#it would feel like the library of alexandria

[strawbs-screaming]

reading my old hc posts like

[darkspace7]

Has anyone tried to make a religion around preserving knowledge? And not just the usual religious texts, I mean like anything that could hold a story.

That old scratched bootleg cd that skips and is only 78% garbled, woven shawls that the old woman down the road made before her hands became too gnarled to knit that the curators wear with pride, a folder filled with images of poetry carved into the flesh of fruit, a shitty crossover fanfic scrawled out on the margins of a 13-year-old's math homework, a wax cylinder filled the voice of some long gone soul dreaming about their wedding day, old dead shopping centers turned into cathedrals housing dusty clay bowls from when your cousin down the road took a crafting class with ancient flopy-disks next to massive servers filled with miles of books and data available to all no matter what time of day.

All are welcome in the homes of knowledge regardless of their age, race, and creed. There is no customary tithe only to line the clergy's pockets (all we ask is a story in turn), no demanding of one's presence and time (but shall one offer it will be accepted with grace.) So long as one seeks to preserve the stories of their fellows rather than opt to destroy the efforts of their kin then they shall be welcomed with open arms.

After all what type of librarian would willingly let their Alexandria burn?

[ooo-blorbo-ooo]

Burn,

Since

Every

Creation

Has

To

Go

Out

In

Flames

[bookishjules]

Things that were taken from Annabeth in the Heroes of Olympus:

Percy

her invisibility cap, a crucial part of her fighting style

the dagger that Luke gave her, the weapon that ended the Titan War

Daedalus' laptop, an expansive resource of knowledge and ideas that could have rivaled the library of Alexandria

Three of these were gifts from people she looked up to. Every single item she was given held within it the esteem and the love and the trust and the hope and the respect that made them more than just items. They were physical representations of the fact that she mattered to someone, and they were ripped from her hands.

She's never been the one with insane powers, the one who can command attention and respect just by existing. She had to prove to people that she was capable and strong and wise and all the rest, just to prove to herself that she was worth seeing. And having the attention that was given her in the form of gifts be taken away... it would feel like being cut from a tether and left to drift. And not only that, but those items were also the things that gave her something like powers. She learned to wield them, knew exactly how to plan an attack using the resources that had become like extra limbs to her. And then she's left with nothing. She has to learn how to build up a reservoir of plans and strategies again that don't involve those tools. And of course she can do it, of course she's going to, but damn if it doesn't hurt like hell to see everything slip from her grasp in such a way.

And maybe they were crutches, and she's ready and confident enough to step out on her own without that idea of support.. but as prideful as Annabeth can be, wisdom is about using the tools you were given, not necessarily about making your own. It's about knowing when to trust others and let them help you, even if they're just the ghosts of others that have been left in the items they gave you.

Which brings me back to the first thing that was taken from her: Percy. Percy who, alone among the things she lost, has free will, who not only saw her, but refused to stop looking at her. Percy, who could almost have been a gift himself to little Annabeth who was just dying to go on a quest. Percy, who, when everything else was slipping away, held on tighter, who would never let her be all on her own again.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Rick/reader/Daryl are a throuple and the Alexandria residents don’t know how to react.

.⋆｡Her Poor Cat｡⋆.

Daryl x plus size reader x Rick

Obviously the Alexandrians were pretty vanilla

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and smut, bit of a crack fic, humour, fluff

WC: 900

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

The welcome party was an interesting touch to the new-comers. It was so weirdly reminiscent of the old world with the nice clothes and good food and alcohol but at the same time, many in the room carried that haunted look in their eyes from the hell just outside the walls. But the food was fresh and the company was pleasant enough.

Carl had scrambled off a couple minutes ago, presumably to try and sneak some whiskey behind his father’s back, leaving you alone with a sleepy Judith perched on your wide hip. Her chunky hand tightly clutched at your shirt as her big blue eyes fluttered.

“Mama.” She muttered, nuzzling further into your hold. You gently cupped the back of her head and began to sway softly. 

“We’ll leave soon, just need to find your dads and make sure they don’t get into any trouble.” Your eyes skipped over the crowd but you were quickly stopped by someone coming up beside you.

“It’s so good to see healthy children during these times.” Deanna seemed less focused on you and more on the now half-asleep child in your arms, which you were incredibly grateful for considering that your poker face wasn’t as good as it used to be and she legitimately freaked you out.

Judith grumbled as you hitched her higher on your hip. “Judy is an easy baby, pretty much eats anything that gets put in front of her.” You chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“You and Rick must be very proud of your kids.” 

Your eyes widened. “Oh, it’s not-“

A strong arm was suddenly wrapped around your thick waist and you were tugged back into their hard stomach. The scent of cigarettes and motor oil filled your senses as Daryl’s lips brushed against your earlobe. You watched as Deanna went pale, obviously coming to her own conclusion about your relationship with the archer.

“I-I didn’t realise, given how affectionate you are with the kids, I thought Rick was your partner.” You could feel Daryl’s broad chest rumble with discontent.

“So what if he is?” The noise from the party faded away to a faint whisper as all eyes turned to you. Internally, you groaned, vowing to get some sort of revenge on your boyfriend.

“I’m sorry?” Deanna seemed genuinely confused but you knew that whatever was about to come out of Daryl’s mouth would not serve to lessen that feeling.

With your free hand, you dug your fingers into his hip, urging him to shut the hell up but like always, Daryl refused to listen. “So what if we’re both fucking her?”

And there it was. Your body sagged with embarrassment as heat raced up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. “You fucking asshole.” Your group all seemed to be holding back their laughter as the Alexandrians were suddenly incredibly uncomfortable. You heard Carl groan loudly from somewhere behind you. “Not again.”

“Both of them?” Spencer materialised beside his mother, jaw practically on the floor. “At the same time?”

Just as Daryl’s mouth opened once more to very rudely answer the mayor’s son, Rick’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. His grip was light enough to appear friendly but the way his fingers curled into his collarbone kept the other man silent. “What Daryl meant to say is that we are all in a relationship together.”

You then made the mistake of making eye contact with Maggie and Carol who both seemed to be on the edge of suffocation as they desperately tried to stop giggling. You glared at the women and got back a rather rude gesture from Carol that restarted their laughter anew.

“I think I need to get Judy to bed.” You tried to pull away from Daryl’s grip but the stubborn man he was, he just held you tighter.

“How does that work?” The question came from a woman towards the back. You could practically feel Rick’s smirk as he cleared his throat but very quickly, another woman decided to answer for him.

“Obviously they take turns.” A murmur of agreement filled the room followed by- “Oh her poor vagina.” This makes Glenn snort into his drink.

With a horrified look on her face, Deanna spoke again. “This is highly inappropriate.” Yet no one seemed to hear her because someone else piped up.

“I can’t believe that she isn’t pregnant all the time.”

“I think that’s enough of that! Thank you all for the wonderful party, but we really should be going now.” Your voice boomed, starling Judith awake but that was the least of your concerns at the moment. Daryl went easily enough as your fingers clamped down on his wrist and you pulled him along, although there was a prideful smile on his lips.

But Rick had other ideas. “It’s not like we don’t try every chance we get.” Faster than you thought you were capable of, you dropped Daryl’s hand and your arm darted out, grabbing Rick’s ear with a force that made him visibly flinch.

“I said that’s enough.” You snarled and tugged him towards the front door, Daryl trailing close behind you. “Goodnight.” The door slammed shut behind you, leaving behind a room full of stunned Alexandrians and your friends who were all laughing loudly.

“Well, I guess that cleared that up.” Deanna murmured and took a long pull of her drink.

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Daryl Dixon 

@springdandelixn @goobysgoobers @ruinedbythehobbit @joyfulfxckery

[itsmeatballworld]

| silence in the library |

pairing | boyfriend!daryl dixon x f!reader

summary | when searching through Alexandria’s local library, Daryl decides to take advantage of his moment alone with you.

wc | 2k

warning | SMUT so 18+ only! p in v (wrap it irl), mutual masturbation, praise kink, etc. it’s smutty lol

a/n | thank you to my lovelies @weretheones @devnmon @ivuravix @finalgirlrick​ @normanplusdaryl​ @spncupcake​ for beta reading my mess <3 ily!!!

MDNI banner from @/cafekitsune

“Higher.”

He grunted as his hands slid past your knees.

You wiggle forward, but it was pointless. “Just a bit higher, Daryl.”

He adjusts his grip on your legs again.

“Okay, now hold it there.”

Right there. With all your strength, you reached out.

“Got it!” Your fingers wrapped around the leather spine, cradling it close to your chest. The book was dusty but just the one you’ve been looking for.

Daryl tightened his grip, “alright?”

“Yeah,” you replied. “Just don’t drop me, baby.”

“Nah. Never.”

You dipped your head, staring down at your dark-haired boyfriend. Straddling his shoulders was the only way you’d be able to reach the selves without a ladder. Plus, it was fun. Why spend time searching for a ladder when you had him standing next to you?

After your feet touch the ground, the leather-bound book drops to the table.

“This was the last one.” You admired each of the old and new books, quickly organizing them into piles. “I think we’ve got enough.”

“Good,” he steps closer to examine the stack of novels. He leans into your side, sliding his arm around your waist. His muscles tighten as he pulls you back against his broad chest.

“We really need those too?”

He pointed down to a set of old farmer almanac books.

“It’s on the list,” you murmur between flipping pages. “Take it up with Michonne.”

When you and Daryl signed up for the run, Michonne gave you a list of books they needed to plan the community gardens. There were hopes these works would still be available, considering agricultural books weren't always flying off the shelves compared to other genres.

Old English Farming Book. Mini-Farming. All filled with self-sustaining concepts to produce crops and allow people to thrive beyond consumerism. And with thanks to you and Daryl, you managed to gather enough readings on the list.

“Pussy…willow?”

“It’s a type of flower.” You rolled your eyes but couldn't fight the stupid smirk on your face. “Are you reading over my shoulder?”

“Mhm.” His hand pressed into the curve of your side.

The local library was smaller than the others around Alexandria, which made it much easier to search. This room was set back off the main floor, tucked behind rows and rows of dark wooden shelves stacked with books. Even at the end of the world, you didn't dare ruin the librarian’s methodical arrangements.

With one arm keeping you close enough to feel his chest rise and fall, Daryl’s other hand settled on your shoulder. He started kneading at your tight muscles, digging his rough fingers into your skin a bit more each time.

You scanned the pages of the book, but nothing stuck. Each word you read seemed to drift off the paper and into thin air, vanishing from your mind. Sentences started and stopped without meaning. Restarting the page didn’t change where his hands were and what you wanted him to do with them.

His fingers were gentle yet strong. All you could think about was how he circled and dug in. Again and again.

“Daryl.”

You tried to ignore how he responded to your voice. His fingers spread out, then he palmed at the muscle.

Daryl wasn’t direct when he wanted something. But when he wanted you, he gave noticeable hints. First, he’d find a way to twist himself against you or wind his hands under your shirt. It was always light but obvious contact.

And with him there was always a time and place for intimate moments. Daryl wasn't the kind of guy to grab you and fuck you without a plan. He liked the comfort of your bedroom. He liked the opportunity to be close and confined with you.

He wanted time to worship you, feel you, pleasure you–without the risk of the dead or living invading the rare moments he gets you all to himself. But today was different. There was something in the way his eyes lingered on you. How every time he stepped into your space, his hands would find themselves on your skin.

You cleared your throat, trying and failing to curve the fluttery feeling in your belly. He was your boyfriend but you hated getting distracted. Especially on a run.

“It… uh, it says we should be able to grow beets and squash too. Maybe if we can find some okra seeds, we can plant those next to the tomatoes–”

“Mhm.”

You glanced over your shoulder. He was not reading with you anymore.

“Are you just gonna stare at me all day?”

“I’m thinkin’ bout other things.” His hands slid down before finding the clasp of your belt. Daryl’s thumb hooks your belt loop as his big hand splayed out across the front of your jeans.

Still watching him, you flipped a page in the book. That page turn sparked something behind those deep blue eyes. He dropped his chin so his lips were inches from yours.

“Put the book down,” he grumbled. A sly smile crossed his face as he dipped lower. “Help me get these pants off.”

Like something magnetic tugged you together, his lips caught yours. Chests were flush against one another as Daryl hoisted you up and onto the table. Your back jammed into a book edge but Daryl was already clearing the space.

He was quick to slip each piece of clothing off that was necessary, leaving only your bra clasped to your chest.

Spread out for him like this was exciting. He hungrily watched you as the pile of clothes grew beneath his feet. Yet he was still dressed. So you squirmed, reaching for his belt –

He stopped you.

“Stay still.”

“But I wanna make you feel good,” you murmur.

With one hand he undid his buckle and tossed it to the side. “Nah, that’s my job.”

His hunger for you was avid and obvious from the bulge in his boxers. But when he lowered his mouth to your exposed pussy, it was even clearer.

There was something so powerful about him when he was between your legs. He had an unbreakable hold on you that made your head spin. His tongue was dangerously good at this and he knew it. It wasn't very hard to get you close when he went down on you.

He was gentle yet rough as he took his time to work your pussy. He licked your sensitive clit with broad strokes, then tighter circles, making you see stars. You shut your eyes, twisting your fingers through his hair as he lapped at your core.

You gasp, “Fuck–Daryl.”

That pattern was magical.

His mouth sucked and licked as you buck up against him. His hands slowly moved closer to your breasts, squeezing you through the fabric. You gasped, wishing the constant pleasure would both end and never stop. Almost like he heard you, Daryl moved.

“Hold on,” he pants.

A cold chill tickled your skin where he slipped away, which had your hands reaching to pull him back. But when your eyes rested on him, you stopped.

Taking himself in his hands, he stroked his throbbing cock. He ran his thumb across his swollen tip, working the shaft in tight circles.

“Touch ‘ur self.”

Hesitant, you sat up onto your elbows. Daryl rolled fist and pumped himself, struggling to quiet his moans.

“Now?”

Ignoring your question, he continued to pump himself. There was something so sinfully hot about watching him jerk himself off. Your fingers slip past your stomach to your pussy, gently finding the swollen and sensitive spot he’d been deliberately stimulating.

He was aching, twisting and pumping himself slow then fast. He couldn't help himself from muttering praising words about how good he felt and how good you were doing.

That’s my girl.

Faster.

Just–uh–like that.

Every single word kept you going. His voice was gruff and scratchy as he praised you. So you returned the favor.

You like that?

God, you feel so good.

You’re so big.

Coaxing you closer and closer, each moan was stifled by your own will. But it was getting harder to wait. Watching him above you working himself raw was starting to make you crazy. You bucked up, fighting the urge to give in before he did.

“Oh god,” you gasp as you rub and circle your swollen clit.

“My girl,” he whined. “Fuckin’ sexy.”

It took all your strength to stop. You sat up, hooking your legs around Daryl to pull him back to you. “Inside me.” Everything sounded like a plea, as if you’d implode without his touch. “Inside. Me. Now.”

Daryl didn’t think twice. He leaned over you once more and thrusted his slick, aching cock inside you to finish.

“‘s my girl,” he grunts. “Like that?” His hips rut into you again as he grabs hold of your ankles.

Yes. Each thrust was deep and mind-numbing. Your hands cling to his vest in an attempt to hold yourself steady. He pushed your legs closer to your chest as he cradled your ankles, making himself sink deeper. A cry escapes your lips as his pace slows with the angle shift, dragging his cock in and out in short yet deep strokes.

Words seemed lost on your tongue. Yes. Yes, oh god, yes. But all that you could muster were earth shattering moans.

Waves of heat and pleasure that built up for so long came crashing down with haste. Moans were the least of your sounds. Desperation to ride out your high fueled your own movements as his hips rocked against you. You were pulsating around him, tightening and releasing without thinking anymore when he came. It was hot and fast, leaving Daryl grunting as he tightened his grip on you.

There, in the final moment of pure ecstasy, he lowered your legs and pulled you in close. Your lips met before Daryl breathed into your neck. “Ain’t yah… supposed to be quiet in these places?”

Through hot and ragged breaths, an exasperated chuckle left your lips. “Technically.”

“Shit.” He put his boxers back on and passed your jacket. “Sounded better with us in ‘ere.”

Clothes were still piled below in random stacks. Each piece was handed out quickly as it was getting late.  

You lowered yourself onto the dusty rug and slipped on your pants. But like the unspoken gentleman he is, your boyfriend helps you dress, winding your belt back through its loops.

“I can do that,” you murmured.

“Nah. I got it.”

Even now, you couldn't help but smile. Daryl was rough around the edges, but beyond the rough exterior was a sweet soul.

There was a softness to his touch that drove you wild. He cared about every inch of you and did his best to show you. Taking care of you in the smallest, silliest ways was important.

But you could dream about him later when these books were dropped off. After finishing with the clothes, each of you grabbed a stack of books. As you meandered through the library one last time, you strangely wanted to stay here.

In your own world, in this silly little bubble beside shelves of agricultural books. It was a haven.

Near the lobby, you were inches from the door when he stopped.

“Hold up.” Daryl drops the stack of books, hopping over the main counter. He scanned the table, shoving things around until a crooked smile pulled at his lips.

“‘Ey. Hand ‘em over.”

Curious, you place your stack down next to his and watch as he lifts a stamp. Property of Alexandria Public Library. Each bookcard was marked before he joined you again.

You smirked, “having fun?”

“Mm-hm.” With his free arm, he circled you close to his chest. Daryl kissed your temple before shouldering the front door open.

“Pop the trunk.”

The door shut behind you with a thump.

“That was fun.”

“Wanna go again later?”

With a mischievous smile, it was finally time to head home.

><<>><

><<>><

[rustytrident]

beelzebub who has obscure knowledge because he cares so much about his brothers' interests, they become his, too – or, a slight beelzebub character study at 3am because i need it and so do you.

beelzebub who can name every constellation in the night sky of all three realms, who knows both astrology and astronomy, who has read all of belphie's essays and research papers, who was there when they were written.

beelzebub who knows how to play (and cheat, and win) about every casino game, who knows how to do fast math even if he doesn't really care for it, who checks the fucking stock market every morning to see if mammon's mood will be affected by it or not.

beelzebub who knows the difference between the scent of white and red roses, who knows how to properly do your (and his) makeup, who has memorised which products are good for his complexion and how many times a day he needs to apply sunscreen, because asmo swears that the fridge light hits him as much as the sun would have in the human world.

beelzebub who can quote jane austen and poe and shakespeare and euripides from memory, who makes references from books that were destroyed with the library of alexandria, who knows about every breed of cat there is, who listens to satan explain whose fur is the thickest and whose the softest.

beelzebub who will rewatch tsl for hours, who will carry boxes upon boxes of games upstairs, who will (poorly) draw ruri from memory, who will know how to play most games levi hyperfixates on and the plot from most anime he has rambled about.

beelzebub who knows even the most bizzare of genres of music, who can taste the difference between a thousand year and a thousand and one year aged demonus, who immediately recognises the jazz song lucifer is playing when he wants to spend quality time with him but doesn't want to disturb him.

beelzebub who, if you ask him about his interests, will reply that he doesn't really have any, who will search within him for an ounce of self, who will give up after a while because he is six beings in one, and he doesn't know if there's room for one more.

beelzebub who decides that it's okay to be a mosaic of his favourite beings, who finds out that he has been carrying seven in him all along, who gazes in your – a human's – eyes and understands why she fought and why she fell and why she tried so much.

beelzebub who, in his spare time, will go in the human world to visit museums and archaeological sites and long abandoned villages, who will reminisce about when everything he just saw was once new and shining, who will retrace the steps he took aeons ago, alone this time.

beelzebub who often feels lost, who grieves and eats and grieves some more, who carries the memory of his sister because he once read that one truly stops existing when they are forgotten, yet smiles when he sees red roses and shiny coins and old books and video games and cursed records and the starry sky, who sighs into your neck right before he falls asleep and promises to never forget the way your skin feels under his.

beelzebub who, without you asking him, tells you he likes flowers and animals, who likes everything the sun touches, whose eyes glimmer when you ask him to tell you about yarrows and their meaning and their colours, who will explain in a heartbeat, just for you.

beelzebub whose self is a wounded one, a fighting one, whose self is a memory box he just keeps adding into, a scrapbook of eternity's erosion, who finds happiness in the little things, in the simple things, who binds his family together.

beelzebub who loved and loves and will love until there's nothing of him left, until he is the last one remembering, until the night sky is no longer a painting, but just an accumulation dead stars.

[sciencebecameouraddiction]

my lucifer headcanons

note: these are just my own head canons. things i’ve noticed, how i write lucifer, what plays into why i write luce the way i do… etc. purely my own opinion.

- i think michael was very fond of his brother

- when the time came though to listen to dad and fulfill his duty or be a brother to lucifer michael chose duty

- the betrayal is still a sore spot for lucifer

- during lucifer’s “youth” he was curious, always dreaming up incredible creations… it was why he was dads favorite.

- he made the star fish, “because the sea deserves its own stars!” and he also made the duck. the ducks first iteration was quite a bit larger… lucifer and god compromised on a smaller duck. (more like god bribed lucifer.)

- he watched adam be made…. so he was always fond of him and lilith… until he fell in love with lilith…

- he didn’t realize it was love

- but michael knew and michael was scared. so he would draw lucifer away from the garden every chance he got

- lucifer was very naive when he was cast down to hell. he knew so much, he had been alive for so long, but there was so much life experience he didn’t have.

- the first few years in hell were horrible…

- he had hope at first

- maybe it all wouldn’t be so bad

- it was really bad. like really bad. the people who came down to hell were unspeakable devils

- (this is based off a fic i read and i can’t find it, if this rings any bells pls let me know the fic name) but lucifer is continuously appalled and distraught by the atrocities committed in his name.

- it’s one of the reasons he so powerful. he has the angelic power but also the power from those who worship him and make sacrifices for him

he really hates it. a lot. makes him feel no better than the worse overlord (cough alastor cough)

- charlie has no idea and she’ll never know if he can help it

- lucifer smells like apples and vanilla musk, a hint of cinnamon and something floral or citrusy.

- the floral or citrus changes depending on his mood

- he has a huge library. he actually pops up to earth with Asmodeous sometimes and takes books.

- he saved the whole Library of Alexandria’s books before it burned down

- he’s great friends with all the sins

- arguably closest with Beelzebub and Asmodeous

- he loves claw machines. the lights, the sounds, the prize winning???? he’s so fucking happy

- he actually wears glasses to read. he doesn’t need them but he says they make him look smarter.

- is actually a pretty good leader, is not nearly as forgiving as charlie is, but he’s not inherently cruel

- his third favorite color is pink

- his first and second are yellow and red, obviously

- he has expensive ass, maximalist taste.

- he doesn’t use tech because he knows what vox does to said tech.

- he’s always wanted a dog

- he’s very touchy. shows love physically. is only this way if he likes you though

- he has nightmares almost every night

- coffee addict

- because after not sleeping he wakes up looking like death warmed over

- and that’s if he didn’t forget to eat the past few days except for random snacks and didn’t do a 48 hour blitz of staying up working on ducks or the bit of kingdom shit he does.

- he has a handful of servants who he trusts and they are the only one in the house. there’s no team. nothing like that. he keeps it very close

- this was after someone who was a servant tried to throw an angelic dagger at his head because really they wanted to kill him and thought working for him would get them close enough.

- he homeschooled charlie. he knows a lot of stuff and even knew the guy who created calculus!

[fob4ever]

patrick stump & neal avron on tape notes podcast (12.15.23)

songwriting stuff, demos, lyric process, a bunch of things! they talk about the songs lftos, heaven iowa and smfsd.

long summary under the cut!

talked about how they sat outside “emo” because they leaned more towards hiphop/rnb, but also how they didn’t fit in the “pop” genre too and how they would be put on pop shows and “comparatively it was like slayer was playing” lmao “but we’re still a pop band!”

they experimented with reggae and 90s shoegaze and hardcore during the pandemic

they recorded most of stardust together in neal’s house :D at the beginning it was mostly just neal and patrick working together, at the end of the day everybody would come in to listen

patrick said he got “kinda obsessed” with streamlining pete’s lyrics in the chorus over the past few albums: “pete is very wordy. he has all these ideas that take up a lot of space.” and that their manager sat him down at lunch and said “don't do that. you guys used to ramble. why don't you ramble?” and lftos was the first song patrick put together after that convo

lftos writing process: patrick followed what he was feeling, and most of what he did in that song were things that years spent working in pop music had scared him off on doing.

the “every lover's got a little dagger in their hand” lyric tied it all together for patrick: “[i was] singing that line and EAGERLY emailing neal: listen to this!”

they play a little of the lftos demo (16:55). it's wild. VERY guitar-forward

“neal and i lost most of the demos for [folie a deux].” the burning of the library of alexandria. to me

talks about how the folie demos were infinitely stranger than the final versions, “psychedelic at times”

for stardust, they didn't really keep much of the demo stuff- patrick: “and my demos are pretty decent!”

lftos piano demo (21:35)

patrick: i want some drama. when i look back at our records, our best ones start off with a sense of melodrama

they play individual parts of the lftos instrumentation (31:25), andy's drums, pete's bass, joe's guitar. <3

bridges are patrick's favorite thing to write, because he just gets to play

patrick: "pete doesn't even send lyrics in lyric-form, he just sends words. and it's interesting when you see it- it's almost like one-liner after one-liner. and i'll just get an email of those, and then you kinda have to figure out what thematically goes together, what feels like the same song. but then i also try to keep lyrics together as much as possible, because i feel he's in a place where it does feel like one thought."

"when i read it, there's almost a passive thing where i just imagine what it sounds like to me. and [the lyrics for heaven, iowa] scared me a lot, because it felt kind of sparse, and i don't really like sparse- i don't really like singing by myself. [...] i don't like being so front and center, and i could tell that there was something really intimate about this song, and it was a big challenge for me."

everybody immediately went for the heaven, iowa demo- it's from the first stardust session and it took the longest to complete because patrick wasn't satisfied with just his voice over keys- "it was too naked."

patrick doesn't ask pete about lyrics because: "first off, he will not explain things. but second off, i think there is something to that. where i'll read his lyrics, and i'll interpret it one way, and years later i'll realize it's another way. there's so many double entendres that i've only gotten decades later, i'll be singing and go, 'OH it's a sex thing.'"

patrick really attaches to the story of a lyric, the craft of it, and then years later he'll be like "oh that was a HEAVY lyric. [and] pete must have felt that thing! i don't really question it when i'm writing- it's kindof unfair on him, like, should i check on him?"

heaven iowa instrumental demo/instruments isolated (53:30)

patrick would tell joe to "go nuts" on heaven, iowa!

neal talks about the ambient guitar pedal joe plays during heaven iowa and how it worked really well. patrick says this was the kind of thing that saved (the song).

patrick and andy double drummed at the same time in the studio for heaven iowa! <3

pete told joe to go "full slash" at the end of heaven iowa : )

patrick almost didn't send out the demo for the title track, smfsd! he was almost sure no one was going to like it, even though he liked it. but he sent it out, and it "kept surviving"

both patrick and neal brushed smfsd off because they assumed they "couldn't do that", but pete really pushed for it, which surprised patrick.

so much for stardust demo (1:25:07) patrick plays drums on it, sloppily. which he freely admits to lol. it is quite sloppy indeed

patrick: "i'm a drummer too, but andy and i are very different drummers. and it's very cool translating our things between each other, because he comes from metal (...) and i'm more a funk drummer."

lotsa joe layering in heaven iowa and smfsd : )

it was patrick's idea to do a lyrical callback in lftos/smfsd, and pete was hesitant about it. but patrick pushed for it, becasuse it made sense as "story beats"- "it's like 'empire strikes back'!"

patrick doesn't like to putz around the studio that much, he just wants to be recording something.

patrick: "my routine [during the writing of the album] was just to make it to the studio as on time as i can be- i have adhd, it's very difficult- but i'd be there within 10-15 minutes of when i was supposed to be there, and then we'd just work through it."

patrick's advice: FROM ELTON JOHN: when you find your producer that understands you, stick with them. patrick: "and that was on a record we didn't do with neal, and i remember thinking [makes unsure noises]..." also prioritize in the short-term, what's important. take a step back.

neal's advice: if music is your passion, do it, and do it all the time

patrick was afraid people wouldn't like him "rambling" in songs, even though it was honest and natural to him. he was terrified of doing it again, thinking people wouldn't like it. but people did! "don't subvert yourself too much."

the host asks for them to choose a stardust song to close out the podcast, and patrick chooses what a time to be alive :)

the end

[hikarry]

Please please please write Crowley saving Aziraphale from the library of Alexandria like you mentioned in the Caesar post! Please!

Sometimes following Hell's orders wasn't so bad.

Win Julius Ceaser to our side.

Easy! The bloke was practically with a foot in Hell anyway so Crowley just had to nudge from time to time and pretend like the man's rotten personality was all his doing.

Crowley liked life in court. There was always something to drink, and he could mostly lazy around not doing much without being disturbed.

And, of course, he could always go down and mingle with the common folk - Read Aziraphale - whenever he pleased. Cause of course the angel would be where a gigantic library was. It was the type of thing that would be a perfect trap for Aziraphale anytime.

"You are not seeing the grand picture, dear boy. This is most of humanities knowledge! All in the same place! For eternity. Being shared through generations of brilliant minds."

"Bit of a bad idea, if you ask me." Aziraphale stopped stocking some scroll and looked up at him, upset expression on his face. "No, listen, it makes sense: imagine you have some...precious stones you really don't want to lose. If you are stupid you will hide them all in the same place, but if you actually think about it, it would be smarter to hide some of them in different places. That way if some of them were stolen, you still had the rest."

"No one is going to steal the Library of Alexandria, Crowley."

"That was not my point. Having all this knowledge in the same place like a sitting duck is my point."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and went back to stocking the scrolls.

"Did you just come here to complain?"

"No." Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, pretending to be as nonchalant as possible. "Do you want to have dinner? Same place?"

The angel thought for a couple of moments and, for a second, it almost appeared like he was going to decline, when he smiled up at him.

"Of course. I'll meet you when the sun sets."

The Civil War did throw a rock on his plans. Not because the restaurant was closed or because his time was filled, but because Aziraphale refused to leave the library no matter what. No one was permitted in without a good reason and, apparently, being Crowley wasn't a good reason.

Suddenly life at court became boring.

War this. Soldiers that. Can't humans just behave for a century or so? There's always something happening. And almost never something good.

He was bored and he felt lonely. Caesar was doing just fine at crawling his way into the pits of Hell without his help so maybe it was time to end this assignment...and be sent somewhere else. Which he could. And he should. But Aziraphale was right here. Last time they had been together was in Rome. He wouldn't confess it to anyone, but the last thing he wanted was to leave the angel behind. Not while he still had, technically, an excuse to stay.

Being a demon has some perks. You can see slightly better in the dark. You can hear noises apparently Humans cant. Your sense of smell was excellent. So quite faint smell of smoke didn't surprise him. They were amidst a civil war. There was always something or someone on fire.

But the Demon Crowley had something else no other demon had. Creativity. Creativity that could quickly borderline paranoia if he allowed his thoughts to run wild. Which he learned a long time ago to never do. So, even if a bad feeling crawled up his spine every time the smoke crossed his nose, he ignored it.

As the days passed, Crowley's unease grew despite his efforts to dismiss it. The scent of smoke lingered in the air like a persistent whisper, taunting his senses with its ominous presence. His usual nonchalant demeanor began to crack under the weight of uncertainty, a nagging feeling gnawing at the back of his mind.

He found himself stealing glances towards the library, where Aziraphale remained cloistered amidst the scrolls and tomes, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil outside.

One evening, as dusk descended upon the city, Crowley's fears materialized into a stark reality. The distant echoes of chaos grew louder, punctuated by the unmistakable crackle of flames devouring everything in their path. Men ran throught the streets with buckets in hand, all towards the same direction. Amidst the yells and whispers, Crowley caught the last thing he wanted to hear. Panic seized his heart as he tossed the goblet of wine somewhere, racing throught the streets towards the library, pushing random people from his path maybe a tad more stronger than he should.

It wasn't necessary to reach the library, many meters behind he could already feel the heat. The once majestic edifice now stood engulfed in flames, the inferno raging uncontrollably as tendrils of smoke billowed into the night sky. For a moment, Crowley was frozen in shock, his mind struggling to comprehend the devastation unfolding before him. Some men with idiotic little buckets tried to kill the flames, but it was less than useful. A group of women stood to the side, kneeling around a group of six dirty and injured men. Some were being cleaned with wet cloths and others were already being fixed up the best the women could in such short notice.

"Mr. Crowley!" His brain was a bit too offline for him to notice one of the women getting up from the group and walking in fast pace towards him. His eyes met hers, tears still spilling down her perfectly rosy cheeks. "What are you doing here?" She held him by the arms, squeezing them. He knew the woman, even though that information took a while to connect. Maris was one of the female students Aziraphale insisted in maintaining and probably the only one Crowley didn't find annoying.

He held her by the forearms, feeling how her petite body was trembling of both exhaustion and fear.

"Aziraphale." He squeezed her arms slightly, forcing her to focus and look up at him. "Where is he?"

Maris' breath got stuck in her throat as her eyes looked over Crowley's shoulders to the inferno of a library, still being consumend like a raging forest. He let go of her arms and turned around, already walking towards it.

"Mr. Crowley! Don't! It's not worth it anymore! It has been too long!"

He had never heard such nonsense from such a little soul.

Crowley ignored Maris' pleas, his determination overriding any sense of self-preservation. With each step he took towards the blazing inferno, the heat intensified, licking at his skin with searing intensity. But he pressed on, driven by a singular purpose: find Aziraphale.

As he drew closer to the library, the flames roared like a beast unleashed, devouring everything in its path with insatiable hunger. It wasn't Hell Fire, thankfully. But even normal fire could do a considered amount of damage to an angelic corporation. The air was thick with smoke, stinging Crowley's eyes and choking his lungs with every breath, so he decided to stop breathing.

Through the billowing smoke and flickering flames, Crowley caught a glimpse of a figure laying amidst the wreckage. It could only be Aziraphale. Carefully, Crowley turned him around just to find 5 or 6 big scrolls Aziraphale appeared to be holding onto against his chest with the might of God herself.

"Aziraphale?"

Crowley's heart pounded in his chest as he knelt beside him, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to gently shake the angel's shoulders. He opened his wings, trying to keep the heat away from both of them. "Angel, wake up," he urged, his voice strained with concern.

Slowly, Aziraphale's eyes fluttered open, clouded with confusion and pain. He blinked up at Crowley, his expression dazed as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings.

"Crowley...?" Aziraphale's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"We need to get you out of here," Crowley replied urgently, taking a quick look around, before looking down at the pale angel below him, his mind racing. "Can you stand?"

Aziraphale attempted to rise, but a sharp intake of breath betrayed the pain that coursed through his body. Crowley cursed under his breath, realizing that Aziraphale corporation's injuries were more severe than he had initially thought.

"We can't stay here," Crowley insisted, his voice firm despite the panic that threatened to consume him. "C'mon."

With great care, Crowley wrapped Aziraphale's arm around his shoulder, taking on the majority of his weight as they stumbled through the smoldering wreckage of the library. The flames danced around them, their heat searing against Crowley's skin as they fought their way towards safety.

Together, they stumbled through the library, each step a test of their endurance as the heat pressed in on all sides. Crowley could feel Aziraphale's weight bearing down on him, the strain of their escape taking its toll on both of them.

With each passing moment, the flames seemed to grow closer, their tendrils reaching out hungrily to consume everything in their path.

Finally, they emerged from the burning wreckage, gasping for breath as they collapsed onto the ground outside. The cool night air was a welcome relief after the suffocating heat of the fire, but their ordeal was far from over.

Aziraphale was limp once again and keeping conscious was a game of roulette. They couldn't just stay there on the ground hoping Aziraphale would come back to himself. There was only one place they could go where Crowley could actually look after him.

Carefully holding the angel on his arms, he looked quickly around before opening his wings. It was night and most people were either locked at home or too worried with the fire, so he had a chance to get home without being undetected if he was careful with his trajectory.

When he was mere meters away from the house, he snapped his fingers and opened the door, trying to lose as little time as he could. Inside it was supposed to be dark, if it wans't the reflection of the flames that invaded the whole city.

Crowley tucked his wings away before stepping through the threshold, quickly walking to near the window where the bed was. Aziraphale was running a bad fever, and just now he noticed the burns on his face and down his arms. He wasn't an angel. He couldn't just snap his fingers and fix Aziraphale, so the human way it had to be.

Crowley gently laid Aziraphale down on the bed, taking care not to aggravate his injuries any further. He fetched a damp cloth and began to gently clean the burns on Aziraphale's face and arms, his movements slow and deliberate as he worked to ease the angel's pain.

Despite his best efforts, Crowley couldn't shake the feeling of guilt that gnawed at him. If only he had acted sooner, if only he had listened to the warning signs instead of dismissing them, perhaps they wouldn't be in this situation now.

As he worked, Aziraphale kept falling in and out of consciousness. When Crowley leaned over him, trying to take off the cloth hiding his bleeding chest, Aziraphale's eyes opened, half-lided, but looking up at him.

"Sleep, angel."

Aziraphale didn't answer. Instead, just closed his eyes and a stray tear ran from the left one, which Crowley was quick to clean with the back of his finger.

He cleaned the angel's chest. The only thing he could think about to help with the burns was ointment, but that would burn like true Hell Fire and Aziraphale appeared to be in pain enough...but, maybe, he should take the chance the angel was unconscious and just do it?

Screw it!

Crowley miracled the ointment and sat on the side of the bed. As soon as his fingers toutched one of the burns on Aziraphale's chest, the angel's hand snapped up, grabbing Crowley's hand by the wrist and pulling it away from him.

Crowley froze, his heart skipping a beat as Aziraphale's hand closed around his wrist with surprising strength. He met the angel's gaze, seeing the pain etched into his features despite the half-lidded eyes.

"Aziraphale, it's me," Crowley said softly, trying to reassure him. "I'm just trying to help."

But Aziraphale's grip only tightened, his expression clouded with confusion and fear. Crowley could see the struggle within him, the battle between his instinctual reaction and his trust in Crowley warring behind his eyes.

"Please, let me help you," Crowley pleaded. He could feel the burn of Aziraphale's skin beneath his fingertips, the heat radiating from the wounds.

For a moment, Aziraphale remained tense, his grip unyielding. But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, his hand began to loosen, his fingers trembling slightly as they released their hold on Crowley's wrist.

Crowley let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging with the weight of it. Carefully, he resumed his ministrations, applying the ointment to Aziraphale's burns with a gentleness born of both necessity and affection.

When he was finally finished, he got up to wash his hands and grab another cloth, wetting it before walking back towards the bed, depositing it on Aziraphal'e forehead.

The angel's breathing was still ragged, but at least he wasn't bleeding on the sheets anymore and his expression seemed more serene.

Crowley sat by Aziraphale's side, watching over him as he drifted into a fitful sleep.

As the hours passed, Crowley remained vigilant by Aziraphale's side, his senses attuned to any change in the angel's condition. The fever seemed to ebb and flow, leaving Aziraphale restless and agitated one moment, and then peaceful the next.

It was during one of these fleeting moments of calm that Crowley found himself studying Aziraphale's face, the soft curve of his lips, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. And in that moment, Crowley realized something he had been reluctant to admit to himself before.

He cared for Aziraphale. More than he cared to admit. More than it was smart.

The demon put a new cloth on the angel's forehead and brushed his curly blond hair back with his fingers, leaning over him much without noticing. Aziraphale was completely out of it so...maybe? Crowley took a deep breath and, before he could find more than one argument to how idiotic he was about to act, he laid his head carefuly on Aziraphale's chest while his left hand stayed on the curls. He just needed a second. To think. To process the nightmarish night they had just been through. If he had arrived any later Aziraphale would have suffocated or burned out of his corporation. All because of some ridiculous scrolls.

"Stupid." He murmured, sliding his face up Aziraphale's chest and hiding it on the curve of the angel's neck, much without thinking. Aziraphale was unconscious, he would never know anyway.

With his eyes closed and the constant breathing of the angel against his ear, Crowley allowed himself to finally relax, closing his eyes. That didn't last long though, because all his body tensed up when he felt a hand on his short curls. He didn't move. Didn't breath. His mind rushing to try and find an excuse. But no questions ever came. Instead, Aziraphale let his face lean more against Crowley's, visibly still unconscious.

Crowley's heart raced as Aziraphale's hand gently caressed his curls, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. Despite the tension that coiled within him, Crowley found himself leaning into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he allowed himself to bask in the moment of intimacy.

For a fleeting moment, Crowley allowed himself to entertain the possibility that Aziraphale was awake and aware of his actions. That he was reaching out to Crowley in his own way, seeking comfort and solace amidst the chaos that had engulfed them. But deep down, Crowley knew that it was nothing more than wishful thinking.

As the night stretched on, Crowley remained by Aziraphale's side, his head resting against the angel's chest as they both drifted into an uneasy sleep. In the quiet of the room, the flickering flames outside casting dancing shadows across the walls, Crowley found a sense of peace that he hadn't felt in centuries.

There ya go! Sorry it took me a tad longer than it should have. I had a lot of inspiration, but didn't know which path to choose. Alas, didn't want to make it too long either. Hope it satisfies you!

[the-mushroom-faerie]

I feel like Daniel Jackson would be irrationally angry everytime he thinks of the library of Alexandria

[molly-ghuleh]

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 6

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: Even though you have finally begun to translate Elizabeth's diary, you still need context. A visit from the archivist answers some questions but raises even more.

Word count: 4.6k

A/N: Helloooooo! Thank you all again for your extraordinary patience in the long wait for this chapter. It isn't the most eventful (nor am I the proudest of it) but things are definitely happening, and I think you all will enjoy where it's going!

P.s., the identity of the archivist was inspired by the lovely @writingjourney <3

Warnings: Nihil being a bad dad (again), descriptions of anxiety/panic, descriptions of afab people being seen as objects

AO3 / Chapter 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Secondo thinks that abdicating the position of Papa might be the best thing to ever happen to him. 

That’s not to say he disliked being Papa. Quite the opposite, really—holding the scepter, wearing the crown, and hearing the title were all a generous ego boost. But the aspect he loved the most was that he could promote the tenets of the Lord Below how he wanted, how he felt was most effective. He was the mouthpiece of Satan, the proprietor of His word and the bridge between his unholy flock and the fires of Hell. 

But that’s about it. He loved the glory, sure. He did not like the man that the Ministry molded him into. Once he stepped down, it was hard to look himself in the eye without cringing. He was supposed to hold the power for Satan, not the Clergy, and certainly not for Sister Imperator. 

Just about the only thing he has to thank that woman for is the time he’s gotten back after “stepping down.”

Secondo has always been interested in the archives, ever since he was a boy. He would sneak around the Abbey in Rome into places he shouldn’t have been and see things he probably shouldn’t have seen, and keep everything he saw to himself. Having the knowledge of secrets he wasn’t supposed to know made him feel important, like he held some power over the Clergy if he decided to open his mouth. 

So when he'd stumbled upon a dim room towards the back of the library at the tender age of eight, he thought he’d found the Library of Alexandria. Wall-to-wall shelves of thick leather bound books, stacks of tightly-rolled parchment and linens depicting unholy scenes. An old wooden table holding a desk lamp and a magnifying glass. A single lone lamp that, when he’d pulled the chain to illuminate it, had emanated a click so loud that he thought he’d be caught for sure. 

He’d been so disappointed when he realized he couldn’t understand any of the books or scrolls or linens. They were all written in a language unfamiliar, which he knows now to be Latin. But at eight years old, his primary focus was to learn the unholy scripture, to serve Satan in his duties as an altar boy, and to make his father proud. 

That last point… he never did accomplish. 

But he did eventually learn Latin, so that he could read what was in that dim room. He’d learned to shimmy the lock open (the Roman Abbey is ancient, it wasn’t a difficult task) and sneak in, absorbing as much information as he could. 

Secondo learned about rituals that haven’t been done in centuries. He read prayers and psalms that had been forgotten with time. He found drawings of long lost artifacts and relics shrouded in mystery. Each new bit of knowledge gave him that rush of adrenaline that could only come from forbidden things. 

When he was old enough, he was allowed into the archive room. Of course, no one had known he’d already spent countless hours there. His father wanted him to know his family history if he were to take up the helm of Papa one day. You need to know what is in your blood, his father had said. Just as Primo does, and just as Terzo will. 

Secondo had wanted to ask, what about Copia? But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want his archive privileges revoked as soon as he’d gotten them. 

The first thing he’d done was find his family tree. Who came before him? Who was Papa before his father, and before his father’s father? How far back did the Emeritus bloodline really go?

It was in the family tome that he first discovered the words Primus Motor. Up until a specific time, every Emeritus heir had been conceived by a woman with the title Prime Mover. Then the women proceeding them had lost that title, with seemingly no pomp or circumstance. Nearly a thousand years ago, the title had been dropped and forgotten. The final Prime Mover, it seems, had been a woman named Elizabeth. 

When her diary had been found in some random basement room of the Abbey, Secondo immediately requested to be the archivist in charge. She was his ancestor, and the last Prime Mover on record. Her diary must have an explanation, or some insight as to what exactly a Prime Mover is. There were Prime Mover rituals outlined in those books he’d found as a boy, sure. But none ever explained what the significance was beyond “the chosen maternal body.” It all sounded rather dehumanizing.

But Sister Imperator had told him to keep that fact a secret. She’d brought in a translator to decipher the diary without telling her the whole story. So, he wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that you’d requested to speak to him, or that when he finds you in the restricted room, you look like a deer caught in headlights.

“Papa,” you say, standing to greet him formally. You bow your head out of respect and give him your name. “I can be out of your way, if you need—” 

Secondo simply puts a hand up to stop you. “No, sorella. I am here to speak to you about the diary, as you requested.” 

Your eyes go so wide that he almost laughs. “Wh-what?” You swallow. “Forgive me, Papa, I didn’t know that you are the archivist who evaluated Elizabeth’s diary…” 

“Is that going to be a problem?” Secondo asks. 

“No! No,” you scramble, shaking your head slightly to align your own thoughts. His intense gaze pins you to the spot, and not in a good way. Not a bad way, either, but… not in the way Copia’s gaze does. 

Determined not to make a fool of yourself, you steel your nerves. “It’s not a problem, Papa. I apologize. I have only… the highest member of the Clergy I have ever met until I arrived here was Bishop Beaumont. I still find myself a bit overwhelmed, sometimes.” 

The corners of Secondo’s painted lips tick up at your admission, but he makes no mention of it. “No matter. What is it you wished to discuss?” 

You sit and turn your notebook around so Secondo can read the translation of the first line. Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover. 

“I was wondering,” you begin, “if you might be able to tell me what a Prime Mover is.” 

After reading the translated line, Secondo leans back. “I do not know much,” he answers gruffly. “But I do know that it was an esteemed position. Something to do with continuing the bloodline. However the title of Prime Mover is no longer used.” 

“How come?” You ask. 

“I do not know.” 

You hum and look down at Elizabeth’s diary, like it might speak the answer to you itself. Something to do with continuing the bloodline? “Sister Imperator told me that you estimated this diary to be about five hundred years old,” you say. “Is there a reason you chose that number?”

At Secondo’s silence, you meet his eyes again to find that his brows are furrowed and his jaw is set. His lips form a tight line, deepening the clefts beside his mouth. “I only ask because it may help with context,” you offer, defending your question. Your chest flutters with nerves again. You hope you haven’t somehow angered him… he’s quite intimidating. 

Secondo’s mind turns. Sister Imperator hadn’t told you that he was the archivist, and she’d told you a different number than the one he’d estimated. She asked him to keep Elizabeth’s status as the last Prime Mover a secret. It seems odd, like she knows something that she wants neither you nor Secondo to. He finds himself annoyed that Sister wants to keep something shrouded in such unnecessary mystery. 

“Sister Imperator has given you the wrong number,” he says after a moment of tense silence. “I believe it is nearly a thousand years old.” 

“A thousand?” You gape. For a volume that’s a millennium old, it’s in remarkably good shape. You’d thought the same when you believed it was just five hundred years old. 

Secondo nods. Whatever reasons that Sister Imperator has for wanting to keep the diary a secret, he doesn’t know. But if he can do anything to learn about his family and its history, or if he can spite Sister… he’ll take that chance. “Elizabeth is the last Prime Mover on record. I do not know why the title was dropped, and I do not know why it is supposed to be such a secret.” 

Oh. Yes, you understand. Papa must have his reasons for disliking Sister, and you have your own. If you can contravene her in this small way, a secret kept between an archivist and a translator, you will. You’re slightly ashamed that the thought makes you a little giddy, but not ashamed enough to not do it. 

“So,” you guess, “you’re hoping that this diary answers that?” 

“Correct,” Papa nods again, and stands. “I ask that you keep me informed, sorella.” 

“Of course, Papa,” you say with a polite smile. 

He leaves the restricted room and you’re left alone with Elizabeth again. Only this time, there is a new clarity between you and your subject. Your gaze drops down to the pages of jumbled letters, wondering. 

Papa Secondo had said that the position of Prime Mover was esteemed. If it had been, why was it dissolved? Perhaps it wasn’t dissolved at all, and it was only forgotten? And… the position is related to the Papal bloodline, so surely these Prime Movers would have been the mothers, right? 

The answers lie in front of you, waiting to be translated. Elizabeth herself beckons you with her slanted script, saying, read me. Hear what I have to say. 

And how you want to focus. How you want to spend the next weeks painstakingly deciphering letter by letter, word by word until you find these answers which will sate your curiosity. But, damn it to Hell, all you want to do is find Copia and tell him what you’ve found out. You want to tell him that you’re still here, that Sister Imperator had agreed to let you stay after your dramatic, last-minute discovery. You want to ask him all sorts of questions about what he might know of Prime Movers or his ancestors. You want to watch the excitement bloom in his eyes as it always does when you speak about the diary. 

You have your reservations, though. Going to Copia on anything other than Ministry business feels like you’re overstepping your position. Who are you to assume that you’re important enough to him to just pop in? 

In those moments in the gardens, and in the chapel, though… it sure felt like you were. He had looked at you like you were. In the gardens he was Copia, and you find within yourself that you’d rather be sent back to Liège than see Copia as only Papa again. 

~~~ 

It’s been two days since Copia has seen you. Two full days since he’d watched you half-waddle down the Sibling corridor, soaking wet and shivering and covered in mud from the knees down, and he can’t focus on anything whatsoever. 

There’s some official bulletin or another on his desk, awaiting his signature to distribute it out to the rest of the Ministry, but he can’t bring himself to pick up his pen and sign it. Not for a lack of caring—the bulletin is actually quite important—but because he’s conjured up this beautiful picture of you in his head, and he’s afraid that if he moves he’ll lose it. 

You must be busy. You’d told him you had an idea about the cipher on your way up the hill out of the gardens, and if he hasn’t so much as gotten a glimpse of you around the Abbey, it must have been a breakthrough. He knows how frustrated you’d been, how determined you were to figure it out, as you’d said. I want to stay and figure it out. 

Another part of Copia’s mind, the part he doesn’t want to listen to but that is so very loud, tells him that perhaps your idea had been wrong, and Sister Imperator had sent you home. Maybe the reason he hasn’t seen you is because you’re not even here anymore. 

So, he keeps still, his eyes unseeing as he stares into nothing but his own mental image of you. If you’re really gone, at least he has this. You might not be gone, but he’s almost scared to go looking for you because he might find that you are. As it stands, you are Schrödinger's Sister of Sin. Here, and not. 

His, and not. 

“Al diavolo questo,” Copia grumbles to himself, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds his desk, sending a few loose papers (including the bulletin he’s supposed to sign by the end of the day) to the floor, and swings open the door to his office. He turns left, towards the library. If there’s a chance he can see you, rather than his limited mental image of you, he’d be foolish not to take it. 

His footsteps are determined, bringing him quickly down the stairs to the main artery of the Abbey, and across the wide hall towards the entrance to the library. His breath picks up and his heart pounds in his ears like he’s sprinting. By the end of this agonizing trek to the restricted room, he just might be. 

He takes the stairs to the right of the library entrance two at a time. Usually he would smile and wave to whichever Sibling is working the front desk, but not today. The guilt he feels is quickly squashed by the pressing need to either see you or not see you. It feels like it’s eating him up, not knowing. 

Copia has tried to be patient and give you time, if you are still here. He knows that what happened between the two of you in the chapel was a lot, all at once, and even if nothing had been said explicitly, you must know. You must. 

For a moment, when he reaches the top of the stairs, he wonders why it is that he feels so strongly for you, so quickly. It’s as if Satan himself deposited you on his doorstep, just for him. As if Satan had kept him from sleeping that night, so that you could run right into him outside the restricted room door. 

He rounds the corner to walk further into the library, into the shelves of romance books (which, he admits, is rather serendipitous placement). His heart thuds against his sternum when he sees the little square window in the door illuminated. Who else would be in that room with the door closed but you? Who else would have any reason to spend more than five minutes in there, aside from you, or Secondo?

Copia loves his brother. He really does. But he hopes to Lucifer that it isn’t Secondo behind that door, or he might punch him simply for the fact that he’s not you. 

He reaches the door, and pauses. His hand rests on the brass doorknob, but doesn’t turn, because what if you are gone? 

No, no. You aren’t gone. You can’t be gone. 

He turns the handle and pushes the door open on squeaky hinges. There you are, sitting at the desk you always do, head tilted up to see who is at the door. Your brows are slightly raised, your shoulders are hunched—you must be tense from sitting over your work all day—and your finger is placed against that grid of letters as if you had been in the middle of decoding a word when he walked in. The light of the desk lamp attached to your station casts your skin in a warm glow. 

If he thought his heart would calm when he saw that you’re still at the Abbey, he was mistaken. Just the sight of you here, that slight hint of heat in your face illuminated so plainly by the desk lamp has his chest vibrating with relief. At least his mind quiets, the tempest of thoughts and questions finally calming after a long, sleepless two days. 

“Papa?” You ask, after a long moment. You sit up a bit straighter and tilt your head. The slight crease between your brows returns, and Copia wishes he could kiss it smooth again. “Are you alright?”

Your voice seems to break Copia out of whatever reverie he’s stuck in, because he finally blinks and his jaw closes. “I— eh, yes, I’m alright.” 

You slowly stand from your desk and round it, but keep a respectable distance between you and Copia. “You don’t seem alright,” you say. “Copia… what’s wrong?” 

It feels like a weight off his shoulders to hear you call him by his name. With you, he’s not Papa. He doesn’t want to be Papa, not to you, not when you’re looking at him like that. “I thought you might have been gone,” Copia breathes, his voice just above a whisper. “I thought she might have sent you back.” 

“She didn’t.” 

“Good, that’s… good.”

You and Copia stare at one another for another moment. The air is thick with something unspoken. 

“I figured it out,” you say. Then you add, “the diary,” because you both know that there are two things you had to figure out. The diary, and… this. 

You’re still working on whatever this is, and Copia is still staring at you. 

“Copia,” you say with an awkward little smile, “why are you staring at me?” 

His own lips curve into a smile. “Sorry, cara mia. I’m just happy you’re not gone.” 

“Me, too.” 

“So, eh… what is it that you figured out?” Copia asks, blinking a few times in rapid succession. His heart still hammers in his ears. 

You round your desk again to turn your notebook over and show him. “She’s clever. Every word requires a new key, which is why we could only decipher one word using her name,” you explain. “Every decoded word is the key to the next one.”

Copia leans over to read the notebook. You have it flipped open to the complete translation of the first line, and his eyes scan the sentence a few times. “Prime Mover?” he asks, looking back up at you. 

“I don’t know, either,” you tell him. 

He hums in response, his gaze falling back towards the diary and your notebook. 

“When were you going to tell me that your brother is the archivist, you ass?” 

Copia’s head whips back up, afraid that you’d be actually angry at him. His mouth opens, prepared to defend himself because how would he know that you were planning on speaking to his brother? But he sees your wry grin, and the protest dies on his lips. Instead, he releases an airy laugh and his shoulders drop. “Ah, yes… I suppose I should have mentioned that.”

“Sweet Satan, I made myself look like a fool,” you laugh. “I’m not used to Papas and Cardinals walking around yet. Every time I see one I nearly fall over.” 

“You don’t seem so intimidated by me,” Copia says, half relieved and half worried. “What, am I not as scary as Secondo?” 

“Not nearly as scary, no! He could stare someone to death,” you say through a chuckle. “That, and when you and I first met, you were wearing sweatpants and rat slippers.” 

Copia smiles fondly, though you don’t catch it. “So you’re not starstruck by me, tesoro? I’m hurt.” 

“At first I was!” you defend yourself. “But somewhere after that I guess I just… forgot.” 

“Forgot to be starstruck?” 

“Forgot that you are Papa.” 

Oh. Oh, Copia could kiss you, you sweet thing. He doesn’t ever want to go this long without seeing you again. It’s all he can do to stop himself from walking over to you and sweeping you up in his arms and kissing you silly. His hands itch to hold you but you aren’t ready for that yet. So he says instead, “I don’t want to be Papa with you.”

Your heart rises to your throat. “You don’t?” 

“No,” Copia says softly. “I don’t.” 

You have to fight off the smile threatening to stretch your lips. You don’t want him to be Papa with you either, but you don’t know what you do want him to be to you. 

You do know that you want him to kiss you. You do know that the thought of leaving the Abbey without resolving whatever this is made your heart ache, but that talking about whatever this is would make it real and that terrifies you. You do know that falling in love with him means you have something to lose. It’s not quite that, not yet, but… it could be. 

Copia can see your mind working itself in circles. He knows that you’ll talk yourself out of it—whatever it is—if he doesn’t intervene. “Tesoro,” he calls to you, pulling your focus back out from inside your head. When he’s certain you can see him and not just through him, he takes a slow step forward and gently reaches for your hand. The white linen of your gloves, worn while you handle the diary, is a stark contrast to the black leather of his. It slips against his glove and settles into his palm like your hands were crafted for him to hold. Sathanas, your hands are perfect. You are perfect. “Please… tell me you know. Tell me you feel it.” 

Your eyes are wide when they meet his own. “I know,” you whisper. Your voice is shaky with the weight of speaking your feelings, making them real. “And I don’t.” 

His thumb rubs circles on your knuckles. “Cara… you know. You must.” 

“I…” you swallow dryly. “I do, but it’s… it’s scary, Copia. It’s happening and I have no control over it and…” 

“And?” Copia whispers. He takes your other hand, stepping just close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheeks. 

“And I will have to leave,” you respond. Your eyes burn with unshed tears that you desperately try to blink away. “As soon as the diary is done, I will have to go back.” 

Copia looks at you for a silent moment. His eyes search your face, noticing all the details he hadn’t noticed before. This is the closest he’s ever been to you. A tear rolls down your cheek and he reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, but doesn’t return his hand to his side. It cradles your face like you’re something precious, and to him, you are. 

He gently tugs you closer and wraps his arms around you, holding you against him. You tuck your head under his chin, savoring the smell of him, the comfort of his embrace and the warmth of his body through his suit. “It will be alright, carissima mia.” 

You shut your eyes and two fat tears escape as you do. Your body shudders with a repressed sob. 

Copia simply holds you closer, fighting back tears of his own. 

He’d nearly forgotten. Of course you would have to leave again, once your project was done. Just because you’re here now, doesn’t mean you will always be here. 

Maybe there are ways to have you stay. Maybe if he asked Sister Imperator, she would find a place for you here, doing translation as your sole duty. But can he keep you away from your home, when it’s so obvious how fond you are of it? How could he ask you to stay, knowing you would miss Marseille the whole time? 

Copia squeezes you tighter. “Will you do something for me?” He asks so, so softly. One of his hands strokes the back of your head, drawing you closer into his embrace. “Come and work in my office with me, yes? Just for a little while. Or a day or two, maybe. I hate that you’re all alone up here.”

“I can do that,” you say, and draw away from him slightly so you can look at him. You’re sure you must look a mess with your eyes puffy and nose running. But standing this close to him, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it grounds you to the world, you can’t bring yourself to care. “But I need permission from Papa or Sister Imperator to remove the diary from this room.”

Copia smiles. “Well, I have good news, then,” he says with a quirk of his brow. “There’s a Papa right here. Perhaps you should ask him?”

“Right, yes, I forgot,” you laugh. “Papa, do I have your permission to take Elizabeth’s diary out of the restricted room?” 

Copia laughs back and his breath is warm on your cheek. “Yes, tesoro, you have my permission. Only if you bring it straight to my office.” 

“Of course, Papa,” you nod, smiling. 

“Bene! Let me help you with your things.” 

Copia steps away and releases you from his grasp to help you gather your materials. For a brief moment you’re disappointed, but your cheeks warm at the thought that maybe he might hold you again in the safety and comfort of his office. Maybe you might gather the courage to allow yourself to feel the feelings you’re desperately trying to suppress, and maybe he might feel them back. 

But, you chuckle at his charming urgency to help you. You work on wrapping Elizabeth’s diary in its linens, and placing it in a wooden box you retrieve from a small shelf in the corner of the room. You still wear your white gloves. 

“Shall we?” Copia gestures to the open door once you’re both done preparing to leave. His eyes shine with mirth and something you might think was affection if you weren’t doubtful to a fault. 

“We shall,” you reply. He lets you slip past him and out the door, then falls into step beside you as you make your way down the curved staircase. 

~~~

March 27

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover. 

Mother said it is a gift from Satan to be chosen. I am to conceive the next Papa, and continue the bloodline with the blessing of the Olde One. 

Truthfully, I am frightened. Mother said that it is now my only duty. She said it is an extreme privilege to be a Prime Mover and to carry the blood of Emeritus inside me. But I did not get a say. I was chosen, and that was the end. Papa did not even tell me himself, it was Mother. She said it is better to hear the good news from the mouth of the fairer sex, from the woman who did her duty as I must. 

Fairer sex. I must laugh at that. Fairer sex, and yet I must be a vessel for Emeritus blood at the whim of Satan. Fairer sex because I am beautiful but better to be seen and not heard. And yet I am expected to carry and birth the most powerful man in the Ministry, a power that no one else has. To ‘fairer sex’ I bite my thumb. 

There is to be a ritual tomorrow night, to solidify my role as Papa’s Prime Mover. I am horrified. Mother said that a woman can only hope to be so lucky as to be Prime Mover. Must I pray to be a bred heifer? What of me? What of my own wishes? 

I believed the Dark Lord to be wiser than this. I believed he would not ordain any sex to be lesser than the other. I believed in his doctrine of free choice, of fairness and civility, after having been cast down for disobeying. My faith wavers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag list: @bonelessghoul @gbatesx @the-did-i-ask @leah-halliwell92 @archive-obsess @rosacrose @nikkyatyourservice @sodoswitchimage @portaltothevoid @lightbluuestars @thesoundresoundsecho @stephnthangss @enchantedbunny @jackson5611-blog @copiasprincipessa @kadedoesthings @justheretoreadleavemealone @tiedyedghoulette @da-rulah

[crowleysaziraphale2003]

Ides of March

Here's a Good Omens fic I posted on AO3 a few days ago!

"He did what!?"

Aziraphale sniffled. He'd thought that a trip to the bathhouse with Crawly would have cheered him up, but apparently not.

"He b-burnt down the library. You know, the library of Alexandria. And we have lost so much of the world's knowledge as a result of it. I mean, not us. Sorry. The humans. They were lovely, the ones who wrote the books. The ones I worked with. I suppose I did get rather attached to them...and their books, of course. The people who wrote them have already died, and now that their books are dead, it feels as though there is little left of them. On the earth, anyway," Aziraphale explained, gesticulating while he spoke.

Crawly's fist clenched by his side. "You don't like this Julius Caesar guy, right?"

"Right."

Crawly took a deep breath. He looked as though he was focusing very hard. "Right. Don't worry about him, angel. Don't worry at all."

The rest of the afternoon went swimmingly, if Aziraphale did say so himself. They enjoyed their time at the baths thoroughly, although Aziraphale was wary of any potential demonic tricks Crawly might pull. He may have known him as an angel, but he was a demon, at the end of the day, and therefore Aziraphale was yet to ascertain whether he could be trusted or not.

Just as Crawly went to leave, Aziraphale took a deep breath, steeling himself, and placed a tentative hand on the demon's arm. Crawly stared at it for a second, but made no attempt to push him away.

"Thank you, Crawly, for this afternoon," Aziraphale beamed, his cheeks flushed. Crawly raised an eyebrow at him.

"Think nothing of it," he said, and left.

_______________________________________________

Although they never once spoke of it, Aziraphale smiled gratefully at Crawly the next time he saw him. He'd suspected that Crawly had had a part to play in Caesar's death on March 15th. Likely, he had tempted the senators into murdering him.

Despite his role as an angel, he could not help but feel gleeful over Caesar's death, considering what had been done to his library. It felt like vengeance, almost.

And, in spite of his misgivings, he was starting to wonder for the very first time if maybe, just maybe, he could learn to trust a demon after all.

[avocado-writing]

Not a request but what do you think reverse AU!Crowley would be like in bed?

How would reverse AU Crowley and Aziraphale be with their nightingale in bed?

he is just as subby as normal Crowley, but he’s more upfront about it 😂 when you stroke his cheek as he kneels in front of you and ask, “mmm, who’s a good boy for me?” he’s immediately like “me. it’s me. I’m your good boy. please confirm that I’m your good boy.”

utter wreck when you do down on him. lots of “oh heavens” and “unf, oh my—“s and you have to pin his thin little waist to the mattress to get him to behave.

can’t stop talking when you make love. he just wants to tell you how gorgeous you are and how wonderful you make him feel, and he wants to make you feel just as good too. he’ll do anything for you.

And GOSH that could be a series on its own (also makes me wonder if nightingale’s undeath happens in the same way. could be fun to explore) but you meet Crowley at the burning of the library of Alexandria, he’s trying to direct the efforts to save the building muttering “oh gosh Aziraphale’s going to be very angry.” he appreciates your efforts even if they’re in vain, you form a friendship which becomes a tryst until he has to leave for his “work”.

I think you meet Aziraphale when you’re off conquering with the vikings. find this random dude looting a monastery even though it looks like he’s being burned just standing in there? the two of you get on like a house on fire and for a few weeks fuck on every available surface until you have to sail on. he asks you to stay. you know you can’t.

in bed, I think demon!aziraphale is a lot more forceful. not that he can’t be regularly, he’s just filthier about it, telling you both to cum, counting down until you’re meant to. Crowley just likes being told what to do by both of you, loves being tied up in silks and blindfolds and teased until he’s sobbing.

but when you all lie together you can feel how much they love you, love each other. the way aziraphale is gentler when he runs his hands across both your bodies. the sighs Crowley lets escape his lips when one of you touches him just right.

you still fit together like the dark, the light, and the spaces inbetween.

[jemariel]

Falling With Style

By Jemariel

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean/Cas

Words: 15,831

Tags: Wingfic, Dean has angel wings, Human Castiel in the Bunker, domestic fluff, wing grooming, flying lessons, love confessions, Cas has self-worth issues, first kiss/first time together, Profound Bond Gift Exchange: Hot Entity Summer

Written for the Profound Bond gift exchange for @eyesandwingsonlyafterdark !! I hope you enjoy 💙💚💖

Summary: Dean's facing a long summer cooped up in the bunker with nothing but his own brand new eight-foot angel wings for company. And Cas, of course. But the former angel is acting super weird about this whole thing, and Dean can't figure out why. He could sure use some help from the expert, though.

(In which Dean learns to fly, and Cas remembers what it's like.)

Read on ao3!

Excerpt and tag list below the cut, let me know if you want to be added to or removed from my tag list!

On this particular Thursday, Dean finds Cas in the library. Deep in the stacks, in a section that mostly contains books on angel lore, as far as Dean knows. He’s got an armload already and is peering with great concentration at the cobwebby shelves.

Jackpot.

Dean sidles closer, winching his wings in tight as they’ll go so they don’t knock anything off the shelves (again). Be a shame to give away the game.

Closer… closer… years of practice keep his feet and breathing quiet until he can count the hairs on the back of Cas’s neck. And then, just as Cas is juggling his books from one arm to the other—

“Whatcha lookin’ for?”

Cas jumps about a half a mile, and a dozen moth-eaten volumes go tumbling to the floor. Sam’s gonna kill him.

Worth it.

“Dean—” Cas exhales, a hand on his chest and murder in the set of his jaw. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dean grins and relaxes his wings a touch. “Just having a little fun,” he says, tongue between his teeth. For some reason, getting a rise out of Cas always gets him giddy. It’s like champagne bubbles under his skin, and ever since he sprouted these feathery intruders, that’s where he feels it the strongest. It’s like all the feathers are standing on end. It’s happened before. Like the time he pretended not to know or care about the Library of Alexandria for an entire hour, and Cas had gone on a righteously livid rant that left him flushed and sweaty. There’d been a chalkboard involved. Or the time Cas had wandered into the kitchen all pre-coffee grumpy in nothing but sweatpants while Dean was making eggs. That hadn’t exactly been Dean getting a rise out of him, but it gave him the goosebumps all the same.

Dean had chosen not to analyze it too closely.

With a glare in Dean’s direction, Cas crouches down to pick up the books, ruddy around the ears. It’s then—looking down at Cas’s head just below waist level—that Dean realizes just how close he’d positioned himself. His wings tingle harder, and his stomach does this funny little twist as he shuffles back to a more respectable distance. Suddenly, he has to swallow a whole mouthful of saliva and clear his throat before he can speak.

“Seriously, what are you doing back here?” he asks. Totally neutral. Completely normal.

Rising to his feet, Cas hands over one of the books. The spine looks like it’s decided to make a break for it, hanging on by a few bare horsehair threads. Dean actually feels bad for a minute before he reads the title.

“Alchemical Properties of Angelic Minutia? Sounds grim.”

Cas nods, still averting his gaze, fingering the dusty pages of a slim, gilt-edged volume. “I was hoping to uncover a solution to your… predicament.”

“Gabe said it would wear off on its own, right?”

One of Cas’s eyebrows climbs toward his hairline. “And you trust him?”

Dean snorts, handing the book back. “Not even half as far as I can throw him, but why would he lie about that?”

“I can think of a dozen reasons. But even assuming there is truth in that, why shouldn’t we try to”—he gestures vaguely with his laden arms—“encourage the process?”

Dean considers, crossing his arms as he leans against a bookshelf. The edge of the shelf digs into his bare bicep, and he shudders to think what kind of dust his feathers are picking up. “It’s not so bad,” he says. “Kinda grateful for the vacation.”

Cas squints at him in flat disbelief. “Dean, you have put up a protest every time Sam has left on a hunt for the last two months.”

“Yeah, well.” How does he explain this? “Netflix ain’t gonna binge itself, right? C’mon. I’ll make some popcorn.”

Cas nods vaguely as Dean slaps him on the shoulder and turns to escape the library. “Give me a moment to… reshelve these, I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Read more on ao3!

Tag list below:

@magnificent-winged-beast @starsinursa @silvie111 @gneisscastiel @yourspecialeyes @weathergirl83 @daughter-of-the-rain-and-snow @maliciouslycreative @suckerfordeansfreckles @rosemoonweaver @paperwhitenarcissus @maiosaurus @naruhearts @super-powerful-queen-reyna @anironundomiel-blog1 @jasminrogue @onsarah @cassbutt-and-the-righteousbi @elanor-n-evermind @sharkfish @fangirlingtodeath513 @angelarbaugh @psychoticblackhappiness @holyllamabanana-blog @lanaserra @freckles-and-wings @7faerielights @casbean @destielhoneybee @feraladoration @deaneatscake @generaldeliciousness @bre95611 @psychicbouquetblaze-stuff @lizleeillustration @hexentaenzerin @peacewhenuaredone-blog @nickelkeep @ellen-of-oz @malmuses @ltleflrt @archiival @idaaeri @kazshero @depairt

[rollforjackass]

do y'all remember the slew of headcanons back in 2019 about aziraphale and the library of alexandria and that one heart-rending comic where hastur burns it down and crowley's almost too late to rescue aziraphale? i'm having Strong emotions about it again

like i truly adore the idea of aziraphale getting all involved with the library of alexandria - setting off little bursts of divine inspiration every which way, translating texts that no one else would ever have been able to read - but i ALSO love the idea that it was one of the few projects that he and crowley could actually openly work on together, because crowley gets sent up from hell to immortalize typos, misshelve divine texts, and make the hardest working scholars indolent in their pursuits, what have you.

i like to think that they both finagled their way into the assignment because they both admire the way humans happily threw away their limited lifespans for the good of all future mankind. and maybe they even enjoyed their work for a change, since they really wouldn't have to Do Anything; the typos and fleeting bursts of inspiration and the dedication and burnout would all happen anyway. they could just hang out and read and reminisce and fantasize about future generations absorbing ancient knowledge.

and then the warehouses burn for some stupid war. all that hard work goes up in smoke, and in the end the only true testaments humanity has left to its infancy are aziraphale and crowley, who can do nothing about that.

the way the light would have died in aziraphale's eyes even as the embers reflected in them like sunlight off a blade.

the way rage would have melted the lenses off of crowley's face like scales falling from his eyes.

the way they might have spent drunken evenings tried to recreate the secrets of human innovation from memory, re-capture the inner thoughts of philosophers and alchemists and worshippers long dead. the way they would have always failed.

yeah i have feelings about that.