#gabriel obviously

[ryanstillwrites-if]

Which of the male ros are the biggest 👀

is this a real question

[rwsdarw]

pretend this is a good caption

[gal-o-guacamole]

Life or Bath for Gabriel

[jattendschaton]

Émilie Agreste purposefully giving Adrien an allergy to feathers to make sure her son would never be able to use the peacock miraculous in the future

[yunyin]

Zag is making a Hawkyura statue

the way my mouth dropped open

I don't think they've made something that has surprised me this much in a while!

[gabe-lovebot]

oh. ok

[shriekinghavoc]

[varyathevillain]

gonna keep thinking about how Gabriel went back to straightening out his posture and a certain booming and superior tone to his voice when he got his memories back... until he looked at Beelzebub. and then he crossed hands over his chest, breathed out, music kicked in... and it's as if a weight fell off him: his whole body became looser and less rigid, his voice turned oh so soft, even his face shown the way we only saw from Amnesiac!Gabriel - open and happy and in love with the world. in this case, his whole world. absolutely fantastic acting from Jon Hamm to convey just how much Gabriel's love for Beelzebub meant to him, how it breaks his shell of official pompousness immediately.

[jichanxo]

so i finally watched that new special...

[peridots-pixiwolf]

[Start ID. A digital drawing of Gabriel and V1 from Ultrakill in super-saturated, pixellated colors. It seemingly takes place during phase two of his second fight, judging by Gabe's bright yellow-cyan wings and the consequent blush shining through his helmet. Gabriel is pictured on the left, facing the left side of the screen with his head turned to V1, preparing to strike them with the bloodied spear in his right hand. Small but frequent splatters of blood dot his armor and outstretched wings, fabrics torn through in places. V1 is on the right, aiming its piercer revolver at his face. Their arms are stacked in pairs on either side, idle Feedbacker and Knuckleblaster on the left and Whiplash tucked atop their default arm on the right. Both parties are stylized to resemble insects, Gabe with beetle wings and a halo in the shape of antennae, and V1 with the four wings, four arms, short antennae and bristles expected of a dragonfly. End ID]

woah.... happy 1 year anniversary to gay people

also a couple alts (background removed, just gabe, and just v1, respectively) in hopes it'll be a little easier to understand what's going on and all!

additionally once again: special thanks to @magnumopos and @muzzleroars , neither of which I have actually spoken to in my life but both of which are credited with partially inspiring this! (dedicated section under the readmore due to the fact I do not generally tag people at all ever and wasn't sure if I should, but thought it was worth mentioning!) The former for giving me the wonderful idea of dragonfly V1, the latter for drawing V1 like a strange little creature + for the feedbacker plate, I enjoy both your works :]

(retroactively, on march 27th of 2024, assigning them a full bingo with credit to deep-space-lines. ehehehehe)

[kyouka-supremacy]

Bsd's central theme actually is that you need friends so that you don't turn evil and try to destroy the world

[nico-di-genova]

Nathan trying to get cute pictures of Gabriel and Annalise , but his camera roll just ends up looking like this:

[milimeters-morales]

Everyone: where’s hobie he was supposed to be here an hour and a half ago!!

Hobie testing out “upgrades” he gave to a random car because he was bored waiting:

[muzzleroars]

Michael, the Ruined Prince

Michael, having used all of his power to seek out God, had failed as the Prince of Heaven. He had abandoned his people, absent for centuries on a fruitless search filled with unheard, increasingly desperate prayers and an unrelenting, bone-deep exhaustion that is now permanent. His grief grew day by day, and an angel in isolation begins to wither, to warp – they must be with one another lest they twist into their extremes, retreating into their divine purpose until it becomes self-destructive parody. And Michael had already been scarred long ago by his role in banishing Lucifer, by God’s own ever-mounting wrath that ate away at the mercy he was meant to feel alongside it. Michael had already been insular, something had already pulled at the seams of his soul, and now centuries of failure consume him. He would return to Heaven with nothing for his people. Nothing for the siblings he swore to protect.

So his final thought in a deeply troubled mind urged him to try one last time. That if he could not find God, then he must bring God to himself. He must sin, he must beg for punishment, and then God will come to deliver it onto him. Just as He once did to Lucifer. It disgusted him, to think he had to debase himself to be as the sinners he held nothing but vile contempt for ever since he couldn’t cope with the guilt of the first fallen angels. But his prayers have failed, his days of weeping have failed, he moved Heaven, Earth, and all of Hell to come up with empty hands. Less than that. Not even a feeling. So Michael, even as a Cherub who could not, did everything he could to replicate his memories of when he had witnessed God Himself tear the light from His angels. Michael had seen it every time, it was he that had to bind any fallen angel that survived it to their place in Hell. He knew, implicitly, what the ritual was even if God seemed to enact it in one beautiful, elegant motion. And he did just that. Imperfect pantomiming, flawed execution, but the same ritual as best as Michael could copy it. All to himself.

But only God and the high Seraphim can sever an angel from their light.

His soul was rent from his body. His light was torn to shreds by his inexperienced hands. The agony that it screeched resounded all the way back to Heaven in unintelligible, muted whispers of nauseous grief no one could understand. Michael felt himself die, but it was incomplete. He was left in a corpse, a body destroyed and succumbing to all it meant but with him still inside of it. God did not come, and Michael was trapped a ruined body, bereft of a soul, of his light, giving way to rot and deterioration yet fully functional. He could do nothing but take this as a sign from God, one that he will not be punished no matter his crime for being such a loyal servant. Even as his body falls apart, as plants begin to burst from his remains, he believes himself to be blessed – see how he grows God’s garden. See how his crown remains pristine. He adorns his exposed bones with gems and finery, ostensibly as thanks to God for keeping him alive, keeping him sinless when he had so despised his impending fall from grace. But. Michael is, in the back of his mind, highly aware of what he’s become. He knows he is rotting, he knows he is in a dead body, he knows, somewhere, God had nothing to do with it. It was just a mistake, it was just his own foolishness with catastrophic consequence. He is more noxious than a fallen angel now, a botch job shambling numbly back to Heaven when he feels the death of Gabriel.

Upon his return, he largely attempts to hide the rot of his body, at least from the citizenry – he cannot hide it from Raphael or Uriel, nor does he try. To Michael, it proves his devotion, it shows God’s still present love for him, and it is a testimony to how he cannot fall, that he can never lose his place in Heaven. Raphael begs for him to be healed, Uriel pleads reason to him, but neither had ever been as strong as Michael and ultimately, he is their leader. No matter the state he returns in, he is the Prince of the Archangels and truthfully...they both fear him now. He is not the Michael they loved, not the one that had been quiet and stoic yet still loving in return. The Michael that would have done anything for them, that never wanted to lose another like he lost Lucifer. He commands them now to join him in binding Gabriel, his tangible grief the only thing that seems to be left of who he had once been.

Internally, Michael sees their fear, he feels the crushing guilt of Gabriel’s fall, he is violently ill with one true look at himself. He had gone wrong a long, long time ago, when he lost Lucifer, and now all of that was being made manifest, but he can’t face it. As flesh falls away, he covers it more and more with jewels as if that could hide the decay he can feel spreading night and day, the only thing he feels now. He must retreat into his purpose, he must not allow such devastating failure to be his legacy. So he turns on Gabriel. Gabriel, whose light had been severed. Who walks freely in an abandoned Hell. Who still has a living, breathing body. Michael’s vitriol toward the damned hones in on Gabriel, consumed with being sure he is left nailed to the lowest pit in Hell for his treachery. All the love he once had turns to hatred and in it, the other three can see that Michael has been left shattered, that nothing in him truly believes God made him this way. God’s most loyal, left to rot.

Additional information:

Michael now always exudes the Odor of Sanctity, but there is a distinct undertone of mold to it

The opalescent webbing that runs through his body is the angelic brain - normally it is iridescent and transparent with a strange glow, but Michael's is opaque and dull

Michael now prefers walking, something noted as unusual when he returned to Heaven, but it's simply due to the fact that his body has been left entirely numb and so it's difficult to maneuver in the air properly

He is very protective of his crown and dragon-skin bag, as they seem to be the only things left uncorrupted on him

[intheorangebedroom]

More than a feeling

Summary: you like to sing. Frankie likes it too. Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader. Rating: Explicit fluff 🔞  Word count: 570ish A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡

One thing for certain, an absolute, indisputable fact, is that Frankie loves to hear you sing. 

Sometimes, a classic rock tune you like comes out on the crackling grocery store speakers, and you start singing along out loud, completely unabashed, as you browse the aisles with him. He downright puffs up his chest with pride. Bites down a dimpled smile, he doesn't always know why. You make him so fucking soft… Nobody else needs to know that. 

On Sunday mornings, when he’s cooking breakfast while you’re showering, he tunes in to that radio station you like, and if he’s lucky enough, a song will come out that’ll propel you out of the bedroom halfway through dressing. You’ll dance into the living-room, wearing only his t-shirt, your panties and a sock, hollering over the music and playing air drums, a show that’s not even for his benefit but for your sole enjoyment. But he’ll be damned if that’s not the kind of moment he lives for.

Most often, you quietly hum, absentmindedly, going about the house, doing your stuff. He’ll immediately perk up his ears, pausing whatever it is he’s doing, and just listen. Gaze drifting, a smile tugging the corner of his plush lips. Shoulders dropping from the perpetual tension that pulls them taut. You’re the only one who can do that to him. 

You’re not always on tune, far from it. You don’t always remember the lyrics, not precisely, but your singing voice triggers something in him. Something warm and heavy, something that lives and thrives. A feeling that blooms inside his chest, the sensation fringing on pain, with the way his heart swells, tight against his ribcage. 

It’s the cheerful testimony to what he provides you with -a sense of safety. 

It’s the expression of what you give him in return -your trust. 

But the real treat is when you’re driving together, sitting side by side on the bench seat of his old truck. In the cozy warmth of the cab. Moving through the world, but remote from it, tucked away together, time suspended, irrelevant. That’s when he likes it best.

The music wrapping around the two of you, slightly distorted by the antique cassette player, it sounds like a bike ride after homework, like the last summer sunset, like endless afternoons and his whole life before him. Like a time when he didn’t know you yet but was already looking for you. Like a hopeful sensation after waking from a bittersweet dream. 

He’ll steal sideways glances in your direction as you sing your lungs out, practically dancing in your seat, or tapping your thumbs on the wheel, if you’re driving. 

He’ll relish the moment. Before it turns into something else, something that’s even more, when the whole of your life together becomes greater than the sum of all of its parts.

When he’s finally inside you. When you’re writhing in his hold, melting under his touch. When your taste’s on his tongue and the scent of you heady, when your tight, dripping cunt flutters along his cock. When your throat thrums under his lips and your voice fills his ears, replacing all his thoughts, resonating through his entire fucking chest as you moan and keen and plead. 

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. 

His name tumbling from your lips, cried out or whispered, as he coaxes release after release from your trembling body. That’s his favourite song of yours. That’s the one he’ll never tire of hearing you sing.

[decamarks]

i have not painted in... ~3 years. anyway here's a ferryman holding one of his many idols