and he finds it sets his nerves on edge trying to anticipate sounds it’s sure must be there.

Another bracing breath, and he crosses the empty expanse to the office space proper and lowers himself into the chair. A shudder passes through him–maybe it’s the sheer weariness of his corporation, or some strange side-effect to a physical body being placed into the heavenly sphere, but it feels so much colder here than he remembers. He tugs his jacket firmly around him, and wonders where he should start. It suddenly feels like such a daunting task, trying to change the whole of Heaven.

He closes his eyes resignedly and leans forward, pressing his forehead into the strange metal of the desk and attempts to sort through the day that has just wrought such chaos upon his life. Wills himself to formulate a plan and not get lost in the what-ifs of grasping hands, pleading eyes, and us. Silence folds in around him, his eyes feel damp, and there is a hollow ache settling mournfully into his chest.

His lips burn; he brings a hand up to press absent-mindedly at their warmth.

3 notes · View notes

elliedome · 1 year ago

Text

don't wanna interact with the other poster so I'll just leave the link to the entry that inspired this one of mine

https://www.tumblr.com/sing-you-fools/727901973981118464/crowley-knows-the-entire-time-that-theyre-in-a?source=share

came across this on twitter today

https://twitter.com/youryurigoddess/status/1700307125270929903?t=nUlocZMh0M0lkzJCx6Y99g&s=19

and had to reply, and it was getting too big for a bunch of tweets so here it is:

hmm. all good points. but i think the previous years they spent after averting the apocalypse influenced their behaviour at this point of the story: aziraphale, happy, thriving, with his books and music and his demon one phone call away, and crowley, homeless, seemingly counting the minutes until he gets a call from aziraphale, keeping tabs on hell by talking regularly with shax and being generally despondent about everything, wondering what's the point (no wonder he feels the little sliver of peace they've carved for themselves is so fragile) and when finally something starts happening his pessimistic paranoia is justified, while aziraphale is reluctant to leave the comfortable mindset he's been living in for the past years and so everything is a new opportunity for him to enjoy himself, while crowley keeps getting confirmation over and over that something is about to happen. and then the bookshop gets attacked by a (frankly pathetic) horde of demons (not even shax is that threatening tbh) and aziraphale is finally brought to the reality of an actual conflict happening around them while crowley solves the actual mystery (his paranoia has given him a headstart) and by extension the problem (gabriel's memory, his and beelzebub's association, etc). he even stomps on heaven and hell's attempts to start a war based on aziraphale's use of his halo and THEN the actual terrible thing happens: the metatron takes aziraphale away, which is something no one could have anticipated.

but my point is that, up to this moment, we've had indications that crowley was also swept up into the romantic fantasy involving nina and maggie (the whole rain thing), the planning of the ball (following aziraphale around like an obedient puppy) and the domesticity of looking after the bookshop and jim (moving books around [for some reason], explaining gravity or at least trying). he's wary and paying attention but he's not panicking or living in a horror story, not to my appreciation of the story and even though he and aziraphale don't talk about the Important Things, they still maintain a level of communication that puts them kind of on the same chapter, if not the same page. and i refuse to believe that *drama mode on* poor crowley is this helpless toy being heartlessly abused by an egotistical angel *drama mode off* (sorry 😅). he's going along with their routine (catering to aziraphale's needs *willingly* because he loves to make him happy) while also going through some realisations of his own (nina's comment about them being a couple) on which he even intends to act later.

all this to say hey, lay off *my* angel! 👊🏻 /j nah, seriously though, their interactions with each other have been shaped by millennia of going through things together and even if they have never gone *there* (moving their relationship to romantic territory) they have achieved a level of intimacy with the other's way of thinking and behaving that allowed them to impersonate the other convincingly enough to fool heaven and hell, so they're not suddenly completely disconnected from the other and involved in some toxic, abusive relationship where one stomps on the other to gratify their selfish desires. it's not a horror story, it's a murder mystery at most (the victim being gabriel's dignity) with healthy doses of comedy and romance (until the very end when it becomes a fucking tragedy [gaimaaaaan! 👊🏻])

#good omens #someone add some interesting tags here im out of practice on the tumblr thing

4 notes · View notes

sorenblr · 3 years ago

Note

Silly question I know, but what games have you guys already played (or playing right now), and which ones are in your backlog? Just trying to get a feel before submitting possible games for you to play here!

No problem, we keep tabs on everything we've played/are considering playing. I'll paste all the relevant information after the break below:

(Bolded = games played to completion on stream)

Mythology Games Played:

Jotunn (Steam)

Apotheon (Steam)

Hades (PC)

Ankoku Shinwa: Yamato Takeru Densetsu (NES)

Maharaja (NES)

Sun Wukong VS. Robot (Steam)

Saiyuuki World (NES)

Raji (Steam)

God of War (PS2)

Wrath of the Gods (PC)

Year Walk (Steam)

Blasphemous (Steam)

Gegege no Kitaro: Kikki Ippatsu! Yokai Retto (GBA)

Rise of the Argonauts (PC)

Muramasa: The Demon Blade (WII)

Okami (PS2)

Myth: History in the Making (Commodore 64)

Skyblazer (SNES)

Dante’s Inferno (PSP)

Getsu Fuuma Den: Undying Moon (Steam)

Yokai Watch 3 (3DS)

Saiyuki: Journey West (PS1)

Knights of the Round (SNES)

Beowulf (PSP)

Shadows Over Mystara (Steam)

Little Nicky (GBC)

Binding of Isaac (Steam)

The Grinch (PS1)

Darksiders: Warmastered Edition (Steam)

Panzer Paladin (Steam)

Constantine (PS2)

Pocky & Rocky (SNES)

Pocky & Rocky 2 (SNES)

Kwirk (GB)

Spud’s Adventure (GB)

Urban Yeti (GBA)

Halloween Games Streamed (2020-21)

BUDDHIST HELL GAUNTLET: Genpei Toumaden, Getsu Fuuma Den, Jigoku Meguri, Yokai Douchuuki, etc.

Gegege no Kitaro (SFC)

Castlevania: The Adventure ReBirth (Wii)

Simon's Quest (Steam)

Haunted Castle (MAME)

Gegege no Kitaro: Gyakushuu! Yokai Daikessen (PS1)

Jack Bros. (VB)

World of Horror (PC)

The Mummy Demastered (Steam)

Castlevania: Symphony of the Night Randomizer (PS1)

Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas: Oogie's Revenge (PS2)

Megami Tensei Scoreboard:

Shin Megami Tensei: Synchronicity Prologue (PC)

Shin Megami Tensei: IMAGINE (PC)

Shin Megami Tensei IV (3DS)

Devil Survivor Overclocked (3DS)

Shin Megami Tensei IV: Apocalypse (3DS)

Digital Devil Saga (PS2)

Maken X (Dreamcast)

Revelations: Persona (PS1)

Majin Tensei (SNES)

To Play Once I Upgrade My PC:

Apsulov: End of Gods

El Shaddai: Ascension of the Metatron

Nioh

Nioh 2

SMITE

Garshasp: The Monster Slayer (lol)

Suggestions From Various Sources:

Indivisible

Asura's Wrath

Assassin's Creed Origins or Odyssey

Hercules PS1/Herc's Adventures

Glory of Heracles

Kid Icarus

Valkyrie Profile

Warriors Orochi

Devil May Cry

Dragon's Dogma

Dark Souls

The Midnight Santcuary

Aztech Forgotten Gods

Mulaka

Messiah

King of Kings: The Early Years

Baroque

ActRaiser

Shade: Wrath of Angels

Requiem: Avenging Angel

The Lost Child

Orient: A Hero's Heritage (as far as I can tell this game was never actually released)

Folklore (I fucking wish buddy)

Black Book

Tir Na Nog

Koudelka

Shadow Hearts

my soul will never know rest until there exists a reliable way to stream this game:

Too Human (XBOX 360)

#streaming knowledge #twitch #stream #ask

10 notes · View notes

soothfog · 3 years ago

Note

jordy i'm pretty sure you invented magical realism. lee is a character that feels incredibly real but also sort of 'up in the clouds' at the same time, both easy and hard to grasp, if it makes any sense. i'm obsessed with the way you convey everything through your writing and how nothing you write is ever superfluous or redundant, everything helps shaping lee and the world around him and how he perceives it magnificently. it's like a painting! in short take my money

how am i doing with my character? /// (+ accepting!)

i've had this message open in its own tab and keep clicking back to it to answer and every time i am speechless. reoccurring psychic damage.

you already (hopefully) know how much i fawn over your writing (but i will/can happily, continuously, endlessly go on about this; easily and readily because your writing is so rich, there's so much that can be touched upon or delved into (do you see what i mean? your writing is so good that just discussing the existence of it leads to compliments)). it's highly inspiring and aspirational. it's amazing how detailed and handily you can write characters like metatron and the joker on the same account. equally as riveting. peeking into their headspace. but with a narrative voice tailored specifically to them. distinctive to them. yet packed just as full with delicious descriptions. i'm a big fan, to say the least, and a bit awestruck to write with you!

up in the clouds but real / easy and hard to grasp are exactly the sentiments i revolve around for lee, i'm so happy it feels that way.

this account (and i think it might be influenced by you) has quickly taken a turn into practicing/trying to add as much detail as i can—pockets of detail—to build an atmosphere and understanding without overdoing it. i'm usually not a longwinded writer. but i've been pushing myself on lee to write long replies. so, it's really really fantastic to hear that even though i'm somewhat artificially trying to write more it's not coming across that way?

anyway. thank... you... my undying love and devotion to you.

#vinduri #*ask.#*keepsake.#ooc

3 notes · View notes

mattzerella-sticks · 4 years ago

Text

Sunrise (Dean/Cas coda to 15x19 “Inherit the Earth”, 1.7k)

(ao3 link)

Dean and Sam were free. Finally, unequivocally, free.

But this wasn't the happy ending Dean had expected. Maybe in the past, having Sam in the passenger seat tearing across an open stretch of highway as the sunsets, it'd be what he wanted. But that was years ago. He's not that man anymore. Dean's tired of sunsets, of saying goodbye. He yearns for a different ending. One that's less of an ending, and more of a beginning. A sunrise instead of a sunset.

Sam has his. Dean lost his. Despite this setback, he won't stop. He'll live in memory of his sunrise.

Except, what can he do when he feels those rays on his face again?

Early morning sunlight streams through half-closed motel window blinds, striking Dean directly on his face. Stir him from unconsciousness, shuffling Dean out of his dreams. Warm blue and familiar stubble replaced with an ugly, orange patterned wallpaper that makes his stomach unhappily flip. Groaning, he turns. Hopes he can reclaim his quickly fading fantasy. It escapes his grasp, Dean left in the loneliness of reality.

Truly. He checks Sam’s bed, finding it unoccupied. “Figures…”

They crossed paths with Eileen coincidentally. Not like Sam’s pointed questions and giant thumbs hid his intentions. Even his terrible acting (“Eileen? What are the odds of you being here?”) couldn’t throw him off. Dean played along, however, letting them think he was in the dark. Knew exactly why his brother and his brother’s girlfriend hadn’t told Dean about this. Salt only hurts a wound that’s fresh and open. While badly healed, Dean’s grown numb to that missing chunk of his heart. More pained that his sadness made his loved ones go behind his back, act in guilt.

Sam and Eileen don’t deserve shadows because of his pain.

Which is why he’s happy for them. Left the bar so they can chat without his presence. Catch up, let Sam tell her about those kitschy tourist traps they’ve been hopping between since Chuck’s defeat. Show pictures of Dean in an upside-down house, Sam’s head peeking out from corn fields. Hold hands. Sit on the same side of the booth. Kiss, without worrying if Dean is steadily killing his liver at the bar because of them.

Drinking lost its flavor anyhow.

Free from Chuck’s influences, Dean decided he might cut a few more strings. Namely beer. He’ll enjoy a bottle every now and then but, reflecting on it, booze never offered comfort he really needed. Only aggravated a different sort of hurt, distracting him for a while. He abandoned those distractions. Instead of asking their bartender from last night, with his tanned skin and wavy, blond hair, for whiskey, neat, until he dropped, Dean stood from their table and paid his tab. Carried his longing out the exit, drove with it, laid down in his bed and held it close. Hugged it, imagining his arms. Praise whispered in his ear, about choosing a different way. A better way. A healthier way.

Cas would be proud of him. Prouder than he already is. And Dean… felt the same.

Rising, Dean stretches. Winces as a new disc pops and cracks in his back, “Motels ain’t what they used to be…” He throws his legs over the side, scrunching his toes in the shag carpet. Smiling, “But at least some things’ll never change…”

It’s going to be a slow morning. Dean doubts Sam will swing by before noon, meaning he has hours to kill. First, he leisurely showers. Scrubs at his scalp with gentle scratches, humming Zeppelin under his breath. Keening ‘A Whole Lotta Love’s chorus, coming into his hand. Lets that melody fade while water makes his come sluice off his hand, into the drain. He switches tracks, dries himself while softly singing ‘Going to California’. Thinks about their next destination. All those beaches he and Sam plan on visiting. Finally making good on their promise.

Not how he always envisioned it, but…

Dean drapes the towel around his neck, staring at his reflection. Marks new wrinkles he hadn’t noticed, gray hairs where dirty blond were. Sees how small his eyebags shrank.

Sleeping was surprisingly easy. Some days Dean wished it weren’t. Others, it’s his only chance at being with him again.

“Nope,” he says, leaving the bathroom. Jumping out from the mirror. “Not going there… not this early…”

He bides his time dressing, debating where he should get breakfast. Wonders if a diner they passed entering town might serve pie as he hops into his jeans. Waffles between a t-shirt or purple-and-blue plaid while rubbing deodorant on. Then, tugging his tee’s thin fabric over his head, he decides he isn’t that hungry. Can eat later, Sam driving so he can attack snacks he squirrelled away when they last stopped for gas.

Knock Knock Knock

“Sam?” Dean asks, glancing at the door. No one answers. “Sam is that you? You forget your keys or…” He checks his phone. Nothing.

Knock Knock Knock

“Sam, if that’s you – this isn’t funny.” He grabs for his socks, sitting on the end of his bed. “Pulling a poor joke on your brother, leaving your girlfriend alone in bed… shame on you.”

Knock Knock Knock

Dean squeezes his socks, glaring at the door. His irritation fades, weirdly, the longer he stares. Replaced with a different feeling, comforting. Without needing to, Dean guesses it’s not Sam on that other side. Tossing his socks, Dean stands and slowly inches forward. Drawn by gravity, a name perched atop his tongue. Waiting there, scared of being spoken. Of being wrong. He doesn’t feel wrong.

Is this still a dream, he asks himself. Did I actually wake up? Dean waits, hovering near the doorknob. Remembers rushing last time, what waited there then. What he almost threw himself onto. Cycles through who might be waiting now. Something worse, a more terrifying monster. Or maybe mundane, like the motel manager. He’ll never know if he drags it out. Whether that’s motivation or warning, Dean can’t decide. What he does choose is flinging open that door and facing whoever was there.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas -?” Dean gasps, knees buckling. Laughing, he leans his weight on the door. Grins wide enough his cheeks must splinter, twin tracks of tears already spilled over. “Cas, is that…” He coughs, wiping at his mouth. “Is that really you?”

Like nothing happened, Cas crosses the threshold. Dressed spectacularly… normal. Trench coat, suit jacket, and white button-down paired with his crooked blue tie. Dean’s hand drifts close but can’t touch. Not yet. “It is me,” he tells Dean, “you… probably have a lot of questions. About why I’m here, and – and what was said when the Empty…”

Of course, there are questions. None were as important as Dean snatching Cas’s tie, dragging him into a heated embrace. “Later,” he promises, closing the door. Guiding Cas onto his bed. Falling, his angel’s body collapsing atop his. Weight proving further and further how real this is.

He’s back!

“I can’t believe…” Dean kisses along Cas’s neck, threading his fingers through hairs resting at his angel’s nape. Feeds a fire burning across his body, flames roaring with a desire for more. “Can’t believe I could be this lucky…”

Cas chuckles, “Good things do happen, Dean.”

“Never to us.” Pausing, Dean tears his eyes from the dip of Cas’s collarbone and to his face. “I searched, Cas. I did. Back when it was me, and Sam, and Jack, I did everything I could but I… there wasn’t any lore. Nothing about contacting the Empty, breaking through I – how?”

Shifting, Cas rolls off Dean and onto his side. No sooner than it started, those flames eating at Dean’s insides tempered. Became a more manageable heat, containable. Dean tucked himself against Cas’s chest, hearing his heartbeat. Awed from that simple rhythm it gives. Lulls Dean with a gentle song. “Jack,” Cas explains. Rubs Dean’s shoulder, along where his handprint was. Teased the edges of his tee, part of his memorial tattoo revealed. Cas traces his palm outline. “In fixing Chuck’s mistakes, he… he mounted a rescue mission from Heaven.”

“For you?”

“For everyone.” Cas kisses Dean’s crown, continuing his story. Whispers it into his head. “All the angels. Jack rescued us all.”

“Everyone?” Dean asks, “Meaning… Michael? Gabriel?”

“Uriel, Balthazar, Anna, Hannah, Metatron – even Lucifer.”

“What the hell?”

“He was fixing what Chuck wasted. Saved Heaven,” he says, “Gave everyone a second chance, to do right by humanity. Be its guardians like we were supposed to be. And…” Cas lays his hand where it belongs, Dean shivering from contact. Wraps his arms tighter around his angel’s waist. “Jack offered me all my powers back, and then some. Said I could be his archangel… second-in-command, in all of Heaven.”

Dean lifts his head, frowning. Studies Cas with a suspicious wrinkle creasing his brow. He deflates somewhat, disappointment rocking into him like heavy waves. Routine. Expected, since Cas was exactly where he wanted. But then, isn’t that answer enough? Dean asks regardless. “Did you take it?”

“I thanked him for the offer,” Cas says, “however my place was elsewhere, here on Earth… with you.” His hand moves, cupping Dean’s cheek. Thumb brushes his lip. “And when our time comes, I’ll rejoin Heaven at your side.”

Cas’s heartbeat makes sense, now. It never did that before.

“We’ve got a long time before we croak, Cas,” Dean jokes, crawling higher up his bed. Enough that he can press their foreheads together. “You think you can handle it?”

“I waited millennia to meet you, and then years just so I can hold you like this.” Cas closes the distance, capturing Dean’s lips. “I’m hoping our future is excruciatingly slow.”

“Our future…” He relaxes, allowing a few more kisses before he starts again. “Y’know, I… I thought I’d never get to say that. Figured, after Jack took the reigns from Chuck, this was all we’d get and – and having everyone back was nice. But you weren’t there, and I hurt. When you died, I wanted to sit there and let myself waste away and join you. Except if I did, you’d be so angry and – that’s what’s been keeping me going. You loved me so much – and were pained whenever I was… I couldn’t do that to myself. Punishing myself wouldn’t be fair. So I thought about my future, how I can live it for those I loved. Be there… the person I’ve become, and not who I used to be. But now…”

“Now you can be a little selfish,” Cas says. “We can be selfish.” He tickles Dean’s chin, hands roving across his body. “What should we do, for the first day of the rest of our lives?”

Dean doesn’t dawdle. “I want to lay here,” he says, “Lay here the whole day, in your arms, telling you how much I love you.”

“…I don’t see any problems with that.”

Neither did Dean, which is why he suggested it. They fix themselves, first. Cas sheds most of his outer layers, leaving himself only in his boxers. Dean hurls his jeans off fast, jumping under the covers. Giddy as Cas joins him, both men facing each other. Hands joined above their sheets, Cas’s palm fitting perfectly.

“Well?” Cas arches his brow, “How much do you love me?”

Dean kisses him, ruining it by smiling too hard. “I love you too much, and not enough.”

#supernatural #spn #spn15 #15x19 #15x19 inherit the earth #15x19 coda #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic

123 notes · View notes

sarahthecoat · 1 year ago

Text

yeah, i have that meta open in a tab somewhere and maybe eventually i will get through the rest of it, but i have so much more catching up to do. so far the takeaway i got was, the pledge/turn/prestige story structure idea, and the metatron is up to something. i'm always curious about story structure, and obviously the metatron is up to something, which he has indicated in every possible way short of saying it in so many words. (sorry not sorry for the TAB flashbacks)

but no, gos2 was by no stretch "bad" or out of character. i'm a graduate of the story structure track of tumblr university, so i expect act two of three to leave a lot of unanswered questions. that means lots of fun speculation! and fic ideas! also i trust neil (and john finnemore) based on their extensive track records.

eta, i skimmed a lot of the "bad writing" section (it's a lot, keeping the tab open for later still) and it's not saying *neil* wrote badly, it affirms that he is a master story teller, so if there is something that feels off, then it's for a reason. which is a fair thought to have. that we can trust neil to resolve the important questions, whether this meta is "right" or not. and that it's fun to speculate. which was an assertion Back Then too, when we had to keep fandom fun for ourselves cos we sure as hell weren't getting any "go have fun with it!" from Those Lying Liars.

seeing people be like "this season was bad on purpose i'm gonna write a 15,000-word meta explaining what's ACTUALLY going on here" for a show where the otp has kissed. on the mouth. in an explicitly romantic way. you are like a little baby

#gos2spoilers #story structure #three act structure #metatron's temptation #fandom is for fun #that includes meta

2K notes · View notes

mittensmorgul · 5 years ago

Note

Hi! Not trying to be difficult, but I saw that you like Rowena/Samwhich. I see a lot of fandom likes her - I personally can not get over her casual murdering if people (like service workers) from many season ago. know there's a similar dislike of Ketch for his murdering and am wondering what's up with the adoration? People liked her before the redemption arc so I'm wondering how much forgiveness she gets/got from people just because she was a 'badass' woman. Or the arc is what swayed you/people.

Hi there! I’ll start by saying that I’ve always liked Rowena because she’s a good character, not because she was a good person, you know? Like Metatron, she was an amazing villain. She was fun to root against, which is what you want in a good villain. But I’d venture to say that her redemption arc began even before we met her. Crowley had mentioned her twice before that, as a witch who taught him a few tricks, and wasn’t a good parental role model for him. And the show began redeeming her just a bit from even her first few appearances.

Sure, she didn’t start rescuing puppies and reading to coma patients in her spare time, but we did begin learning about her and her life. Not all the people she killed from the start were just casually murdered, you know? Her actual goal had been murdering the demons running the Raul’s Girls brothel scam. If she happened to kill a few of the girls herself, well then... at least her objective was met already.

And if that’s all your objecting to about her character, then I invite you to look at Crowley, who we know has casually killed all sorts of people, and yet... had a redemption arc from his first appearance on the show, too. I invite you to look honestly at Sam and Dean and all the people (yes, and monsters, but also innocents who died because of their doing), and tell me that makes them unforgivable and irredeemable, as well.

But the show has spent the last 5+ years actively writing her a redemption arc. Not a shoehorned “oh didn’t you hear, I’m a good guy now” literally attempting to handwave everything bad from the past by lampshading it with a “fake identical twin” story. Which... is what they’ve done with Ketch. At this point, after having been physically present in something like 33 episodes, and at least mentioned or on the phone helping Sam and Dean and Cas in several more, she officially has the longest, most consistent and persistent character growth and redemption arc in the history of Supernatural, other than Cas (if you even think of Cas as a character who needed “redemption” in the first place).

The first four episodes Ketch was in, we didn’t even see his face. He was set up as the Boogeyman of the BMoL, who even the agents we did see on screen as cold (they tortured SAM! and felt justified about it the entire time!) were scared of him. He was the Last Resort, he was the Executioner brought in to “solve problems” for them. Cold, calculated, efficient. And they set him as a spy on the Winchesters. He remained unrepentant through his brainwashing of Mary, assuring her she’d feel better once she had no pesky will of her own to resist the orders he set for her to kill, and genuinely drew pleasure from torturing and killing people and monsters. Even people who were supposedly his friends, even Mary he’d had what passes for a romantic encounter with. Then after his miraculous resurrection, we learned of his history with Rowena and how he GOT her charm in the first place-- implied that he tortured her to death and then witnessed her charm kick in and resurrect her.

And folks, that’s exactly the story of Rowena’s ENTIRE LIFE. Tortured for fun and then abandoned as disposable when they’d used her for what she could give them by people she’d sought protection and shelter from. She’d spent the last 300 years bargaining for her own life and safety by trading her body and her magic-- cast out by everyone from Crowley’s father to the Grand Coven to the Loughlin witches from 12.11, and EVEN BY SAM at the end of s10, when he had her literally chained to a table to force her to cast the spell to cure the Mark.

Then even after Ketch’s return, he’s remorselessly torturing and killing his way through a string of witches trying to find Rowena to make him another resurrection charm. When the Winchesters trap him, he lies and lies until he can’t keep it up any longer, and then we discover he’s actually now employed by Asmodeus, who’s ordered him to keep tabs on the Winchesters, in the episode where Asmo literally captures Cas, locks him in a cell, and then convinces Dean that Cas got away by impersonating his voice on the phone. Ketch... was part of all of this. Until he discovered Asmo’s secret power source and decided to disarm the demon... I don’t think Ketch brought Gabriel to them out of the goodness of his heart. He even told Dean that he saw a chance to escape retribution from Asmodeus in the AU, so he took it. It took him going to an alternate universe and fighting for the resistance forces there for us to even begin to think they could consider giving him a redemption arc. And he only had one on-screen appearance in s14, via a video call after sending the One Thing They Needed To Stop Michael via postal mail and having it delayed arriving to them as a result... but hey, at least he was trying to be helpful, right? >.>

They repeatedly lampshaded that he’s continued to do his Hired Gun thing, basically Supernatural Being murder for hire. He took a contract on Belphegor’s life, for example. So other than the fact he’s been occasionally helpful to TFW, and the fact he’s stopped actively trying to kill them, they haven’t actually written him any sort of redemption arc to speak of.

Unlike Rowena. We’ve delved into her history, heard in her own words why she became what she was when we first met her, and not only why she abandoned Crowley as a child but also seen her genuine grief and torment after his death-- after having lost any chance to ever try to seek his forgiveness or truly have a relationship with her son. And honestly, we have seen both Sam and Dean go to those sorts of lengths to get each other back, you know? Rowena’s actions in 13.19... are exactly the sorts of things we saw Sam doing in early s10... literally in the episode Rowena was introduced.

So I invite you to consider... if you forgive Sam for that or drinking demon blood or releasing Lucifer, if you forgive Dean for selling his own soul to save Sam or taking on the Mark of Cain and all that led to, if you forgive Cas for basically all of s6 or saying yes to Lucifer in s11... then... you should probably consider taking another look at the entirety of Rowena’s arc and see if you can’t see how they’ve written her the same redemption beats and more.

She’s helped the Winchesters, even when held against her will that first time, even when Sam demanded she kill the one person she’d ever let herself truly love in order to save Dean from the Mark. But since then she’s helped them of her own free will, gradually going from doing it as a quid pro quo to doing it because she was genuinely beginning to care about them going all the way back to 12.11. She ran afoul of Lucifer-- which experience still tortures and terrifies her to this day-- because of the Winchesters. And in return, Sam especially has grown to show her trust and care as well. He gave her the page from the spell book she wanted to protect herself and trusted she wouldn’t use that against him. Then we learned their fates were intertwined-- Sam destined to kill her. But instead, they mutually chose to try and save her. I mean... that’s been the foundation of her arc for the last 3 seasons. And to reject that character growth, you have to bend over backward and ignore the fact that in their lives, Sam and Dean and Cas have done just as terrible or worse. It’s only a wee bit hypocritical to dismiss her honest development into someone Sam and Dean both think of as at least Winchester-adjacent if not part of the extended family at this point. The story’s been working overtime to bring her to that point where she now actively CHOOSES to care for them, even at her own peril.

She literally did exactly what Dean did in 13.23, saying yes to Michael because he promised he would spare the people she cared about. She literally has sacrificed herself for them out of love. So... tell me, what would it take for you to get past what she was when we first met her? Because everyone in-story got past that years ago.

#spn 15.02 #spn 13.19 #spn 12.11 #spn 14.14 #spn 12.08 #spn 11.10 #spn 13.12 #spn 10.23 #rowena #i don't actually want to say this but... does her gender have something to do with the unwillingness to understand and forgive here #Anonymous

114 notes · View notes