#knowledge is power and we could all use a little more of it

[nova--spark]

Earth 101 : A Manual for the Visiting Cybertronian

Chapter Five: Human Mythos and Folklore

Humans are a young species compared to us, their lives amounting to one century when compared to our own millennium of years we exist in.

While they are young however, their mythology and folklore tales are some of the most astounding I have seen, in all my centuries of time within the Iacon Archives.

I have studied the great tales of the Knights, of utopias, of the great 13, Primus, Unicron, the AllSpark, the Guiding Hand and so many more, that my mentor too once studied in her years.

Many a great civilization was built upon these myths, as they are the stories of their people.

Earth too, and humanity as a whole, have tales of all kinds.

Many various religions of the terran planet are labeled ‘creation myths’.

That a deity, known only as God, spoke the world into existence, and crafted each aspect of their universe over 7 days.

Some speak that the world is one of many, as various other worlds were the product of war and death.

Some speak of reincarnation, that life persists even after the end and all are reborn, and so too is the world.

It is curious how no two stories are ever the same, and yet, at the same time, they are similar in little ways.

Nonetheless, human mythos is a vast range of emotions of all sorts, some range from cautionary tales, some life lessons, some just for entertainment, or passing on of legacies, of cultural importance of all sorts.

Humanity was built on oral storytelling, eons ago, when their people had no method by which to physically record their history. Even then, a large majority of written history and stories of their existence as a whole has been lost to time, due to tragedies.

One such event I was able to study was the famed burning of the Library of Alexandria, which had not just copies but original manuscripts of various human stories, histories, and even possible inventions that could have skyrocketed humanities development.

It is a tragic loss, not unlike some of our own on Cybertron, as many archival halls were decimated.

Knowledge is powerful, and in the right or wrong hands, can be a tool to aid, or weapon to destroy.

Of the many stories I studied from humans, I found a handful which were quite peculiar, yet interesting.

In the Latin American folklore, there exists the story of ‘La Llorona’, which translates to ‘the Weeping Woman.’ There are many varieties of this story, but the key points pertain to a woman who was perhaps a mistress of someone, had children with the man of her affections, but he refused to marry her because of this. She would go on to drown her children on his orders, to marry him finally, only for him in the end to refuse and damn her instead. She would drown in the same river, in her wedding dress,and became a ghost, a wandering Spark if you will, desperate then to find her children, as she would not be allowed entry into the afterlife without them for her crimes, walking the river’s edges at night, wailing for her dead children.

A tragic tale, this story serves as warning for the children who would play by the river at hours far too late, as they would be warned the Llorona would snatch them, confusing them for her OWN children, and drowning them in the river to take to the afterspark.

Other stories tell of creatures that disguise themselves as humans, and be it for malicious reasons, or benevolent, they will interact with humans in various ways.

The country of Japan is apparently known for many a myth wherein items came to life as ‘yokai’ and gained sentience.

Perhaps this is a lingering remnant of our ancestors who at some point touched upon Earth during expeditions long prior.

Upon some research into what is known as the Greek Pantheon, I have reason to believe that possibly, even knowledge of our very own 13 may have touched upon Earth, as there are many parallels to the long gone gods of our people.

There also remains evidence that our most prehistoric ancestors, the Predacons, said to have one day resided on Earth in an eons ago expedition, have left their very mark upon human mythos, as the tales of great dragons of many shapes, gryphons, all great manner of fantastical beasts that have become vital to many a human mythology.

There is great evidence in this manner, that Cybertron and Earth have been long intertwined, even before we as Cybertronians ever left our home to seek refuge here.

Though I remain in the Archives, every visit to Earth I have made in research capacity yields a great many new records, and evidence to this idea being true.

I have studied not just humanity’s ancient mythos, but some of their more recent stories.

By this, I mean the stories many people write now in the modern day.

Humans, long ago during what was a great war that befell their planet, developed what was known as ‘comic books’, which were stories told in pictures and text, on parchment of sometimes little to no color, or vibrant color of all kinds.

The characters within these stories have long become iconic to people, boasting names which become quite wondrous, yet fill hope in people.

‘Superheroes’ is the title these characters are called by, as they are meant to be the peak of humanity, soldiers, guardians and great minds who protect Earth.

Though they are fictional, they are nonetheless impactful, telling meaningful stories of love, loss, protection, and many more.

One could argue that human comic books are now the modern retellings of mythology, or rather it’s newest form by which they can tell stories.

Most interesting is that they have even developed comic books of our own kind, telling rather compelling stories here and there, by which humans can connect with us more and more.

It warms the sparks of many, to see that humans connect with us in such a manner.

That , as our planet flickers to and fro from life and death in our war, they attempt to keep our stories alive in their very own ways, and spread word.

‘We are here. We existed. We remain. ‘

Dear reader, I implore you, to perhaps utilize a holoform, and someday if able to, venture into a human library, or book store.

And spend just a bit of time, seeing just how compelling some of the stories found on their shelves can be.

Both fictional, and historical can be found, and sometimes, you will be surprised to learn which is which.

[autumnsartblog]

I find it interesting- Dracula and Jonathan’s little “game”, and the twisted care in it.

NOTE: I may have been fed misinformation on that drafted scene that was cut from the story, but I still believe that Dracula wouldn’t have killed him that night as he had plans anyways

————

Dracula is the one to start it, but Jonathan is the one to end it. Dracula slowly starts pushing Jonathan’s buttons and getting more open about his possession over him and how Jonathan is at his mercy, especially after that scene where Jonathan is saved by Dracula from the ladies, or as safe as he could ever be.

When Jonathan starts thinking more about what he should say before saying anything in reply to Dracula’s actions to him like when he burned his letters, Dracula is getting less entertainment himself, though we all know that Jonathan isn’t just there for entertainment.

Forgive me if I am wrong here, as I haven’t finished the book, but to me it seems like Dracula is more willing to mentally harm Jonathan than physically harm him.

I actually doubt Dracula would have let Jonathan get too hurt by the wolves. It was just a threat. Based on the removed scene I’ve heard of, of when Jonathan escapes the castle but is being hunted down by wolves only to be saved by Dracula again, Dracula would have just brought him back and punished him by like- I dunno, locking him in his room again 😭 (which obviously still isn’t okay to do, it is just me saying that I doubt he would let Jonathan get killed). It was a threat of death that Dracula wasn’t gonna act upon at that time because he cares for Jonathan.

Dracula went through all the trouble of making sure Jonathan isn’t killed in “Dracula’s Guest”, and even with it removed, I consider it to be semi-canon but more based on the actions they WOULD take if the situation were to occur.

Dracula CARES for Jonathan. In a twisted way. He tries to make Jonathan dependant on him by isolating him, and by making himself the only person that Jonathan can turn to, yet at the same time Jonathan knows he cannot. He’s breaking him down to make *sure* he won’t be able to leave. Especially after taking all of the things that would be needed to get out of the country, he’s trying to make Jonathan see that there is no use in resisting him.

But even so, Jonathan resists. It makes Dracula mad. He is losing the own little game he made. Both of them want the upper hand, Dracula for control over Jonathan (and making sure he cannot leave), and Jonathan for finding a way to escape. They’re both trying to do so, and while also trying to seem as unbothered as they can from it.

But while Jonathan is struggling to keep doing it, so is Dracula. His own emotions are getting the best of him. He cracks at some points, he lets his anger and knowledge of his lack of control show. Jonathan cracks at some points, he lets his fear and helplessness show.

By the time they get away from each other, both of them shatter in some way. While Jonathan shatters into a mental breakdown, Dracula is enraged. He’s PISSED as HELL. For not only did he not manage to get Jonathan to break in his castle in front of him fully, he failed to keep him there with him. The man that he’s so possessive over.

And what does Dracula do? He goes to London soon after and begins harassing the ones Jonathan knows and loves. Yet, so far as I’ve read, he doesn’t directly physically harm Jonathan. Only mentally. He focuses on tormenting Jonathan in his head. While he did plan on hurting Jonathan in the castle very soon, it seemed to be more for the reason of making him stay for freaking EVER, rather than for trying to do so/doing so to Mina and Lisa, which was more for teasing and letting everyone know of his power and stuff like that.

His anger there is to show how much Jonathan got to him too. Jonathan managed to get under his skin (as he should ❤️❤️).

I haven’t read the fight-part at the end, but I’ve heard a lot about the team getting injured, some severely, but I haven’t yet hurt of how badly hurt Jonathan is physically in the fight, as Jonathan is the last thing Dracula sees pretty much considering how close he got to him. I’m very excited to get up to that bit once I stop hyper-analysing the first part of the book (I got through like 3/4ths of the book and couldn’t handle NOT analysing the first bit more).

I hope I made sense.

[11-eyed-rook]

Seriously, I feel like this needs to be understood and said more often but...

YOUNG QUEERS SHOULD LEARN MORE ABOUT (AND UNDERSTAND) QUEER HISTORY, BUT OLDER QUEERS ALSO NEED TO MAKE SURE THE EDUCATIONAL RESOURCES ARE ACCESSIBLE TO ALL IN THE FIRST PLACE.

But there's more to it.

And here's where I'm coming from, personally (it'll be a bit long, my apologies, but it should give you a perspctive on what I mean):

I'm 27, pansexual, genderfluid (AFAB; male-leaning overall, experiencing certain forms of dysphoria much of my life), I'm from a country that's somewhat conservative-leaning, used to be a part of the USSR and hasn't had the friendliest attitude towards the LGBTQ+ community or pride events even in recent years. Transphobia and homophobia continue to be major issues here, and due to more older more conservative-minded people using social media, a lot of hateful thinking is spread around, misinformation and literal lies are spread around, and opinions are becoming more extreme in some circles.

Being openly queer is simply not something you can be here safely (even now), even if you happen to know people that accept you.

I don’t think I’ve ever even met/personally known any openly queer people in my country in my entire life, and the only ones I know of at all are either celebrities, or they’re involved in some political circles, and even so, I don’t see much talk about queerness – much of the time the fact is mentioned as a side-note “fun fact/reminder” rather than something important; very few of them ever seem to talk about their own experience of queerness, and even so – in general terms, briefly. That's if they mention it at all, of course...

To put into perspective how deeply closeted I’ve had to be - my own father literally threatened violence (rather, he threatened to end my life) for trying to come out as trans some years ago (and believe me, he’d go through with it, I don’t doubt it). Just for TRYING to come out. I was already an adult by that point. He's always been very homophobic and transphobic, and that has only gotten worse with time.

I started questioning my gender very early in my childhood, without even knowing that being trans is a something that can happen, without knowing that not everybody questions their gender, without knowing why I’ve felt the way I have. I didn't know anything about the LGBTQ+ community until about the mid-2000s, even so, surface-level news, and anything else - mostly from the perspective of extremely homophobic/transphobic conservatives, some trying to ban pride events and making sure that everybody is pulled into the idea of "the gays = bad". I started trying to understand what it meant to be queer/gay once I had internet access and the occasional moments of privacy - I was afraid of asking questions, because I was made to believe that it's "bad" to be this way. Some time later, I’d realize that I have no gender preference when it comes to attraction. I understood myself to be bisexual, at around age 12-13; it was one of the only things I had a word for. I still wasn’t familiar with the trans community. I had no resources I could fully trust. I still was just learning to speak English properly. I had no queer friends. But what I understood is that I can’t express what I DO know about myself, because I’d be in danger.

I had to figure things out on my own. Only when I was about 15-16 years old did I find friends who are part of the LGBTQ+ community, all of them outside of my country. I finally started feeling less alone in my personal experiences. I found out that what I was feeling about my gender, is me being trans. I started to learn terminology I was previously completely unfamiliar with. Yet...

I’m 27. Pansexual. Genderfluid. Most of my friends are part of the community in some way. And somehow, I still know very little about queer history as such. I still don’t know what sources I can trust when trying to learn about queer history. Whatever little I do know, is stuff that “almost everybody” knows to some extent or another. I’ve felt a sense of guilt, because I’m queer, yet, I know practically nothing of the community's history and struggles. Older queers have made me feel inadequate about it, not directly, but in those general callout posts about “NEEDING TO LEARN THE HISTORY”.

Younger queers than myself, know even less than I do.

In the age when LGBTQ+ media is censored in some places, banned in others, completely unavailable to many, even actually illegal in some places, how can you expect every queer person out there to know all there is to know, if you don’t offer a helping hand here or there?

This is a sort of “callout” to older queers than myself; those that know the history or lived it, those that can provide information. If you have resources that you can share with those like myself, please provide them rather than shaming us for “not knowing more”. Some of us simply do not have access to the resources you’ve had access to, to the knowledge you have, maybe even the experiences you’ve lived through/been a part of yourself.

You see how the internet is, and you should know how hard it is to just trust random shit online, especially nowadays. Censorship isn’t helping, either. And this is a problem in developed first-world countries, needless to speak of anywhere else.

Just because we’re born queer, doesn’t mean we’re born knowing our history. What’s obvious to you isn’t always obvious to everybody else.

Be understanding and offer a helping hand when you can (I try to when I'm able to). Some learn sooner. Some learn later. But if you can help somebody learn at all, maybe try to help. Shame isn't an educational tool. Offering otherwise unavailable resources in this day and age, is more valuable than you might realize, even for stuff that might seem like "common knowledge".

I want to understand. Many others do too.

You see the world as it is. Our history is being erased left and right. Save and share whatever resources you can.

[guardian-of-soho]

Aziraphale is a guardian.

We left him at the end of s1 with the knowledge that apocalypse was still coming. He'd saved the world for that day, but Heaven was still bent on destroying it. The ones with the power to burn everything were still inescapably loveless. It really looked like he and Crowley alone of all the Earth-walking beings would fight for the world.

And he loves the world so much. The opening scenes of him in the record shop, buying his Shostakovich 78s? The warmth toward Maggie and her music and her heart? The generosity, and the delight in the shared understanding, and the pleasure in the discovery that he could make her life better? That he could spare her pain, give her a little more time with her joys? He knows how fragile those are.

He wants to give that to the whole world.

He wants to believe he can lift the doom hanging over them all, banish it permanently. He is desperate to believe it. Even if he wasn't longing so fervently to be seen, approved, affirmed by God's word (I was so undone by his jealousy as he watched Job speak to her) -- even without that I can't imagine him not wavering at Heaven's offer, faced with the chance that he could use all Heaven's might to guard the world again and get it right this time.

And then he's offered that power with apparent warmth, and feigned approval, and the shameless claim that at last they understand. They hear what he's been trying desperately to tell them as long as he's lived in the world. They're telling him that he's finally made his point -- that they are proud he's tried so hard for so long.

So -- the ending is shattering. It is maddening. It's utterly unfair on Crowley. And I didn't see it coming, and yet.

Aziraphale is a guardian. He really will have to see for himself that power won't love what's good; there is no way to make the world safe forever.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

If your taking requests can you please do Yandere Tengen uzui and his wives with a reader who died and was born as Tengens wives. ( a bit like recantation mawhnas)

Reincarnated Wife to be | Yandere Uzui Tengen + Wives

Being reborn into the world of shinobi is hard

Your higher intelligence is helpful for somethings but it still doesn’t compare to strength training before you can properly walk

Not to mention its the Taishō era 

Everything is different 

No plumbing 

No typical school

And on top of all that demons are alive and well

In your new lifetime demons don’t physically appear until your early teens

“That man…”

“Yeah a demon. Those overpowered slugs got to our target before us.”

It’s brutal 

That the clan you come from was just so nonchalant of an epidemic on humanity

That was arguably much more brutal then sending a shuriken before an unsuspecting person’s eyes

You only realize they intend to give you away when you hear whispers of the arranged marriage

“He’s the only one who’s survived…”

“Ah he must have the best genes…”

“....or the only one who actually can learn from those graves on their property.”

“What are they at….six?”

The final nail in the coffin is when your prepped to meet with your fellow wives

“Make sure you take note of their weaknesses. It’ll make all the difference when it comes to his favorites.”

Your hesitant

By now you recognize the venue, your sister wives, his surname

But despite how cool it is you don’t want to marry the future sound hashira

You know how it goes 

And your not sure if you’d survive with your addition to the other wives

So you run

Using your built up skill and knowledge to get as far as you can from your family if you could call it that

Your plan is to hide in someplace until you can gather enough wisteria to give yourself a private sanctuary

In the meantime you try to find the mineral of nichirin

Enough for you to craft a decent weapon that bodes well when demons occassionaly attack you

For years you’re sure your scott-free 

Able to slowly widdle at the demon’s population in your little sanctuary 

That is until you stop at the sound of jingling chains from the roof

“I heard there were talks about a mysterious ninja outside of demon corp! To think it’d be just who I was looking for!” 

You barely escape a young but powerful demon slayer who you can’t seem to decipher

Is he trying to kill you? 

To catch you?

Why does he keep following?

You hold up pretty well for a while unil you narrowly dodge a star thrown in your direction

“We really liked you (Y/n). Why’d you choose to run away?”

If it wasn’t worse already all three of them seem to arrive from the shadows to continue their assault

You try to reason with them 

“Can’t you understand?! I didn’t want to be forced to marry some guy I didn’t know!”

“But you knew us! Doesn’t that make it better?!”

“No it really doesn’t!”

It’s getting overwhelming 

So unless you’ve mastered some kind of style of your own

They’ll overpower you

“Yack!” 

Your strength is preying on their care for one another 

Sending an unusual violent kick toward Hinatsuru 

You take advantage of them running to help her

Easily disarming a distracted Tengen, you run off 

But you aren’t home free 

For whatever reason your ex-fiancees are just so hung up about you 

And between Uzui’s new occupation he’s aiming for your capture

“You’re just as flashy as I’d hoped! When I do win, there’s sure to be fireworks.”

[messiahzzz]

i have seen several posts around that addressed how discouraging gale from taking the crown of karsus is “keeping him from realizing his true potential.” that tara is merely upset at his choice, instead of being utterly devastated at the loss of her little love. that it’s not a bad ending per se because to get there he didn’t need to sacrifice 7000 innocent souls in the process. gale isn’t continuing the cycle of abuse either, he still appears to love tav and does come back for them to offer them ascension. he wants them to be equal, so it can’t possibly be an unhealthy dynamic, right?

but what of gale himself, his own convictions, values, and everything he holds dear? everything flawed and human that shaped him into the person he is?

player: are you saying you want to ascend? claim godhood?

gale: no, not like that. i don't want to join them. i want to better them. a god's powers, paired with a mortal conscience, a mortal heart.

gale’s motivation for acquiring godhood is that he will able to aid mortals in a way no other god has ever done before. he won’t hide behind pretense nor require blind devotion of his followers. he will understand and be able to empathize. he wholeheartedly believes that he will be different - he will act.

gale: [..] the gods could aid us if they wished, but instead they cower behind ao. so let us act ourselves.

gale believes that by becoming a god he will kill two birds with one stone: aid mortals and acquire enough power to quash any of his insecurities and enemies in the process. that by ridding himself of every perceived flaw he'll finally feel like he will have enough to offer - maybe, just maybe he'll even be content. his flaws are merely holding him back from becoming the best version of himself, and by ridding himself of everything fallible, he will be whole. maybe this is what all of his suffering has led up to. maybe the orb chose him. maybe the reason he had to endure all the pain, isolation, and excruciating loneliness was so that he could realize that he was meant for something even greater. after all, power feeds ambition. and what is more powerful than a god? his convictions were certainly naive, he possesses enough knowledge to know better. don't get me wrong, part of him definitely wants to spite mystra a lil. but his intentions at that time were mostly pure. a reflection of his self-hatred and feelings of inadequacy.

player: this is wrong, gale. that power will corrupt you, even if you can seize it.

gale: it won't, i swear to you. it's merely a tool - a means to an end.

once we meet gale at the party in his new godlike form, it is apparent that even with all the power at his fingertips, he has reached no greater knowledge about himself. his insecurities are still as present as before, he merely is less subtle in his compensation - repeatedly highlighting his grandeur and how dull life on faerun is compared to the wonders of elysium. it is also genuinely crushing to see how little he thinks of himself even now.

gale: i was nothing. a drifting dust mote of a wizard, abandoned by my goddess, my powers lost, my reputation destroyed. and look at me now. i'm their proof.

any perceived dismissal of his Greatness™ is met with immediate disdain.

gale: a bold decision to treat a divine being with such cold indifference.

nodecontext: aloof, annoyed you weren't impressed with him

gale: you mortals do love to live dangerously, don't you?

nodecontext: the slightest hint of a threat - you've probably made an enemy here today. or at least, you've lost a friend.

he is still desperate to impress. emphasizing what an honor it is that a new-born god chose to bless their little soiree with his presence. gaze upon all his divine glory! gale has now become the embodiment of everything he criticized about the gods. his original intentions and plans are discarded and long forgotten. he assuages his erstwhile companions by telling them to simply pray to him, in case they should ever require aid. if they're lucky and their ambition pleases him, he might even deliver.

player: what does the 'god of ambition' offer to his followers?

gale: i 'offer' them nothing. i inspire them to seize their destinies for themselves.

player: interesting, so you help mortals help themselves?

gale: precisely. though that isn't to say i'm averse to the odd bit of direct encouragement.

gale: [..] my aims are set a little higher than offering cursory blessings to just any half-decent spellcaster.

gale: regardless, ethical quandaries are more the remit of my mortal devotees. they do love to talk, and faerun is starting to listen.

aiding "any half-decent spellcaster" is unbefitting of his status. he isn't concerned with questions of ethics and morality either. deeming such matters beneath his divine capabilities.

once gale has ascended and established his domain, what remains of the gale we knew? what of his mortal heart?

minthara: your ambition is not cruel, but you fear that if you indulge it, you will lose yourself in the mysteries of the weave and unravel the world.

minthara: you are afraid of so many things, and it is that fear that keeps you true to yourself.

gale did lose himself and ultimately became one of his biggest fears. considering that his existence as a being of pure ambition leads him to constantly seek out greater heights, it isn't farfetched to believe that raphael's prediction will indeed come true.

player[astarion]: ambition? finally, a god i can get behind...

gale: i assure you, this is merely the prelude to a far grander vision. elysium's in for something of a shake-up.

all that remains of gale is a thin veneer of the person he used to be. what he presents is a hollow echo of the old gale. he does retain some of his mannerisms and quirks, but he is definitely a lot colder and more condescending. if his personality already changed that drastically after a duration of only 6 months, what will he inevitability turn into when he has eternity at his disposal?

essentially, you are aiding gale in the eradication of himself. eradicating everything about him that made him into the loveable, charismatic, awkward, kind, buoyant person he was. everything about him that he perceived as defective, flawed, and lesser-than. before, his hubris was merely an expression of his own discontentment and low self-worth, but now he is hubris incarnate. all of his worst qualities have been amplified.

gale: i am ambition incarnate. as indistinguishable from that most potent sensation as mystra herself is from the weave. and word is spreading.

nodecontext: palpable, almost unsettling excitement from him - hint of megalomania

he put his trust in tav, trusting their judgment and relying on them to nudge him in the right direction. after all, they had plenty of opportunities to show him that they are an ally worth following and confiding in. but in the end, the prospect of what he could be, the things he could give them, the enemies he could yet conquer, won over the desire to simply accept him and help him rebuild a life on solid ground. tav denied him the unconditional love he craves most out of their own selfish desires.

tara: you were looking out for him. i expected better of you.

as i've already mentioned, gale desires nothing more than to be seen, accepted, loved, and valued. having a partner who wholeheartedly supports and believes in him is enough to make him feel content. most importantly - he just wants to live. to enjoy life with everything it has to offer. his ambition can’t be quenched because he hungers still. believing that only by acquiring more power will he finally be enough and reach said acceptance.

we see in his good ending that his own contentment was even able to influence and (temporarily) sate the orb's ever-present hunger:

gale: [..] or perhaps the orb's hunger was fuelled by my own, and my contentment influences it in much the same way.

gale: that's how i feel with you - content. it's a rather unfamiliar feeling, i must say. not something gale of waterdeep ever craved.

it is devastating that he doesn't reach the same feeling of fulfillment if he chooses to pursue godhood, and is instead compelled to continuously surpass his own accomplishments. not being granted rest or reprieve.

gale: i achieved everything we hoped i would, and still i'm not good enough for you?

gale pursuing godhood isn't evidence that he "has been evil all along" or that he "just waited to be unleashed" either. we can't diminish tav's influence in this outcome, they are after all an extension of the player. able to steer every companion toward a path of redemption or to enable them in their worst traits. fandom has already established that by letting astarion ascend you are actively supporting him in becoming the very thing he despises most, putting your own ambitions and idea of what you want him to be above his healing, this is no different.

tara: the gale i knew wasn't like this. he recognised his mistakes. he was contrite. all he wanted to do was live.

tara: unfortunately, he fell into company that turned his gaze towards foolishness. yes, i mean you.

player: gale is his own man, tara.

tara: false. he was mine. though now he belongs only to his own pride.

yes, the epilogue cutscene is beautiful and there is something bittersweet and romantic about his love for tav being one of the few emotions that remained a constant throughout the past 6 months. he didn't need to come back for them, but he did cause he loves them still. no matter how warped his definition of love may be now. while it is abundantly clear that tav ranks lower on his priority list than they did before, his commitment remains.

gale fears isolation, hoping to never return to the time when he was hopeless and alone, stuck inside his tower. by heading in this direction he is once again creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.

tara: [..] if i pretended you hadn't turned tail on every lesson you set out to learn, i'd have no right to call myself your friend.

morena may as well have already resigned herself to her son’s death. elminster partly blames himself. for his lapse in judgment, as well as being the one who plucked him from obscurity in the first place. mourning the kind, bright-eyed boy who cried at the scorched roses in his neighbor's garden. tara won't be here anymore to care and look out for him either. he has lost his oldest and dearest friend, the one who witnessed his downfall from grace and never left his side. who believed him to be the finest mind AND the finest wizard she's ever had the pleasure to know. who was certain that he’d find a way out of any crisis no matter the circumstances. ...and if tav declines his offer to ascend with him? what does he have left?

gale: yes, i am rather radiant, aren't i?

tara: don't flatter yourself, gale. you've debased yourself in ways i could never have fathomed.

tara: goodbye gale, i hope the heavens are worth it.

gale’s godhood ending deals with the loss of humanity, the loss of oneself, and everything one holds dear. it is a devastating and bone-chilling narrative. it is a tragedy.

gale: i hope you don't think less of me. great ambition should not come at the expense of what you already hold dear. i see that now.

if gale could see himself, he would be horrified at the losses he deemed necessary to get here. he would be horrified at what he’s become.

[undertheorangetree]

In The Woods Somewhere

Summary- Coriolanus does not intend on returning to the Capitol alone.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ DUBCON Female reader. TBOSAS spoilers technically. Reader is essentially Lucy Gray. Porn with plot. Toxic relationship. Possessive Coriolanus. Chasing. Biting. Restraint. Choking. Edging. Overstimulation. Fingering. Cunnilingus. P in V sex.

Author’s Note- Happy holidays! This is not our regularly scheduled programming but I have Hunger Games/Tom Blyth brain rot so here’s this monster. Please heed the warnings and link to the full fic on AO3 below

She knows the moment he looks up at her, rifle clutched in his hands, that he will not be coming north with her. Not anymore, not now that he has the one thing tying him to this place well in hand.

She isn't a fool. She knows that his feelings for her played only a small role in his agreeing to come with her but she had been willing to overlook that. When he had cupped her face in his hand and swore that he would join her, that they would escape Panem- and their collective noose- together, she had seen the hesitation there. Coryo was not a man built for nature, no more than he was built for the districts, but she loves him and so she had ignored it. Twisted it into something romantic and noble in her head, that he would give up all this, that he would leave behind everything for her. He had promised her earnestly and she had taken him at his word.

But with the look on his face now, some potent mix of elation and relief washing over him like a wave, she knows she never stood a chance.

"It's the gun," he says, and she hates the tone he uses. The way he almost breathes the words, the way he looks up at her with the ghost of a smile on his face. Had she had doubts about what the guns would inspire in him, the look on his face is enough to prove her right.

"The one you fired at Mayfair," she says with a nod, crossing her arms over her chest. It feels almost protective now, as if she can safeguard her breaking heart. "Spruce must have known about this place too. I guess it's not as secret as I thought. We hide that and you're free."

"No more loose ends."

The way he says it, his hands tightening on the barrel as he looks down at the rifle, makes her blood run cold. This is all he wanted, nothing short of a dream come true. She doesn't like it, her reaction just as much as his own, and she fights to push passed it. Tells herself that there is nothing wrong here, not really, that he is entitled to some semblance of excitement, but she can feel that unease gnawing at her gut. It feels like an omen. A warning.

She grins, hoping to seem more at ease than she truly is, and feels her nose scrunch up teasingly as she says, "Besides me."

It's the wrong thing to do. Immediately, he goes rigid, eyes darting up to look at her and she sees the distrust there, akin to a beaten dog. It wouldn't be as startling as it is if not for their conversation in the woods not even an hour before. He is willing to kill if backed far enough into a corner and is that not what she has just done? Reminded him of the power she held over him with this knowledge? Backed him into a corner? And just like that beaten dog, she can see that he is only a moment away from snapping at her with pearly white teeth.

"You wouldn't... tell anyone?"

She feels her eyebrows draw together, all attempt at joking gone. It hurts a little, what seems to be a complete lack of faith in her, and it's almost surprising. Almost. "Course not."

But would she? She doesn’t really know now. The fact that he believes she could, as if she could exchange his freedom for her own, feels like the final nail in the coffin. She could forgive his dislike of the idea of heading north, the relief on his face when he saw the guns. But what he said in the woods- three’s enough for me- and his distrust of her now… she doesn’t think she’s safe with him. All their talk of trust, of how he agreed it was worth more than love, thrown to the wind all for the sake of a duffle bag full of rifles. Because just as easily as those gun could buy her freedom, they could secure his own too. One small step toward returning to his life back in the Capitol. He was going to leave before killing Mayfair, she knew that. And if there’s no weapon linking him to the crime, he could. Because no matter how badly she wants to believe he wants a life with her, she thinks he wants his old one back that much more.

And she isn’t sure just what he is willing to sacrifice to get rid of all those loose ends.

She feels herself smile again, moving on autopilot to fetch the knife she knows is on the shelf near the door. It doesn’t reach her eyes but she isn’t looking at him, gripping the handle of the knife a little too tightly. “I think I’m gonna go dig up some katniss. There’s a good patch down by the lake, don’t know when we’ll come across it again.”

His suspicion only grows at that, lips parted and head tilted in question, and she knows she needs to go. Though his finger has not yet shifted toward the trigger, it hasn’t moved away from it either. He has been a Peacekeeper for no more than two months, but that was more than enough time to pick up all he needed to know about firing a gun. Even if his aim is shoddy, it wouldn’t take much effort to aim in her general direction and hold down on a trigger. She had said it herself, she is the only one left who knew the truth about Mayfair’s death- her murder. If he wanted to go back to the Capitol, he needed to be damn sure there wasn’t a chance of his time here coming back to haunt him. As it is now, she is the only thing standing between him and the Snow penthouse.

“Thought you said they weren’t ready yet,” he protests, that uncertainty still more than apparent.

She prays her smile doesn’t look as forced as it feels when her eyes flick up to look at his handsome face, doing what she can to seem nonchalant. “The world changes awful fast.”

She pulls the door open, the rain pounding against the porch outside, when he calls her name. Her grip on the knife tightens a hair more before she’s turning back to look at him, keeping her eyes wide and innocent as she tilts her head in question. She knows she hesitated, knows he caught her if the look on his face is anything to go by, but rather than let her panic consume her, she focuses on his eyes. The beautiful, brilliant blue of his eyes. That may be the thing she misses most about him, after all this.

“It’s still raining.”

As if a little rain is enough to stop her from saving her own life.

“Well, I’m not made out of sugar,” she grins, taking one last look at him before shutting the door, placing some kind of barrier between them.

Read the rest here :)

[headspace-hotel]

i'm...thinking about writing a book?

I mean. I feel really silly at the thought because i'm not like a scientist or anything, i'm barely at the beginning of my knowledge journey, but...being a writer was what I always wanted to do. It's what I've been doing ever since I could remember. And I'm constantly, constantly just so full of things that I want to tell the whole world. I will have a realization or idea and think, oh my god. Everyone needs to know this. But I can't tell everyone. I'm not good at talking.

I'm good at writing. But I will sit down to write a post on my silly little blog and get so overwhelmed by the SCALE of everything I want to say.

I think I've already started to write a book. I think the space for these ideas to fill is already the size of a book and it will never have any smaller of a size, and no one else will come along to write the book, and no one else CAN write the book, and IT HAS TO BE WRITTEN.

I want to write about the ways of the plants, of course. I want to teach how to transplant and how to gather seeds and the properties of keystone species...but more importantly, I want to write about how to learn the ways of the plants. I want to promote the habit of insatiable curiosity and intense observation. I want to show everyone that everything everywhere is infinitely interesting and mysterious, and if you pay attention to the plants, they will teach you.

I want to write about Symbiosis. I want to write about how we are connected to every other thing, how we have our own ecological niche as Caretakers, and our own special adaptations of curiosity and love. I want to write about how the ecosystem needs us to participate in it, not to cut ourselves off from it, and how our powerful influence on ecosystems can be for good or for bad. We are not a disease. We are a Keystone Species.

I want to discourage this Euro-centric idea that sees humans as separate, and recommend more reading from indigenous points of view that understands ecosystems better and sees humans as participants in nature, engaging in a reciprocal symbiotic relationship. I want to speak against all this talk about removing humans from half of the Earth or reducing the human population, and show other people that despair and fear make you paralyzed and powerless, but hope is powerful.

The most important and powerful thing you can do for your ecosystem is to love it. It is necessary to have hope for the future—to learn to imagine a future of restoration and renewal, and to build community with other people working toward that future.

If we don't imagine a future for our ecosystems, imagine them boldly and audaciously in ways that feel crazy and impossible, those futures will not happen. But just the act of saying, "This WILL happen. We WILL be okay." gives you the strength and energy to fight and it gives you the creativity to come up with solutions you never could have thought of before.

And I feel I have to explain, how did I end up listening to plants? And how did the teachings become so important that I had to write about them? There's this black, swallowing abyss underpinning all of who I am, some intimation of a reality so terrible the human spirit breaks beneath it. I had a mental health crisis back in 2021 where I was pulled deep into that abyss, and when I started rescuing little plants and caring for them, I was basically re-learning how to be human.

I feel like I was seeking answers to "How am I supposed to live in this world?" in the natural world because the human world of poetry and books and articles and think-pieces had utterly failed me in that regard. I had taken multiple poetry classes where I had read all the best contemporary poems, and all the poets just wrote flat, plodding, blunt descriptions of their trauma and despair. Nothing is wrong with these topics, but the worst part was how these authors didn't even take themselves seriously; they had to be detached and ironic about their own pain, like a snarky dystopian novel hero who jokes casually about the horrific reality they live in so the reader knows that this reality is normal and unremarkable to them—and even more importantly, that the hero is ironic and cool instead of responding in a vulnerable, human way.

And speaking of dystopian novels...there were a lot of those! It was like all the visions of the future I had read were dystopian. Even I had been writing a dystopian novel. But I realized that I wasn't wise enough to tell that story yet. I didn't know why at first. But then, as I was reading everything people were writing about climate change, I began to realize.

I saw a lot of patterns between the way people wrote about climate change and the tendencies of self-harm and self-defeat that gnawed inside me. Suicide was something that I had never struggled against, but I understood that suicide was only the most striking manifestation of a self-annihilating way. Sometimes you feel like by hurting yourself, you are being transgressive, exercising autonomy against an absolute, crushing reality. It doesn't have to be physical hurt; it can just be deciding no one will like you and denying yourself love, or thinking "Well, there's no use hoping for anything good to happen."

This is how people talk about climate change. They fantasize about extreme, horrific scenarios and talk as if the Earth is already dead and destroyed, and they talk about humans hatefully and as if they were a disease, and then congratulate themselves for seeing how bad it REALLY is instead of being in denial. It is easy for people to get attached to this and even get mad when someone suggests there might be hope, simply because self-harm can be very psychologically reinforcing.

It is common to call these responses "climate grief." But as I came into this very simple and quiet yet profound encounter with Nature, she had an answer to this philosophy that was perfectly gentle and placid and yet caustic enough to strip paint:

"HOW CAN YOU WISH FOR THE STRENGTH TO GRIEVE THE EARTH, WHEN YOU WERE NEVER STRONG ENOUGH TO LOVE IT?"

I realized, with a breaking heart, that I had always hated and resented my back yard and my home town, because it was an ugly place that seemed to me "Already destroyed," and my soul ached for woods and wilderness.

It had taken me 20 years to fully admit my love of nature, because I felt like there was no point in acting upon it—everything would get destroyed anyway.

I had not been brave enough to love the woods across the road, the creeks and the hills, because they were so fragile in a world that didn't respect them, they could be destroyed by some housing development at any time. So I just accepted that it was already a lost cause.

But it was time to be brave enough—not to accept despair, but to choose hope.

To grow up, first we had to become strong and get rid of silly beliefs like hope and fairness and love. But now, we have to become even stronger and start believing in those things again.

[lovelybrooke]

Platonic Yandere Angels x immortal reader

Very long awaited, I know. This takes place at the same time as my Overlords x reader headcanons (so during pt2). I'm very nervous about writing this, so please tell me how I did. Also, just like the Overlords, I'm only talking about the Angels we know about, not anyone that was on screen for like a second.

masterlist

---

Heaven knew something was up.

A few weeks ago, there was a sudden shift, something only Sera seemed to notice. It was small, but it made Sera stop in her tracks, almost like she was waiting for something. It made Emily nervous, seeing someone so strong become so confused over--something. Sera spent days trying to figure out what was up, she knew Hell had to be a part of it. There isn't anything else it could be, she thought.

She soon found you--a human child in hell. Your arrival in hell must've been the thing that she felt that day, it all makes sense now. However, her feeling of accomplishment soon became fear, a human child is, for some reason, in hell and is being taken care of some of the strongest demons. What worried her even more was the fact that you were alive. You were still human, at least as human as someone can be in hell, and something was holding you back, keeping your humanity within you. She was terrified for your safety, so when Charlie was invited to Heaven to figure out in souls in hell can be redeemed, she knew that your presence would be a topic of conversation.

Before that though, she tasked Adam with keeping an eye on you. She didn't want to tell Emily, she knew she would ask questions that couldn't be answered. She knew Emily would figure it out eventually, but that was a worry for another day. What's more concerning is Adam. He sees you as a prize to be won, not a person. He saw you as just another thing he could use against those demons. He noticed how taken they were with you, and instantly knew how great it would feel to rip you away from them. Lute was really the only one who supported her boss in this endeavor. She didn't really have any strong opinions on you, other than that you should be in Heaven, but that's mostly because that's what her boss wants.

The others down in Hell have no way of knowing about the Angel's knowledge about you until Charlies official Heaven visit. Charlie had no reason to think that Heaven knew about you, so when they bring you up, she's extremely confused. Emily is even more confused, and slightly upset that Sera would hide this from her. Out of everything she could hide from her, the existence of a human child is definitely one of them. She couldn't stay mad for long, because Sera was quick on informing Charlie that Hell is no place for a human, especially one so alive. Sera suggested that they bring you to Heaven, and you stay there until everything is sorted out and you're back where you belong.

Emily knew Sera felt something for you, something much deeper than Sera felt comfortable admitting. She was a Seraphim angel, older than the Earth itself, strong and powerful and wise, all brought to a head because of the existence of some human in hell. Emily couldn't deny that you were interesting, and even though she was upset that you were kept a secret from her, she was less upset with Sera and more upset that she didn't get to meet you until now. Well meet is a weird word, more so found out. You seemed nice, very sweet, too sweet to be in Hell. You deserved to be somewhere nice, and maybe once you were brought to Heaven, you two could become great friends. She knows that eventually you would have to go home, but she wanted you to smile more, you seemed so sad down there.

Adam reveled in the confused look on Charlies face. She really thought you, a human, were just going to stay in Hell forever? This was all hilarious, watching as the stupid little demon princess try to argue that Hell is your home and that you're not going anywhere. It was the first time he saw her actually frustrated, angry almost. It just made you more interesting to him. Adam's never cared much about Humans, but there must be something great about you to make you so important to these demons.

Sera knew you needed to come to Heaven, you were in grave danger with these demons, and in her heart she knew she was doing the right thing. As she and the rest of the court watch you down in hell, alone in your room of the hotel, she knew you needed her help. You were tired, shown through your exhausted behavior. You could barely keep your eyes open, and before she knew it, you were asleep. According to Adam, this is the first time you've slept in weeks, and Sera instantly knew she'd seen enough. You were neglected, a helpless child with a pit of vipers, and she would be the one to save you.

Charlie and her partner adamantly disagreed to sending you to Heaven. This, paired with the Sera's decision to refuse the reforming of demons made Charlie extremely upset and tired. She tried to do everything to prove to them that demons could do good, so why wasn't it enough. She just wanted to go home and see you, make sure you were okay.

Sera felt another shift again, and suddenly, you were gone. She watched as Charlie scrambled to find you, and she herself looked everywhere she could for even a trace of you, but there was nothing. You must have somehow gone back to Earth, she should be happy. She should be content knowing that your back where you belong, but for some reason, she disappointed. She wished to know who you were, what you were like. She wished to give you a better life than the ones those demons were providing. But now you were gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Maybe once you actually die, she'll get to meet you again. But until then she'll be waiting for you.

---

A/n: This is short I know but the angels are so hard to write for. Please help me...

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi! I love your writing so much!! I'm currently loving your freelance inventor series! I don't see a lot of danny/bruce fics so it's always fun when you post one!! What danny thinks of the justice league, does he think they're just Bruce's extreme sports friends? Or his kids friends parents?

Danny first meets Bruce's extreme sports friends when Dick plans to introduce Wally-his first boyfriend- on a water skiing trip. It went a little hair-walled due to the misunderstanding.

He had been around the manor with some free time, so he asked Bruce if he could join once Dick brought up the trip and made a comment on how important things he needed to talk about.

Usually, Danny wouldn't have bothered, but because it was so long that thier friendship had started he felt like it was a good time to ask.

At first, both the Waynes appeared to be dancing around the subject that, for a second, Danny thought they didn't want him there. Not wanting to make them feel pressured—and a little embarrassed he had assumed he could tag along—he backtracked quickly, making up an excuse about flying out to see Dani.

There was an awkward dinner that evening, so Danny left immediately. He had planned on staying the night at Wayne Manor, but he felt he had overstayed his welcome from his silly request. Instead, he rented a hotel room in the more dangerous parts of the city.

Danny had been on the hotel's phone line all night, attempting to find a plan to take him somewhere close to Dani. He could fly with his powers the rest of the way, but he needed to create some kind of paper trail.

While he listened to the hold music of the airline representative, he felt a wave of shame. At that point, Danny had only known Bruce and Dick for a year- but with various breaks in between visits- and had thought that made them closer. Who did he think he was?

Bruce wanted their relationship to stay as business associates who occasionally hung out but nothing as important as a vacation trip. Danny had just been the idiot who thought himself more important.

Well, he would not be making the same mistake. He would only come back if it involved his work and would find his own lodging from now on. The Waynes had likely not know how to say no to him.

Idiot, Danny thought, pacing in his room and wiping away tears. Idiot. Stupid. Moron. Of course, Bruce Wayne doesn't think of you as a friend! Get a clue!

"Thank you for waiting, Mr. Fenton. A first-class plane ticket to Calais, France, has been booked for you on Monday, July 7th. Would you like to make this a round trip?" the cheerful woman asks him, and he sniffs.

"No. It's a one-way. I won't be coming back here for a while." The words feel like knives in his chest

She doesn't notice as she chirps "Alright then, that has been done for you. Thank you for using Wayne Airlines!"

Ugh, he even used Bruce's planes by accident. At least this will be the last thing he annoys the man with. The following morning, bright and early Danny is out the door with his suit case. He makes it all the way to the lobby where he bumps into a fretting Dick and some red head kid.

"Danny!" Dick cries. He flings himself onto his waist, squeezing with all his might. Danny is flabbergasted. "Danny, I only wanted Bruce to go on the water ski trip because I wanted to tell him about my boyfriend! I haven't told him I was bisexual yet, I wanted to tell him on the trip, but I made him swear not to mention it to anyone else, but then you asked to go, and Bruce couldn't figure out a way to tell you no without revealing that I wanted to talk about something important-but then you got sad, and then Bruce got sad and I-"

"Babe." The redhead cuts in. "Breath"

"Danny, please don't be mad at Bruce because of me!" Dick cries, rubbing his face against Danny's stomach. "I promise we didn't want to exclude you!"

Danny's heart melts, both by how cute Dick is and the knowledge that Bruce was just a good dad and not any of his insecure-inspired conclusions. "Oh, Dick. I'm sorry you felt that. I promise I'm not mad, and I'm so proud of you. Thank you for sharing that part of yourself with me."

He leans down to hug the boy, grinning as the ten year old sighs. Then he directs a glare at the redhead. He looks about twelve and frankly, Dick is far too young for a boyfriend. "Who's this?"

"I'm Wally West-"

"I asked Dick"

"Oh."

Dick leans back. "This is Wally. He's my best friend and boyfriend! Wally, this is Danny- he's like my second dad."

"It's nice to meet you, sir!" The redhead gulps as Danny's eyes narrow.

"Pleasure." He says in a voice that means anything but. "Dick, sweetie, how did you get here? Does Bruce know where you are?"

"Wally and I...ugh took a cap." Dick everts his eyes. "Bruce was talking to his friends trying to convince them to go on the trip too. He wanted to prove you were his special friend to his regular friends."

A thrill ran through Danny. He was Bruce Wayne's best friend!? "You know I think I can take you kids back home myself. Maybe we can still make a water ski trip!"

Both boys blink owlishly. "Yeah...maybe. Let me just call Uncle Barry to make sure he's going, too."

Wally sprinted to the front desk to borrow their landline while Dick stayed behind, babbling to Danny about how he knew he was bi and how he met Wally. Mentally, Danny was drafting a lecture to give Bruce for allowing his boy to date a co-worker and friend's nephew, especially at this young age! He didn't let his thoughts appear on his face, only nodding and smiling between Dick's word vomits.

Meanwhile, on Wally's side, he uses the Justice League hotline to speak to his Uncle. His call was transferred to the meeting with all the original founders as he used the emergency code accesses Barry had taught him.

His call was placed on speaker for everyone to hear.

"Code Teal for B! Code Teal for B!" he hissed into the phone. The rest of the members sat up straighter and sent Batman looks of alarm. Code Teal was a spouse or lover who thought a hero was cheating on them because of the mission's old hours. We needed to come together to cover for them.

Batman was hiding his face in his hands. ".....Confirm Code Teal."

"Oh and before I forget Code Artificial red for Dick and me" Wally shouts, ignoring the imploding shouts from Batman or Uncle Barry.He hung up not wanting to explain that the boys had chosen to use Fake-out-make-out in order to convince Danny to stay.

He wouldn't mind dating Dick, but maybe later when they were both older. Not that Danny needed to know that.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Seventeen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None. Some angst. Some fluff. AHHHHHHHHHH just look at the gif guys

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“I will.” 

The wet cloth soothed his burning skin as you carefully cleaned away the smattering of blood dashed over his high, bruised cheekbones like freckles. You were both holding your breaths, only daring to move when your lungs demanded it. Azriel sat on the chair you’d dragged into your bathroom, face level with yours as you leaned down to inspect his face with two fingers tucked beneath his chin. 

Azriel’s fingers twitched at his sides, aching to touch you somewhere. Anywhere. 

“You said you’d tell me if I hurt you.” 

“You’re not hurting me, Y/n.” 

Azriel could have told you that he was well versed with cleaning blood off his body and clothes. He could have reminded you back in the dining room that Feyre and Rhysand stood only ten feet away and could have whisked away his injuries and the bloodstains with a single touch or snap of their fingers. But instead he’d said nothing. He’d let you close your hand around his, fingers dangerously close to his thrumming pulse, and followed you to your bedroom while ignoring the throbbing pain of his cracked ribs. 

Feyre called your bedroom The Wisp after having decorated it with all manner of airy, cream-colored furniture accented with soft browns. Your desk was overrun with neat piles of papers, books, and journals. The windowsill by your bed was dedicated to pre-sleep novels and clusters of lavender tied with twine and left to stand upright in vases fashioned from ink bottles. The scent of old books and parchment paper clung to every surface along with something that smelled clean and entirely like you.

Your bathroom was similarly orderly. Bottles of perfumes, lotions, and oils were laid out on the countertop like little soldiers, catching and scattering the moonlight from the window in a rainbow of color. 

You brushed the cloth over his lips, eyes lingering on the two splits already scabbing over, then down the curve of his jaw to his chin. 

It was reverently quiet here in your bathroom. Nothing but the faint and steady drip from the faucet into the quartz basin and your breathing filling the space. 

Color had been spilled over Azriel’s face like a watercolor painting, equal parts painful and beautiful to look at. Because he was still so, so beautiful looking up at you with those whisky eyes that made your head spin. Those dark curls that hung over his forehead like seafoam waves. Your hands fluttered over the bottles on the countertop before settling on a pale green one that smelled strongly of mint. You smoothed the oil over Azriel’s face, leaving a cool, tingling sensation wherever you touched.

“I’m sorry about Lucien,” You whispered. “And Helion. I never wanted you to get hurt like this.” 

“Don’t apologize.” He smiled sadly. “Cassian was right when he said I had it coming.”

You winced. “How bad was it when you fought Lucien the last time? When you invoked the Blood Duel?”

Azriel didn’t shy away from the question, and his gaze never left yours as you quietly restoppered the bottle. “I was a second away from stabbing him through the heart when Elain stopped us. There are a fair number of scars we both left that fight with, but we did walk away,” He stiffened at the memory, “Barely.” 

“Do you… do you regret it?”

“Yes,” Azriel said quickly. Firmly. “I will regret what I did and what Elain and I did together until the day I die.” His hands flexed by his sides and he dared to lift them up to your hips, anchoring himself with the feeling of you beneath his fingertips. When you didn’t shy away from his touch, he continued on. “I wanted what my brothers had and in my desperation I think Elain and I chose each other because we just wanted to do something. I wanted a mate and proof that I belonged alongside Rhys and Cassian, and Elain wanted to break the rules for the first time in her life. To feel in control. But we never should have done it knowing everyone would get hurt.” 

“Sometimes love is like that,” you murmured, “Messy and hurtful… or so I’ve read.” 

“I didn’t love Elain. I don’t love Elain. At least not romantically.” Not the way that I love you. 

You tried to ignore the flutter of relief in your chest. It didn’t feel like the right time for it. Not with Azriel bruised and hurting before you. You dropped your eyes to the pale green tiles and caught sight of Azriel’s gloved hands. 

“You’re wearing them again.”

Wordlessly you picked up one and gently began tugging the leather off his fingers. One by one. The whole time you kept your eyes on him, tracing the tension in his shoulders and between his eyes as his ruined skin was exposed inch by inch. The air felt foreign on the skin of his palms. The feel of your body so close to his felt exhilarating. 

“I’m so sorry,” Azriel whispered, “I never meant to hurt you in all the ways that I did. What I did—” 

“I know, Azriel.” 

His eyes traced every line of your face, hands shaking. “You’re not a fourth choice. You’re not broken... But I think I might be,” he confessed. The words hung in the air between you two. Words you could wrap around his neck and hang him with. 

He felt every stroke of your fingers over his knuckles. Every flutter of your eyelashes as you looked at him with the faintest tilt of your head. 

“So what?” You breathed out. 

Azriel shook. “Y/n?”

“So what if you’re broken? Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t,” You leaned your forehead against his, noses brushing, “But you’re still Azriel.” You smiled gently at him, eyes fluttering closed as you sighed. “And I think that’s a wonderful thing.” 

Azriel stopped breathing as you brought his hands up to your lips and brushed them over every scarred knuckle. Every touch of yours was sacred. In their sincerity. In their rarity. In their preciousness to him. 

“Do you… do you like me, Azriel?” Your words were nervous and soft. Softer than the finest bed Azriel had ever laid his head down on. Softer than the clouds that turned to rain when he flew through them. Softer than your ink-stained fingertips landing on the sprinting pulse of his neck. 

“Yes,” Azriel murmured, “You can’t even begin to know, Y/n.” 

And then your softness was all around him. It was your lips against his lips, pillowy and tasting faintly of the sweet wine you’d drank at dinner. It was your hands and arms looping around his neck and keeping his head squarely on his shoulders so he could experience this vibrance. It was the feel of your body as he held onto your hips and then flattened his hands against the small of your back, pressing you as close as he dared. River-soaked robes long since forgotten. 

You were like water threatening to slip through his fingertips. 

You hoped you were doing this right. Reading about kissing was very different from the actual thing. Your lips felt too stiff or too fervent. You worried your hands were too greedy as you plunged them into his raven-wing hair and tangled silken strands. But while you lacked experience, Azriel surely seemed to be making up the difference. He held you as close as possible, until it felt more like breathing than kissing. 

Salty tears landed in between your lips until you could both taste their sharp tang on your tongues. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he kept saying over and over in between shaky gulps of air. “Y/n, please believe me. I—” 

You kissed him harder just to make him stop, swallowing his pain as best you could until his breathing evened out. 

“I’ve got you, Az.” You brushed his black waves away from his forehead before kissing him there too. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

Tell her. Tell her. Tell her. 

Azriel’s shadows chanted in his ears. But he made them go silent. 

Another day. 

Let him just hold you like this for now. For as long as you would let him. Here in the stillness with you — the only person who’d ever brought him a real sense of peace and quiet — he felt it was safe to hope again.

The long stream of kisses ended too early for his liking, although he didn’t dislike the sight of your heaving chest and blushing cheeks. He couldn’t quite believe what had just happened, and you seemed to be thinking the same thing as you stood between the walls of his legs, his arms wrapped loosely at your sides and yours dangling off his shoulders. 

You’d kissed him. You’d kissed him. 

You touched your fingertips to your lips, worry in your eyes. “Was it bad? Did I do a bad job? I’ve never—” 

Azriel would have none of that. He tightened his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and kissing you all over again. You relished in his heat and the faint tickles of shadows that encased you both in darkness, like a veil had been thrown over the room leaving everything gauzy and soft. 

“You, my Y/n,” his lips brushed over the corner of your mouth, trailing down to your neck when he sighed so, so softly, “Are a marvelous kisser.” 

Had you melted into a sack of bones on the floor? It certainly felt like you had. You were blushing uncontrollably, searching for something, anything, to comment on. You thought your heart might just burst out of your chest. 

“You have frosting in your hair.” You plucked the white blobs off his head, feeling the sugar grains crumble between your fingers. 

“I think that was meant to be dessert.”

“I think you might be right.” You tried controlling your breathing when Azriel leaned forward and kissed the bare skin of your shoulder, and failed miserably. “It’s a real shame,” you stammered, “I was looking forward to cake.”

He kissed the center of your chest next and your heart skipped a beat. “I’ll buy you all the cake in the world to make it up to you.” 

“That’s a hefty promise, and a waste of cake.” 

“Do you doubt me?” Azriel asked honestly. You could ask him for moonlight in a bottle, or a dress spun from spider silk, or all the stars in the sky and he’d find a way to make it happen. Some way. Somehow. He’d give you everything that was his to give, and then some. 

“No. I don’t doubt you.”

“Good.”

He couldn’t help himself. He kissed you again, reveling in the faint sighs that he swallowed up and the few that escaped between your locked lips to sing in his ears. You traded kisses for hours on end, slipping them in between conversations and gentle touches. It was an exploration in intimacy that you worried might sweep you away, but Azriel was as he always was — patient and gentle — from the tips of his black hair to his scarred hands to his leather boots. And you loved every inch of him. 

You clung to his shirt, the scent of soap still clinging to his skin after he’d returned from his bath and laid down in bed beside you in cotton instead of leather. 

“Azriel,” You said, your voice thin and tired. The candles burned low casting shadows that flickered and twisted on the wall. But you didn’t pay any mind to shadows any longer, not when you knew they belonged to Azriel as surely as you did. “Stay.”

And who was he to deny you? He held you close, your cheek pressed against his chest. You fell asleep to the sound of his heart, and he fell asleep to the rhythm of your breathing. 

You woke up to the weight of Azriel draped over your body, face pressed against your breasts, arms wrapped around your waist, and the rest of him nestled in between your legs. He grounded you, wings splayed out and bathing in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. 

You were pleasantly surprised that he was still asleep and you took the time to lightly trace his features, weaving your fingers through his hair until he made a sound that had your heart speeding up. Something halfway between a sigh and a groan. 

He was slow and sluggish to wake, eyes blinking languidly as he registered the warm, supple body beneath him. 

You. 

He’d fallen asleep here with you, wrapped up in your scent until the world had faded away into blissful nothingness. He could have been asleep for eight hours or eight years and he would be none the wiser. All he knew is that you were running your fingers through his hair, and he didn’t want you to stop. 

“Hey, you,” You murmured when his whisky eyes fluttered open, eyelashes casting spidery darkness over his cheekbones where his own shadows curled as if still asleep. 

Azriel hummed, burying his face in your chest and sighing with his whole body. His arms rubbed up and down your sides leaving molten heat in their wake. “Please don’t tell me it's morning.” 

“I’m not above lying, Azriel. It’s the middle of the night.” 

His wings shook with quiet laughter, the movement of his body tickling your skin until you were grinning unabashedly. 

“Then why are you awake?” Again, his words were muffled by your skin. 

“Because I’m currently being crushed beneath the weight of an Illyrian warrior.” 

His head shot up in alarm. He was no small male and although he’d spent centuries gaining enough strength for his wings to feel weightless on his back, he knew they were anything but. And you’d let him stay like that all night. It was a miracle you hadn’t suffocated.

Stupid. Stupid. 

“I’m sorry. Gods, I didn’t mean—” He began to slide off of you. But you were laughing. 

“Wait! No! I was joking. I was joking. Come back!” You wrapped your legs around his back, the sudden movement pulling him flush against you in a rush of heat that made him go stone still. 

Mother, help me. He thought to himself, feeling blood travel both up and down his body. 

You guided his head to your chest by the strands of his hair until he was following the curves of your silhouette once again. “I like it when you hold me like this, Azriel,” you confessed. “I don’t feel like I’m going to float away anymore. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes perfect sense,” he whispered. He felt the same way. “You make the world go quiet, Y/n.”

It wasn’t until the clock struck twelve bells and the House’s cooking wafted through the hallways that you and Azriel finally peeled yourselves off one another, shuffling to the bathroom in a cluster of wings and loose night clothes. 

Azriel watched you closely, finding new ways to love you even as you brushed your teeth side by side, bumping hips and smiling at one another shyly. He watched as you brushed your hair and washed your face, stealing kisses that left minty cool tingles on his skin. 

Lucien was noticeably frowning when you and Azriel walked into the dining room, Azriel’s scent still clinging to your skin and yours to his. You’d done nothing more than sleep in the same bed, everyone was looking at you with shit-eating grins like you’d taken Azriel on the living room couch for the whole House to hear. 

“You look well rested, brother,” Cassian noted over the lip of his coffee cup. 

It was the best night of sleep Azriel had gotten in centuries, perhaps in his entire life. 

You wordlessly traded seats with Elain at the table, leaving you and Azriel on one side and Lucien and Elain directly across. When no one was looking, he reached down and pulled your chair closer, pressing his knee against yours beneath the table. Lucien noticed — of course he did — but the blush on your cheeks was so innocent and the love in your gaze so honest that he couldn’t bring himself to make any comment. Although, he did throw a few dangerous looks Azriel’s way, looks that plainly said, If you hurt her, you’re a dead man. 

Azriel only nodded faintly in reply, as if he knew what Lucien had been thinking all along and was in agreement. 

But in the following weeks your brother would come to be grateful that your care for one another was not loud. It wasn’t desperate, groping hands in hallways or sultry looks that heated up crowded rooms and made people uncomfortable. It was reserved smiles and knowing glances when you independently formed the same thought at the same time, eyes latching onto one another until one of you inevitable broke away laughing.

For the first time in his life, Azriel had someone who wanted him back just as fervently, even if it was difficult to believe. 

Azriel always needed to be touching you, whether it be a hand at the small of your back or the press of your shoulders together as you leaned over one of the desks at Cagniv — now that Azriel was allowed inside — with papers strewn about like dove feathers. 

You were no better. You stuck close to his side where shadows lingered and sought him out in every room until you may as well have owned the space within the curve of his wings. 

But things were changing. Koschei loomed taller and taller over the House like an avalanche ready to wipe Velaris off the map. Once again, everyone heard Vassa’s cries at daybreak and nightfall, and when Jurian slipped out of the attic for his own rest, he looked a little thinner and paler each time and no amount of medicine or food you and Lucien brought upstairs seemed to be helping. 

Azriel tried to steal every extra second with you in the mornings. If he had his way, he’d never leave his bedroom again, content to admire the splash of sunlight over your body and your sleepy sighs. But he was still the Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court and you quickly got accustomed to waking up to an empty bed with only a note on the nightstand. On those days you migrated out of whatever room you’d spent the night in — yours or Azriel’s, although the lines were blurred — often trekking to Cagniv to escape a house where strange, new faces were coming and going with more frequency: ash-pale fae from Winter, a white-haired female from Summer with skin so dark it was almost black, and golden males from Dawn with downy hawk wings. They locked themselves in Rhysand and Feyre’s office where bargains and plans were made in blood and salt. 

Other days you carted your books to Feyre’s studio with Nesta and Ione in tow, perching on a stool while the High Lady crafted life out of brushstrokes like she was the Mother herself. 

Feyre stood at her easel, as she had been every day this last week, with her pencil clenched between her teeth as she ignored the faint aches in her lower back and her wrist. Every line, every detail, was attended to with painstaking precision as she mapped Nesta and the old woman’s faces onto the blank canvas first with graphite, then with a thin wash, then with layers of paint that added dimension and familiarity to the two stoic faces. Feyre didn’t let her passion overtake the more clinical approach she was taking with this piece. This was not the time for free flowing movement and modernism. 

This was all about realism. 

Exactness. 

When the High Lady placed her brush on the muddied water cup beside her, you jumped up. “Is it finished, Feyre?” 

“As finished as it will ever be,” Feyre responded gravely as you took in the sight before you. Three women: Nesta, Ione, and some mixture of the two. Feyre had captured their likeness with incredible precision, using the painting to familiarize herself with their faces and the ways they could be warped and molded.  

You peered over the corner of the canvas to where the two women were standing side by side. Ione lengthened her spine, cane clasped in her hands that you’d never seen her lean on with her full weight. Time had condensed her bones and stolen some of the height from her frame, but none of her sharpness. It was a trait that granted her a strange degree of likeness to Nesta, as if you’d glanced into a future where she’d never turned fae. 

You looked at Feyre, then down to the vials of blood you’d collected from the pair. Already your magic was seeping into the burgundy bottles, testing its boundaries with such an unfamiliar medium as you released any hold you had on it. You looked at the High Lady and nodded. 

It just might work. 

“My brilliant daughter,” Helion praised, kissing you on the top of your head before disappearing in a flash of light. His empty teacup spun on the saucer. 

You felt a familiar flicker of pride grow within you. Helion had spent hours pouring over your notes, your manuscript, and leaning his ear towards your plans. He was in agreement. 

It just might work. 

Lucien slunk out of his room after Helion’s voice disappeared and sank into the abandoned couch with his whetstone and white-bone blade. The ring of metal echoed through the room, melting into the birdsongs that slipped in through the cracked open window and the clatter of sugar spoons against a porcelain plate.  

“You should tell him,” you said again, pushing a teacup over to your brother. It was a common refrain after Helion’s visits. 

Lucien stared at the three cups now strewn across the coffee table. Two empty. One full and untouched. Had Helion noticed the extra one? 

“I’ve had enough of High Lords for a while,” Lucien said as you poured yourself another strong cup, “When this is over, I’m taking Elain, Jurian, and Vassa back to the Human Lands.” His eyes flickered over to you briefly, “You should come live with us. You’d find it interesting how they conduct themselves. You might even learn something.” 

“I’ll visit for a short time, but nothing longer than that.”

“Why not?” You lowered your gaze and blushed, unconsciously tugging your sweater higher up your neck. The sweet marks Azriel’s lips had left on your skin were long gone, but you swore you could still feel them. “You know why.” You murmured softly. 

Your swollen eyes spoke of restless nights without the Shadowsinger’s hands to lull you to sleep. Azriel had gotten into the habit of stroking your cheek while you talked in bed, until the steady brush of skin against skin finally had your eyes closing shut. You missed him. 

“Lucien, I understand that you want nothing to do with Helion or any other High Lord, but… You could be better. I know you could be. You could be the best High Lord of them all, if you’d only be open to it.”

Because that was Lucien’s worst fear, wasn’t it? That a time would come when Helion would leave this world and any hope for a quiet, peaceful existence with Elain would be gone.

“And what if you’re wrong?”

You touched his wrist and the blade stopped its strange singing. “‘It’s often those who think they deserve it least, that deserve it most.’ Pippin Clodshot from—”

“A Duel of Two Faces by Aechtion.”

You reared back in surprise and Lucien grinned, tapping your nose. “I do read, sister.” 

The sarcasm in his voice was laid on so thickly you could only grumble in response. “I wasn’t aware you had two brain cells to rub together, brother.” 

Lucien laughed so heartily and for so long that Elain and Ione stuck their heads out from the kitchen in conern. 

“I thought someone was dying.” Ione rolled her eyes before her grey head disappeared once again. 

You slid further under the covers, burying your face in Azriel’s pillows as the sun finally slipped behind the mountains and shadows raced each other to the Sidra. 

Seven days. 

Seven days of waking up to empty sheets after Azriel had jerked awake halfway through the night, bloodshot eyes searching for something you couldn’t see and that he didn’t tell you about. He’d only kissed your forehead, smoothing back your hair and murmuring something about a task he needed to take care of before shrugging on his leathers. You’d sat in bed, comforter tucked under your arms and over your chest even though you were fully clothed, and watched Azriel move around the room with a practiced air as weapons flashed in the moonlight and disappeared into his bag. 

You knew all the hiding places in his room now — one of the many secrets you’d unearthed — so you didn’t find it at all strange when he captured your lips before dipping his hand beneath the mattress and pulling out a long serrated blade, perfect for sawing rope and wood. 

“Where are you off to this time?” 

Azriel had gone still, taking his time to shake away his thoughts before sweeping a handful of stoppered vials off his desk — sleep potions, draughts for pain and healing, subtle, painless poisons. You would know because you had helped make them. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, Y/n,” He’d whispered, eyes boring into yours with a haunted look that hadn’t left him since that day in the market square. 

Ten days.

Ten days of carrying around a heavy ache that every so often tightened with a feeling you couldn’t name. Almost as if it didn’t belong to you.

You paced back and forth in Azriel’s room, trying to calm a heart that hadn’t stopped racing for the last hour. You’d tried opening, then closing the windows as you curled up beneath the covers of his bed, mountain air blowing the curtains open and chilling your too hot skin. But none of it helped. 

Chasing his scent in the sheets wasn’t enough anymore. 

You tiptoed out of Azriel’s room, copying his silent steps and sticking to familiar shadows as you slipped through the House. Like Lucien, you tended to stay hidden whenever representatives from other Courts visited the River House. They were people Rhysand and Feyre trusted, but that didn’t mean you could erase centuries of wariness from your bones. 

You heard nothing coming from Feyre’s studio, but you knew that if you were to sneak through the layers of air she’d sealed around the space, you’d meet a male carved from molten heat. 

You waited in one of the spare studio rooms for the High Lord of Autumn to leave, eyes peering through the slit between the door and its hinges. If you stared for long enough, you swore you could see the air beside the door rippling with Autumn heat. 

Finally, Eris Vanserra stepped into the hallway in all his striking glory, followed closely behind by Lucien. Violently red hair hovered over a pale, freckled face composed of angular lines — striking but not unkind. You thought he looked like a lit match with his wiry frame wrapped in resplendent browns, reds, and golds that spoke of forest riches. Or maybe he just looked narrow when standing next to Cassian. That was always a possibility.

“Thank you, Eris.” Feyre squeezed his hand reassuringly. She wore similarly decadent clothes. The moonstone and diamond crown perched atop her light brown hair was a rare sight, but Feyre wore it as naturally as she wore her paint splattered overalls. She was an artist and a High Lady in equal measure, and she sacrificed no part of one in favor of the other.  

The newly minted High Lord of Autumn chuckled darkly, eyes flashing like a living flame. You’d heard horrible tales about Beron Vanserra, his cruelty, and his violence. But whatever traits Eris had inherited from his father he’d sloughed off like a second skin. The molting process had been full of its own pains, but as you assessed him now, you saw only the characteristics he shared with Lucien.  

“Don’t thank me yet. Not until my feet have touched the Continent.” 

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” 

Eris tipped his head, a smirk on his face, then disappeared in a flush of woodsmoke. 

Spring, Winter, Summer, Day, Dawn, and now Autumn. The seven courts had slid into an uneasy alliance once more, weary but willing after decades of war. Feyre wasn’t sure how much more Prythian could take if this transformed into another bloodbath. But if the fledgling plan you’d all helped nurse came to fruition, it wouldn’t come to that… at least that’s what Feyre kept telling herself every night so she could sleep. 

The High Lady jolted back when you slipped out from your hiding spot, cast in a halo of cool-toned light from the dying sun. Cassian shared in Feyre’s surprise. They hadn’t heard you come up the stairs or pass by the door. They hadn’t even sensed you until you made your presence known.

Maybe she’s picking it up from Azriel? Feyre said with some amusement. 

Gods help us all. There’s two of them.

“Where’s Azriel?” You looked to the High Lady for an answer, hands held stiff at your sides. You felt that strange anxiety clawing at your throat. It had dripped into your feelings slowly since the morning, growing like a weed until you couldn’t stop clenching your fists. “I haven’t heard from him in days.” 

Feyre felt a familiar coil of guilt settle in her stomach. 

Don’t tell her about this, Fey. Azriel had begged her, his eyes hard and tired before taking off from the back porch towards The Warren. 

He’d made all of them promise not to tell you about that place. About what he did. About what he was doing. But you weren’t a fool. You knew of his reputation as a Shadowsinger and a Spymaster and the work that came with it. You’d traced some of the scars on his body, plucking the stories from his skin whenever he let you, and you woke up when he did from his silent nightmares. The slightest change in his breathing pattern, the barest flinch of his arm wrapped around your waist was all it took for you to open your bleary eyes and shake him awake. 

But there were some secrets he was still too afraid to reveal, and some secrets he’d buried so deeply he didn’t even know what their monstrous faces looked like anymore. 

“Y/n—” Feyre began.

“I want to know.” You reached for Feyre’s wrist, grasping it so tightly your knuckles paled and Cassian stepped forward. It was a silent reminder that you had the power to take that knowledge from her if you wished. You loved Feyre. You considered her a friend. But the panic wasn’t leaving you. You stared at her desperately, pupils blown wide open. “I need to know he’s alright.” 

Feyre opened her mouth to speak, then froze as Rhysand’s velvety voice entered her mind, strained to the point of breaking.  

Feyre, you need to bring Y/n to The Warren.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

85K+ WORDS AND FINALLY THEY'VE FUCKING KISSED HOLY SHIT

I really must applaud you all for your patience because hot DAMN I am FLOORED!!! And yes, yes, I know, I know y'all want Y/n to figure out their mates and I will simply be pleading the fifth and hiding in my room and not telling anyone of you when that will actually happen because I simply cannot! ASFDK;JABSLDFIGUH

*takes a deep breath* Thank you all so much for reading and for your engagement whether that be leaving comments or liking or literally anything because it makes my day and I'm just happy that my passion project/hobby is able to bring people some smidgen of joy because the world really sucks but hey at least we have fanfics

[writersdrug]

Nectar and Bane - Pt. 1

Pairings: Hunter!König x Witch!Reader

Pt. 2

Summary: König is hired to hunt down a pesky witch by a warlock, who paints you as the most evil thing in the past three centuries. With the promise of finding true love (or, the closest thing the warlock can offer: a brainwashed woman who is forced to dote on the hunter), König sets out on his journey. However, you aren't what he was expecting at all, and he develops a newfound obsession with making you become his.

Warnings: dubcon, mentions of rape, manipulation, kidnapping, sex pollen (kinda? If you squint? not really, but better safe than sorry), corruption kink, mentions of blood and violence, mentions of consuming human organs, unrequited pining, angst at the end, death (not for main characters), cowgirl, missionary, mating press, biting, hair pulling, nipple play, power imbalance, handjob, obsessive thoughts and behaviour (please let me know if I missed any!)

Notes: thought I'd try my hand a fantasy au version of cod, or at least of König. This is really long (over 15000 words) so I split it into two parts. The next part is pretty much done, I'm just exhausted and wanted to at least crank out half. Let me know if you would like to be tagged in pt 2!

ps if anyone has any suggestions or tips on how to make collages or banners for fics, pleeeaseeee lmk

translations at the end

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Watch your every step. From the moment you step foot into those woods, you can’t trust anything you see.

That’s what the sorcerer had drilled into his head before he had begun his journey. He called you dangerous, cunning… “A sneaky, meddling bitch…” he had grumbled over the table in that crowded tavern.

Two small pouches, one of silver, one of gold, sat in between the two patrons on the table. Stains of ale and coffee rings littered the unvarnished wood. The wax of the thick candle had trickled down and formed small, hardened pools at the base – its flame flickered weakly, casting unflattering shadows against the man’s weathered features, and making the portentous hood covering König’s face only that much more ominous.

He'd listened warily as the sorcerer described the witch – you. Tens of centuries old, too much knowledge and too little wisdom to use it sensibly. You take whatever you want by whatever means possible, and your favored method was using your physical assets and the promise of sexual devotion to coerce those within your web to do your bidding. “Sometimes it’s for her personal gain – sometimes, she does it for fun.” The warlock added bitterly. “Akin to a serpent, she winds you into her embrace, and then crushes your bones before she swallows you whole, saving your heart for last.” You’d done it to him, ensnaring him into your alluring trap, before stealing his spellbooks, his potions, his most prized collections… and vanishing into thin air.

An enchantress, König had concluded.

The warlock’s request? “Kill her. And be quick with it. The sooner this earth is rid of that swine, the sooner we can all rest. And, better yet – bring me her eyes! Potent things, witches’ eyes can be – of course, that is if they’re still working. If the bitch has gone blind, don’t waste dulling your dagger. A handful of her hair would do just fine.”

König had killed much worse for much less, and this sounded like it would be on the simpler side of things. A few days’ worth of hunting and a quick, efficient kill – hopefully, one of his easier jobs, although with the way the sorcerer described you, that might not be. He’d dealt with magicians before; up until now, they had been rather boring to hunt – tedious, but nonetheless, boring. Most of the time, they tried to end him with some elaborate incantation in the few seconds remaining of their life after he’d ambushed them. His silver blade would be slicing across their throats before they could utter five syllables. They were always so intent on murdering their victims slowly and in a flashy manner. With König’s preference for a more immediate result, he was usually the one collecting the fingernails, teeth, and tongues.

(Over time, he’d had noticed that it was always sorcerers ordering the assassination of other sorcerers. He wondered why they had so much of an issue amongst themselves, but he didn’t question it. Whatever kept him fed and paid for his room, he would do it.)

The picture the warlock was painting of you, however, made you seem much craftier and more calculated. You couldn’t resist the glamorous ways of murder via magic – it was written in your nature as a witch. But you played the game with your charisma and wit, too; something magic users didn’t typically rely on (half of the time, because they weren’t charismatic, nor witty). You waited until your assailant would fall to your wicked charm, before dissecting him like nothing more than a toad for your cauldron. If not an easy kill, you at least sounded like you would be an exciting one – but König knew he could get something more from this client for killing you.

“What more can you offer me?” he asked.

The warlock chuckled. “The gold is insufficient, is it?” he leaned forward and hunched his shoulders, speaking in a hushed tone. “Tell me, what do you desire? Recognition and respect? Revenge against someone who’s crossed you? To bring back a loved one from the dead? Or, perhaps, to find a love of your own?”

König’s shoulders tensed, and the rest of the warlock’s utterances fell on deaf ears. Could he possibly give him a chance to find himself someone to love? Someone that he and only he can worship? It was true that he would be happier to live alone, in whatever way that would allow him to be independent of society… but the thought of being able to live alone with someone, someone who was devoted to him, someone who could decorate his hut with signs of life and warmth, someone with a kind smile and a sweet voice, someone who he could spend hours upon hours with, memorizing each curve of their body, the taste of their nectar on his tongue…

He called it love. Others would call him insane. He’d heard it all before – how no one would ever love him, given his profession, his awkwardness in carrying a conversation about anything normal other than how sharp his knives are, and how he uses them… that, and the fact that he never shows his face (“He must be hideous under there…” they would speculate). Nonetheless, he still craved the devotion of an obedient, warm body waiting for him in his cabin at the end of the day – once he did get a cabin. Why should he be denied what everyone else wants?

He knew he was a hypocrite; he couldn’t expect someone else to be so willing to leave everything and run away with him. Not with his insane ideations and obsessions – hell, not with who he was as a person. But if he killed enough healthy rabbits to keep her fed, and if he fucked her hard enough that her eyes rolled back into her head and she couldn’t muster enough strength to escape the mattress… would she ever care about what kind of man he was?

The warlock smiled slowly. “Of course… that’s what all of you sick bastards want.” He said, leaning back and folding his arms. “If it will seal our contract, I will give you whichever woman you choose. I’ll make her yours, and only yours, with unconditional love – even for your damned soul.”

A fair deal, König had thought. Which is exactly what had him currently trudging through the dense woods, searching for any traces of a witch – a sack with two loaves of bread and some apples hung over his shoulder, along with his well-worn tashka stuffed with the coin he had earned over time. His sword was strapped to his hip in its sheath, his dagger (a short sword, when it was compared to the average person) stuffed into the lead-lined, deerskin sheath on the side of his boot; and a pelt, heavy and thick, hung around his shoulders. All he had to his name.

König had done a day of research on you – testimonies and sightings of you ghosting the perimeter of the woods at an early age, hoping to lure some poor soul away as your very first victim. “I imagine she was a succubus in her previous life,” the warlock had spoken, “maybe too much of a whore for even the devil to handle.”

He had caught you one night by luring you to his cabin with the scent of a savory meal. Guessing by your inexperience, and the way you avoided using words as you snarled and thrashed in the warlock’s grip, he assumed you had not yet reached one hundred years old. You were still young and fresh-faced, appearing no more than twenty to human eyes. “After a few decent meals, and reintroducing her to the work of her past life – she’d settled in as the perfect student. It almost felt like having a pet.” He added with a smug smile.

König questioned how happy you were with being reintroduced to the work of your past, but he didn’t comment on it.

After living with the warlock as his student and whore for a few centuries, you turned into a strong, young witch. You didn’t care to go into town, preferring to stay at the cabin and watch over the brews whenever he had to make deliveries or run to the shops. The warlock had no complaints about your desire to stay holed up in his home – fewer people to ogle at you, fewer glimpses into a more civilized life that might tempt you to run away. He’d much rather you be a brooding, antisocial bitch, than watch one of his clients stare at you with a yellowed, lustful grin, like you were some harlot in the window of a brothel.

On one particular day, without any indication of what you were planning, he had returned home from his rounds to an empty cabin – not just empty of you, but of his potion stock, his rarest ingredients, and his most prized spellbooks. He’d run into the woods in fury, screeching your name and hurling threats into the trees around him – but you were gone. Not a trace of you could be found within a five mile radius of his home.

It was like you had never been there, save the absence of his personal belongings.

In König’s opinion, you didn’t strike him as an extremely dangerous individual. Sure, the warlock had harped on and on about how cunning and deceiving you were – but all you had done was lie to him. And from the way he had described the conditions you were under, König didn’t exactly blame you for running away. Maybe this job was a waste of his time…

Still, he couldn’t find it in him to complain, despite the nip of the mid-autumn air, and the fact that he was embarking on what might be one of the most treacherous endeavors of his career. He was getting a decent payout for it – that is, if he lived to finish the job. Additionally, the scenery was a comfort to his journey; wiry birch trees stood high and thickly clustered, their brown and black spots like ever-watchful eyes, staring at the gargantuan hunter as he moved. Their golden leaves mimicked the light of the sun, the real thing blocked out by the overcast skies. A whisper of wind flew by his ears, carrying down and blowing the leaves further along his path with a gentle sigh. As if nature herself was telling the world to be quiet, be still, and prepare for winter.

It was times like this where König became unsure of himself. What if he hated having someone else to care for? What if, deep down, he preferred the silence and the solitude? But then, the loneliness would strike him. The longing to be understood (if that was humanely possible), and the desire to have something warm, alive, and sentient to acknowledge him. It consumed him on those sleepless nights, perfectly warm by the hearth of whatever inn he resided at, yet so hollow without having someone to wrap his arms around.

A swaying movement in the branches above pulled him from his thoughts. Hanging down by a twine thread, tied to one of the spindling birch branches, was a tiny, burlap pouch. It reached a few feet above König’s head, and was drenched in a dark, thick liquid that dripped rhythmically onto the forest floor. Looking to where the drops landed, he noticed the matter on the ground was decaying – a steaming pile of rot was all that was left of the leaves that were once there.

He frowned. The trap was clever – for a witch in their first century. König had expected something a bit more dangerous for someone your age. Maybe the last hunter had been too gullible, and you stereotyped them to all be oafs. Or, maybe you were too old and couldn’t craft traps with the same skill and precision as your younger self.

He drew his dagger from his boot and quickly sliced the twine thread. The pouch dropped to the floor with a squelch, landing in the very puddle of death it had created. The liquid beneath it bubbled and hissed, and the bag soon dissolved to reveal its contents: bits of bone – a kind of reptilian foot, from the looks of it – dried pomegranate seeds, and a fuzzy layer of mold, all appearing to be drenched in some kind of blood.

He carefully stepped around the stinking mess, his eyes turning back onto the path to continue his hunt. He both hoped for and against finding more evidence of your existence. He wanted to get back to town as soon as he could, so he could hole himself up in an inn until his money began to run out – all the same, his mind craved a puzzle and a chase. Though, with how old you were, he doubted there would be much of a chase.

More leaking, swaying hex bags hung from branches as he trudged on, pointing him in the right direction. He didn’t bother to quiet the sound of the leaves beneath his footsteps – the rustling of the wind through the foliage was doing the job well enough. He held onto his dagger tightly, his other hand on his longsword, as he carefully toed through the dense forest. He had to be close – the smell of fennel and turmeric settled around his presence, along with the babbling of a nearby stream.

The sound of a distant tune danced through the trees. The voice was soft, yet clear, and whoever it belonged too was much too confident that they were alone in these woods. König wondered if it was actually you, and not some poor soul who had been foraging for the autumn mushrooms and berries – but he was nearly a day’s trek into the forest. No one would dare come out this far, unless they wanted to be alone. And, they were potentially hiding from something; their own past, perhaps.

He cautiously followed the sound of the tune, still disguising the sound of his own steps within the rustling leaves and wind. His heart thrummed with both uncertainty and excitement; he always did get too thrilled at the idea of a struggle and blood covering his hands. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, focusing his attention on the voice that carried through the trees, pulling him closer and closer… He gripped his dagger tightly as he crept, reminding himself of the warlock’s warning: cunning, sneaky – be on your best wits.

The voice brought him to the edge of a clearing. The birch trees parted and encircled a few meters of earth, and a few bushes huddled along the far edge, dotted with purplish berries and thorned branches. A wicker basket, woven clumsily and rather lopsided, sat on the ground and caught each berry and branch that was tossed into it. A figure knelt in front of the bushes, carefully plucking the berries with thin, delicate fingers, stained purple from the juice of the berries, and nails that might need a trim soon, unless they were intended to be claws.

The cloaked figure confused König. The voice was too melodic, too clear and fresh for an old witch. He had assumed you weren’t much younger than the warlock, but still old. He remained a few yards away from you, shrouded by the trees and dense foliage outside of the clearing.

It was when you turned your head, dropping your handful of berries into the basket, revealing your face, that he realized how wrong he had been in his assumption.

Your skin was soft, he could tell even with the distance between the two of you. Your lips delicately moved as you sang your tune, your eyes sparkled in contrast to the dull autumn colors that surrounded you. Small wisps of your hair danced around your cheeks as the wind caressed it. Your entire body looked soft, warm, and pliable… exactly what he needed. Craved.

It wasn’t hard for him to imagine it: leaves tangling into your hair as he pressed his fingers around your neck, pushing you to the cold ground and watching as you gasped for air. He’d use his knife, but not to kill you. He’d drag it over your hardened nipples, watching them perk up even more at the prickling sensation, before he’d carve his name into your stomach. Smear your pretty blood all over your pretty face, watch as your eyes widen with horror, as you question how someone can be so deranged and cruel, how he can take so much pleasure in something so vile and horrible-

Or maybe, he could convince you that he just wants a fuck. You looked like you could use one – when was the last time you’d had someone’s lips on your breasts, or their cock in your cunt? It had certainly been too long for him… he couldn’t imagine how long you had gone without being thoroughly ravaged, living in these woods all alone. He could take care of that. He could be gentle, for a little while; holding your wrists above your head as he pushed you against a tree, whispering praise and encouragements into your ear, “… so gut, so Schön, genau so…” taking you from behind as your nipples perked up from the rough texture of the bark, listening to you whine and moan in that sweet voice of yours as he lets out months’ worth of pent up frustration by thrusting his cock into your warm pussy, over and over and over until you scream and tighten around his length, milking the cum right out of him as he fucks you deep, maybe sinking his teeth into the junction of your neck-

He growled quietly, palming his rapidly-growing erection as he tried to clear his head. Stay focused. Kill the witch, and then you’ll get what you want.

Remember the warlock’s promise.

Even if he didn’t need you to satisfy his needs, he could still make this interesting. Not like you could outrun him, anyway.

He stepped into the clearing, and as if by some ironic joke, the wind died down immediately. The crunch of his heavy boots was enough to make his presence known to any living thing within a mile radius.

Your singing stopped. You whipped your head in his direction, and immediately a look of fear fell upon your face. For a moment, the two of you were frozen in a staring contest. You reminded him of a doe, staring at the crossbow of the hunter you had noticed, wondering if this being was actually dangerous, or nothing you needed to worry about. He wondered what he must remind you of, and he wished to hear the panicking thoughts flitting through your mind.

Finally, you broke the trance – you gasped, stumbling backwards and awkwardly standing as you ripped a pathetic, little knife from your boot. You faced him and pointed the knife at him – you held it improperly, and if he truly wanted to make this messy, he could easily make you stab yourself in a struggle. He wondered what it would feel like when your nails dug into his rough skin, dragging marks down his forearms (or his back, if he played his cards right).

You pulled the thick cloak tighter around your body – you were tiny. Well, everything was tiny compared to König. But you were unexpectedly small. With the way the sorcerer had described you, he had expected you to reach his shoulders at least. But there you were, craning your neck to look up at him with fearful, owlish eyes.

“State your business!” You demanded, your voice cracking slightly.

König chuckled in response. You really were too pathetic for your own good, weren’t you? He took you in – your lips were pulled into a frown, parted slightly to reveal your perfect teeth, the way the fabric of your cloak quivered where it bunched in your fist… perfectly ordinary things that ordinary people do. But, besides the fact that you were a witch, something about you made it all so captivating.

“Hey!” you shouted, bringing his eyes back to your gaze. Your fear had given way to a judgmental ire. “Gods, have you ever seen a woman before?!”

König scoffed. “Woman? Yes, of course. I’ve seen witches, too. None as young as you, however.”

Your eyes widened in panic once again. You stretched your knife out towards him as he stalked over to where you stood. “S-stay back! I’ll kill you!”

Your meek threat didn’t slow him down. He continued his advance until he had corralled you against a tree, your one hand bracing against the trunk behind you, and the other holding the knife under his ribcage. The only thing between his flesh and your blade was his linen tunic, which wouldn’t do much to protect him should you decide to stab him – but were you capable of that? Your eyes were so filled with fear as they stared at him, your chin to the sky to take all of him in. Your fingers trembled around the handle of your knife as if the prospect of having to nick him made you uneasy.

“Not with magic?” he asked, his eyes flitting to the bush next to you. He plucked one of the berries between his thick, gloved fingers, rolling the onyx sphere between his thumb and middle finger before squashing it.

You pouted (a sight König could never grow tired of). “I’m not a wi-“

He snatched your forearm, and you yelped, dropping the knife to the forest floor. His fingers easily wrapped around you; he wondered how easy it would be to break it.

“Don’t lie, now.” He ordered, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance. “You’re not good at it.”

He released your arms with a shove. You scrambled back with a fearful expression, swiping the blade from the ground. He watched with interest as you stood several yards away from him, pointing your weapon towards him once again.

“Fine.” You said, holding yourself a bit taller. “You’re right. What’s the crime in that?”

For a moment, König was lost. Why weren’t you trying to weaponize your magic? It was almost as if you had forgotten you weren’t a human. For someone who was supposed to be a cunning bitch, as the warlock had put it, you weren’t very smart.

“I’m not here for justice.” He replied, wiping his glove on his shirt. “Just doing my job.”

“Hunter?” you asked.

He extended his arms – gods, he could have crushed a pillar between those arms – as if presenting himself to you. “Was it not obvious?” he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his tone.

You huffed. “Well, you’re not a very good one. Most hunters don’t make conversation with their prey.”

Prey. He liked that you understood your position, that he was the one in charge here. Maybe you were a clever girl…

“I like to listen to the begging.”

“Begging?”

“For your life.” König folded his arms over his chest, inspecting you closely. The only thing you had to protect yourself was your cloak, and that hardly provided a shield against the wind. Even though you were obviously wary of him, it wasn’t wary enough. You had spoken too many words with the hunter, and had it been anyone else, you might have been dead long before now.

You seemed malleable – book-smart and spitfire, yet all too gullible. Easily manipulated. Just what he needed to brainwash you into loving him. Or, at least, being his pet. You’d never truly love him, he had come to learn that from experience. But maybe, if he could somehow convince you that you needed a big, scary man, who could protect you and fuck you nicely, it would be enough to make you stay. After all, you were too naïve to be alone out here, weren’t you?

Could the warlock perhaps make you his prize? It’d kill two birds with one stone, he could convince you to return whatever knickknacks you had stolen, and your presence would never bother anyone ever again – besides him, but of course, it would never be a bother to bed you every night.

Your expression turned sour. “I don’t beg.”

The tone of your voice sent a shiver down his cock. He’d have to pound that little attitude right out of you.

“Who hired you?” You asked indignantly. The knife in your hand had slowly lowered, now pointing at his feet. Your initial fear seemed to have worn off. Were you brave, or just that stupid?

“It doesn’t matter.” König replied.

“It does to me.”

“You don’t know? How many people have you wronged?”

You scoffed. “I haven’t wronged anyone. People just don’t like it when you call them out on their atrocities.”

König hummed. You had a point. “Your teacher – the warlock.”

For a moment, you scrunched your face in disgust. Teacher. Only a fool as mad as the warlock himself could consider he was any such figure in your life, other than a torturous one. Then, you sighed, shoulders slumping defeatedly, the knife now aimed straight at the forest floor. “That old toad can’t even kill me himself…” you muttered. “What payment did he offer you?”

“He promised me anything I desired of your possessions.” König replied, taking note of the change in your presence. He purposely left out the warlock’s promise to find him a “companion.”

“And what would you do with cursed fig seeds, or stag’s blood?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest (which, König noted, framed your breasts perfectly). “I have no gold – not enough to be a reward for the trouble of killing me.”

“He gave me three hundred gold coin, too.”

Your lips turned down into a scowl. “That’s all?! That absolute hypocrite!” You lodged your knife into the tree behind you and placed your hands on your hips. “I took everything from him, save that disgusting old shed he called home, and that’s all he’ll pay to kill me?!”

Your outburst pulled König from his obsessive staring. “You’re… insulted?”

You turned back to him and huffed. “Well, obviously.” You retorted. “I stole all he had to his name, and he treats me like a fly buzzing in his ear. I deserve a bit more recognition than three hundred gold coin.”

“You admit to it, then.” König said, stepping closer. You appeared to be too angry to notice how near the hunter was to you. “You are a thief.”

You laughed – a sound that König did not expect to be so sweet. “I’ve done much worse than thieving, mind you.” You shook your head. “And he’s done even worse to me.” You sighed, pulling the dagger from the tree trunk and sheathing it back into your boot.

Once again, he was reminded of how small you were. Why weren’t you afraid of him? Sure, you had the advantage of magic while he did not, but you weren’t even acting defensively anymore. You treated him like a traveler who had stumbled across your path, starting up conversation and sharing your story.

“What has he done?” he asked, his interest in you growing by the second. An outcast, despised, hated by others. He felt that the two of you were kindred spirits, and he would not risk losing a connection so rare – one he had never felt.

“You mean he didn’t even tell you?” you said, sounding more hurt than anything else.

“He did.” König sheathed his own dagger as a peace offering. “But I’m coming to think he was not entirely truthful.”

You sighed, looking down at your basket, then back at König. “I suppose I could tell you, since he brought you all this way to kill me. Walk with me – but keep your dagger away. And if you try anything, I’ll slit your throat. Understood?”

He suppressed the urge to laugh. Could you even reach his throat? “The warlock said you would lure me away to your hut, and carve out my heart.”

You huffed disappointedly, walking back to the bush near König. Completely calm, like he had only ever come up to you with the intention of finding a friend. “And yet, he’s still alive, after all the chances I had to kill him. We can stay outside of my hut, if it eases your mind. I’ll let you make your own tea, too. But if you aren’t set on killing me right this minute, I really should return to start drying these out.” You held up your basket. “Before too much time passes, and I can no longer use them.”

König had never given his prey more than a few moments to try and beg their way out of his crushing hands. He couldn’t believe he had even given so much lenience to your baseless trust in him – what he should have done was take the opportunity to grab your face and snap your neck. But he was starting to doubt the warlock’s testimony; you were a thief, yes, but had you really committed any crime? Or were you simply just taking the revenge you deserved from your captor – or, as the warlock called himself, your master?

König sighed. He gestured his hand out, signaling for you to lead the way.

You frowned. “First, give me your word.” You demanded.

“I will not harm you.” He said, with a hand over his heart. He didn’t care about forcing you to make the same promise – you were harmless enough. He did, however, make sure to avoid saying that he wouldn’t touch you. Although he was developing a few ounces more of respect for you, who knows? Maybe you would find a reason to drag him into your hut and satisfy both of your needs – and, if he was lucky enough to get that far, maybe you’d offer for him to spend the night in a warm bed, and he could be saved from sleeping on the cold earth for one night.

His word seemed promising enough to you. Threading your arm through the handle of the basket, you began marching through the woods, watching the ground carefully as you stepped over roots and twigs.

König followed by your side, watching you from the corner of his eye. You really were helpless – all it would take is a strong push from him, and you’d be tumbling down, maybe hitting your head on a stone, or rolling down the mountainside until your neck snapped. Even if the fall didn’t kill you, he could easily land one hit to your chest and pierce your lungs with your own ribs. But here you were, worrying more about the uneven forest floor than the lumbering creature by your side.

“What did he tell you?” you asked, pulling him from his fantasies. “About the beginning, when he took me.”

König laughed in pity. “He made it sound like he caught you, not that he took you.”

You sighed. “He didn’t catch me… well, I suppose he did. More like how animals are caught.” You adjusted your grip on the basket, still watching the ground beneath you. “I was the botanist’s assistant before he came along. Stared at me like I was naked. He would come more often than he needed to -  asked me where I was from, who my father was – things I didn’t understand why he needed to know. I still don’t.”

König didn’t understand himself. He continued to listen, the sounds of his footsteps drowning out your quiet ones. He began to wonder just how much of the warlock’s testimony was true.

“He came to the shop one night.” You continued to recount the story. “I was lighting the lanterns in the greenhouse. It was storming, and I didn’t hear him. He bludgeoned me and dragged me into the streets like I was some sort of animal.” You paused, turning your own words over in your head. “I suppose I was, to him.

He brought me back to his cabin – that’s when he started the curse. All I remember when waking up is feeling sick. I tried to stand, but it- everything felt heavy, like I was stuck in mud. I managed to crawl outside, and he was there. Saying my father wouldn’t recognize me, that he had killed the old lady at the botanist, that everyone would think that I had killed her… that I would be burned if I returned to the village. That I would forever be an outcast as long as I lived – as a witch. As what he made me.”

You paused again, for longer this time. König looked down at you, observing how your face twisted in… disgust? Anger? Your eyes were somewhere else, possibly somewhere where you could light the world on fire, drain the life from everyone who had ever done you wrong. König had felt that same hatred before, and he had learned to let it pass. You were still stuck there, wishing you could drive a blade into the warlock’s neck – and more.

“You stayed, then?” König asked, returning his gaze to the trees before him. “Why?”

You scoffed. “It’s not like I could go anywhere, not during the change. For the first fortnight, I couldn’t do anything but crawl on the ground and wail. And he let me – I’d get to the edge of the woods, and he’d be there to drag me back. Drug me into the hut at night and held me, fucked me, saying he was protecting me and similar bullshit. Of course, he was right; at that moment, I was as good as dead if I had ventured out on my own. And once I’d gotten my strength back, I was still a new witch. I’d never be accepted into the village – witches never are, despite the warlocks being the vile ones – and I had no idea how to live as one. So I relied on him for a while, until I knew enough to make it out on my own.”

König hummed in thought. Despite the initial desire to snatch you himself and have his way with you, his fists clenched at the thought of you being dragged around by the warlock. This life wasn’t one you had chosen, and yet the very person who had forced it upon you was killing you for it. It made something within him boil, something deep and buried, that he had thought had been tucked away for good.

You didn’t deserve any of this. He was fighting with himself in that moment, but the desire to show you what you should have been given was consuming him. He wanted to tell you that he knew what it was to be an outcast, he knew what it was like to feel lonely and crave being alone at the same time. To wish that you had the power to hurt anyone you deemed deserving of it, yet to have that someone who would never hurt you.

He would do it. He would be that person for you, he would be the one to kill for you. He knew he was getting ahead of himself – after all, he was hired to kill, you, not fall for you. And he knew it was just another one of his delusional fantasies… but he couldn’t help himself. You were like him, which was something that he had not yet been able to find. Something primal in him told him to sink his teeth in, to hold onto you until you stopped your struggling and realized that this would be good, for the both of you.

He was insane. But did it matter what he was, as long as he could give you what you needed?

“So, yes-“ you continued, bringing König out from the depths of his thoughts. “- I stole from him. Took the books he used to teach me, maybe a few ingredients for potions, a few seeds to start my own garden… but compared to what he took from me, I might as well have taken a loaf of bread.”

You stopped suddenly, and König came to a halt beside you. You nodded your head to the scene before you. “It’s not much, but it’s home.”

König looked ahead: the trees parted into another clearing, larger this time. A rickety hut leaned against a wall of rock, made of thin, birch logs and mud slathered on top to keep out the wind. In the center of the clearing was a large stone, positioned near a pile of ash and rocks. A log lay near it, possibly another place for someone to sit. A small garden sat closer to the creek before your hut – it didn’t look to be doing very well, but that was expected as winter approached.

By the creek, there was a large, twisted oak. Its roots hung directly off of the bank and down into the water. Its leaves had fallen to the earth and mingled with the rest of the foliage by now – the entire thing had crimson paths winding around it, hauntingly similar to blood-filled veins. Several pieces of clothing and fabric hung from the branches and swayed in the autumn wind.

As you marched ahead, placing your basket down by the makeshift firepit and disappearing into the hut, König took a few, cautious steps forward. He was both charmed by the simplicity of it, and despondent that you were forced into this lonesome sort of life. He wanted to drag you from this measly hovel and show you something better.

But how? He was no better off than you were. All his earnings were spent on a room at the nearest tavern and a decent amount of ale to help him fall asleep. He never cared about having a home, as long as he had a place to keep out the cold. He didn’t think it would be good enough to drag you back to the village and convince you to spend the night with him in a thin-walled, noisy inn… but, even if he didn’t end up killing you today (something that seemed more and more likely with each passing second), he refused to leave you in this hell. If it was a cozy cabin, built so far away from civilization for the sole purpose of privacy and comfort, he could understand. Maybe even plead his case to you so you would let him stay. But this – this was a last resort. A broken down spot in the woods that you made for your banishment, for hiding. This wouldn’t do.

Call him insane. Call him crazy, hopeless, sick in the head… maybe his desires were founded on the thought that he would give you what he had never received.

You emerged from your hut, the thin, wooden door clanging shut behind you. You looked at him with a puzzled expression. Why was he still standing at the edge? You wrapped your cloak tighter around yourself and made your way over to him, your hair blowing across your face.

He watched as you stopped in front of him, your brow creased with question. Your head tilted back to look up at him, yet any traces of fear that you had shown earlier were gone. You looked at him like you’d known him for the past hundred years. It made his heart ache within his chest.

How could anyone have painted such a wretched picture of the woman who stood before him?

“Is everything alright?” you asked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Like I said before, if you’d rather we stay outside-“

König interrupted you, reaching down and grabbing the sides of your arms firmly. You sucked in a breath warily, but you were still not afraid of him.

“I- you-“ Scheisse, what is he trying to say? He wanted to take you away, he wanted to show you how similar the both of you were to each other, he wanted to show you what (he thought) love was – slow, gentle, possessive, and strong. He wanted to keep you in his pocket, both to keep you safe from the world, and to make sure you couldn’t be taken from him. He wanted you, you, you –

This is insanity. He knew it. But that didn’t stop the fire in his chest, and the questionable throbbing in his trousers.

You knew. Your eyes said everything as they softened, as your lips pressed together into a knowing, sad smile. Were you going to turn him down? Would you say that you preferred it this way, that you liked being alone and living like a prisoner on the run? You took his face in his hands, and he had a foreboding sense in his gut that you might tell him to leave.

Quickly but gently, he cupped one hand at the back of your neck and pulled himself down to you, pressing his lips to yours before you could speak. It was only right, he thought, as he held the kiss – you didn’t understand that he could help you, he could build the life you deserved and keep you safe from any other hunters and warlocks. He placed his other hand on your lower back and pulled you in, moving his lips against your own and praying you wouldn’t deny him.

Like an angel answering his prayers, you tilted your head and wrapped your arms around his neck, standing on your toes and kissing him back. He tugged his teeth at your bottom lip, and you so graciously allowed his tongue to slip past your teeth, letting him taste you. He whined, flooded with relief that you didn’t try to shove him away and call him deranged.

His cock was quickly growing hard, but he ignored it. Right now, he needed to figure out exactly what he needed to say to make you-

A raven’s call tore through the air, piercing his thoughts. It was much too close than any bird would naturally be.

He tried to turn his head in its direction, but you dug your fingers into his hair, making him stutter and freeze on the spot. He grabbed your hips, about to pry you away-

You pressed your lips firmly to his, and he heard you faintly muttering incoherent words against him. The world around him was suddenly showered with colors: purples like the berries that had stained your fingers, oranges like the leaves that were scattered across the ground, silvers like the thick clouds that blanketed across the sky… The black spots on the birch trees suddenly blinked and flitted across his vision; thousands of them stared at him, and he heard your sweet laughter echoing in the distance as the world spun, spun, spun…

He felt the cold earth press to his cheek, and the last thing he remembered was a sickening ache in his stomach.

He should have heeded the sorcerer’s warning.

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

"… so gut, so Schön, genau so…”

... so good, so beautiful, just like that...

[eggluverz]

WE REALLY WERE TIMELESS

PAIRING. dan heng x gn!reader (also dan feng x reader ig!)

WORD COUNT. 3,722

SUMMARY. dan heng does not want to remember his previous reincarnation, but there is one part he doesn't want to let go of forever— you.

SOF'S NOTE. i was listening to taylor swift's timeless and thinking about how much i love dan heng...and this was born :3 i love him sm and i def feel like love with dan heng could transcend all lifetimes <3 pls enjoy if ur a fellow dh lover :>

Dan Feng was many things. Cold and ruthless, some said. A merciless killer, said others. Revered and powerful, was the more popular and favorable opinion. But, what most people seemed to wipe from their memories was that he was also a lover.

A lover to you, at least. You, and only you. 

His days as the Imbibitor Lunae were long and laborious. He lead countless battles to destroy threats and rescued Xianzhou fleets from annihilation. 

Dan Feng was used to spending long periods away from home, but when he returned, he knew he would at least be greeted by you. 

Occasionally, you were there fighting alongside him. Capable and strong. But most of the time, you preferred using your strengths to continue studying and advancing medicine. You were compassionate and knowledgeable, and you wanted to help your injured allies rather than cause more destruction.

His favorite moments with you involved the little leisure time he had between battles when he was able to stay in his residence with you, wrapped in your embrace. 

Dan Feng, proud member of the High-Cloud Quintet, was left speechless and in awe at the sight of you. Those nights you spent together were filled with both heat and passion, and attention and love. Every moment he spent with you was intentional; he never took those times for granted. 

Of course, those times couldn’t last. 

Be it his selfishness, his arrogance, his drive to help his friend—he lost you. Not because you shunned him or turned him away, but simply because he was forced to reincarnate and locked away without the ability to say even a simple goodbye. 

His love, lost in the blink of an eye. And he may never see you again. 

Now, as Dan Heng, he was almost in denial when Jing Yuan informed him you forcibly reincarnated as soon as you heard the news of the Sedation of Inhibitor Lunae and slipped away from the Xianzhou Luofu. 

What were you to Dan Heng? Dan Feng was no longer here and Dan Heng did not want to claim his past. 

Imbibitor Lunae was not him. Renowned member of the High-Cloud Quintet was not him. 

But when Jing Yuan spoke your name, memories of his previous life rushed through him. If he didn’t acknowledge his past, would that mean you had no chance of ever being his again?

Dan Heng had no attachment to the name Jing Yuan. Yingxian no longer held special meaning either. He didn’t want it to. But hearing your name stirred something in him. It caused a battle between past and present. And the present was winning until he walked along the streets of Penacony. 

An intense shiver shot through his veins and the hairs on the back of his arm stood up. You were here.

He knew it. He felt it. Dan Heng didn’t know where exactly, but your presence was so powerful, it was something he couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t strong enough to. 

You were his first and only romantic love— A love he thought would be eternal until he got reincarnated. The draw to you was so intense he found himself wandering the wide pathways filled with Gothic buildings until he felt the call was satiated. 

It wasn’t completely gone, but he felt more relaxed. More at peace. 

Dan Heng notice his body stopped in front of a library with a square roof and he immediately entered the building. The interior was filled with rows of bookshelves and large tables, busy with scholars and those here for leisurely reasons alike.

Despite all that, Dan Heng knew where you were right as he laid eyes on you. 

You were half-hidden by piles of books as you took notes on a blank sheet of paper. You sat straight on the chair and briefly put your pen down when you noticed his staring. Your gaze met his as your eyes darted around the room. 

When they landed on Dan Heng, you tilted your head to the side as he watched you, but you showed no signs of recognition. 

His stomach churned. Of course you wouldn’t recognize him. You had reincarnated soon after Dan Feng did. Your past life was gone, your memories were gone, and he didn’t even know if your name was still the one that was so familiar on his lips. 

With an inquisitive look on your face, you beckoned him over. He was surprised that you acknowledged him so overtly, but if you were anything like your past self, he shouldn’t be too shocked. 

Dan Heng wondered if he should turn around and leave. Did he want to pretend he didn’t see you? Pretend that your fates weren’t inextricably linked? 

His heart felt like it was being torn out of his chest as he turned away, ready to go on as if this never occurred so he could continue his life as Dan Heng with no ties to the previous Imbibitor Lunae. He began walking out of the library, shoving his feelings down deep to hide them away for good. 

The cold outside air hit his face as he opened the door. It felt damp out—as if it were raining. 

Dan Heng touched the wet drops on his face before he realized it wasn’t rain. It was his tears. 

It pained him more than he cared to admit. His past love was here and he was going to throw it away before he even had another chance. He grit his teeth and clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms so deep it hurt the flesh. But it had nothing on the pain his heart was feeling. 

He couldn’t do it, he realized. He couldn’t severe the bond from his past completely— Dan Heng couldn’t severe his bond with you. He’d lose a part of himself he wasn’t even aware he still had. 

The muscles in his body screamed as he entered the library once more, this time walking straight to you instead of basking in hesitation. You looked confused as you stared up at him, probably wondering why he ignored you, left, and came back all in the span of one minute.

“Hi there! Can I help you?” 

Dan Heng instantly froze at your words. He yearned for the familiarity; a sense of comfort washed over him at your simple acknowledgement. 

But it didn’t look like you knew who he was. There wasn’t an ounce of recognition on your face even as he stood closer. 

It’s me. Do you remember? he wanted to ask. The desire to reach out and grab your hand, touch your face, was strong enough to make his heart pound. But he refrained. If you didn’t know who he was, it might frighten you if he did that. And discomfort was the last thing Dan Heng wanted to make you feel.  

You laughed nervously, letting out a single cough to fill the silence. 

Dan Heng, realizing he hadn’t said a word, quickly scanned the books you had stacked up. They were books on medicine and the evolution of healthcare. He tried to find something relevant to say.

“I almost gave someone CPR once.”

You blinked slowly, a small and uncertain smile on your face. “That’s great! I think…” For a moment, you considered what he said. “I supposed it’s not great if someone was in a situation where they needed CPR. But it is great you were willing to help.”

Dan Heng nodded, glad his plan went well. 

“Why did they need CPR? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“We found them unconscious. They had a weak heartbeat and pulse so I wanted to make sure they stayed alive.” 

You took in this information, looking slightly impressed. “Typically, we start CPR when there’s no pulse, but if the individual begins gasping for breathe, it’s usually a good sign to start CPR.” 

“I see.”

The two of you fell into a long silence before you gently cleared your throat. 

“Is that all you had to say?” you asked. Dan Heng suspected you didn’t exactly buy that he wanted to talk to you solely about CPR. “Earlier, when you were looking at me, you had a strange look on your face. It looked like you recognized me.” 

Dan Heng stilled. 

You clasped your hands together on top of the table, leaning forward almost conspiratorially. “Do I know you?”

His breathing quickened at the prospect of you remembering your past with him. 

“Maybe from a birthday party as a kid? Or did we go to the same school?” 

Dan Heng’s face dropped. “Oh. No.” 

You hummed in thought.

“You…might know me, though.” 

Curiously, you raised your brows at his vague response. He wondered if he should stop himself, but he wanted to tell you about your past life. Maybe then you would remember him. 

But would that be a good idea? Would it work in the first place? 

Dan Heng didn’t know. 

He felt impulsive but he needed to talk to you more. “I can explain more, but can we go outside first?” 

You craned your neck to the side, considering your options. He knew what he asked of you was something ridiculous in the eyes of a stranger. To stop what you were doing, take time out of your day, and follow this man you had only just spoken to with no explanation. 

It was wishful thinking to expect a yes. 

Yet somehow, you always managed to surprise him. “Of course. Let me just return these books.” 

Dan Heng tried to hide how pleased he was as he patiently waited for you to turn the books back into the librarian. He offered to help you carry them, but you managed to gather the heavy stack into your arms in its entirety. 

“Now I’m ready,” you said with a smile, eyes studying him in wonder. You looked confused, but you didn’t seem concerned. Perhaps something inside of you also sensed familiarity. “Do you want to see the stars with me?” 

He nodded and you led him to a clear, grassy spot away from the town. The grass was tall and green, pastel wildflowers growing amongst the landscape. You smoothed down your clothes and sat on the soft ground. Dan Heng sat next to you, careful to respect your personal space and keep a slight distance. 

He took in the scenery of the night before he saw you gazing at the stars. He quickly followed suit, tilting his head back.

Moments of tranquil silence passed by before he asked, “Do you know what I am?”

You didn’t miss a beat, almost as if you were expecting that question to come. “You appear human, but your presence doesn’t feel as so.”

“Much like you, correct?” he countered. “A Vidyadhara.”

You touched your head instinctively, the place where your horns should be. With wide eyes, you hastily put your arms back against your sides. 

Dan Heng raised his brow. 

“I thought my appearance had changed suddenly,” you said with a nervous laugh. 

He shook his head. “I’m sorry to cause such alarm. You don’t need to worry; you still appear human as well.” 

“It’s not as if I’m trying to pretend I’m not a Vidyadhara,” you explained, “it’s just easier to live here and be unnoticed with this appearance.” You looked away from the starry sky and turned to face Dan Heng. “And you— Why do you choose to appear human?” 

“I refuse to pay for the sins of my past reincarnation. It’s not me,” he said, voice tense. “That’s not who I am.” 

“You remember your past reincarnation?” you asked, your body perking up. Embarrassed by your eagerness, you stilled. “Sorry. That’s insensitive. There must be a reason you don’t want to remember. Sometimes, I just can’t help but wish I did.” 

The corners of Dan Heng’s mouth tilted upward. “Don’t be sorry. I don’t care for my past…except for one particular detail.” 

You shifted your position to sit with your legs folded over the other. You didn’t say anything, instead letting him speak as he felt comfortable.

“Maybe one particular person is more accurate.” 

Your eyes closed as you breathed deeply, the wind blowing around the two of you as if creating a bubble from the rest of the world. In deep concentration, you changed into your normal Vidyadhara form. Your ears were pointed, regal horns emerged from the top of your head, and you looked taller as your tail appeared underneath you. 

Expectantly, you looked at him. 

Dan Heng hesitated, but soon followed suit. He felt his body change to the one of his past as he revealed his true form to you. 

“Am I the person in your past?” you asked slowly, examining everything from his turquoise horns and dark hair, to his long tail landing in a semi-circle around you. 

He smiled to himself. Attentive as always, he thought. Lifetimes had passed, the galaxies never stopped moving, yet you were just as he remembered. Your experiences may have been different, as did the environment you grew up in, but at your core, you were still thoughtful, caring, and intelligent. No matter the reincarnation, you were still you— His beloved. 

A conflicted look formed on his face as that thought. Dan Heng was getting ahead of himself. He wasn’t Dan Feng. You couldn’t be his. 

You didn’t let his lack of response deter you, instead staring up at him with a hopeful gaze. “I’m sorry if that’s too personal of me to ask. It’s only… Something about you just feels safe and warm.”

His tail swayed back and forth. You felt it too?

“But you’re a stranger in this life, as far as I know,” you said with small laugh. “So why do you seem so familiar? Perhaps it means in my previous, you weren’t so strange.”

Dan Heng noticed his tail getting closer to your body before he managed to sway it the other way. You bumped yours against his mischievously. He jolted in surprise, both at the sudden touch of his tail—which he hadn’t felt in years and years—but also the small spark running through him at the point of contact. 

You bristled as well. “What was that?”

“I am not sure either.”

For a moment, you were lost in your thoughts. He wondered what you were thinking as your eyes swirled, looking more captivating than any galaxy he has ever seen. Your elegant horns looked as if they were glowing against the night sky and he wanted to reach out and feel them like he used to. One of your sensitive spots, he remembered. 

“I felt something when our tails brushed,” you said slowly, thinking your words through. “It wasn’t much, but it felt like a glimpse of my previous life. Do you think I can touch you more?”

Dan Heng absolutely did not mind if you touched him. Anywhere—for that matter. But he figured what was visible would be safest for the time being. He bowed his head, offering his horns to start with. “As you wish.”

You smiled brightly and his heart fluttered. He felt deep down he would do anything for you. Even confront his past life. And he vowed that what he didn’t do in his past life—spend enough time with you before it was too late—he would do in this. If only you allowed him. 

Reaching out, your gaze was fixed on his tall horns. You started with a careful touch to the tip and ran your fingers down to where his horns branched out. Heat and cold were both searing through his body at the touch and he was certain from your expression you felt the same. Your hands trailed down his face, feeling the point of his ears and resting on his cheek. 

Whether it was from the pain of the intensity coursing through you or whether it was because you were remembering your past life, Dan Heng saw tears rolling down your cheeks. 

He brought his hand up to you to wipe them away, but stopped right before he could touch your skin. “May I?” 

You nodded, a light sniffle coming from you and Dan Heng yearned to be of comfort. 

He started with a light brush of his thumb to gather the wetness on your face, gently wiping it off. Then, same as you did to him, he felt the elongation of your ears and ran hs fingers from the base of your horns to the very top. They were just as smooth as he remembered and he felt you tremble at the touch. He smiled. They were still also as sensitive as ever. 

“Are any memories resurfacing for you?” he said quietly. 

Your eyes were squeezed shut yet tears still leaked from them. It took a while for your to respond, overwhelmed by all the emotions, but eventually you managed to ask, “Is it… Dan Feng?”

“Dan Heng now,” he gently corrected. “I don‘t go by that name anymore.”

At that confirmation, you cried even more, jumping into his arms and burying your face in his chest. 

“It‘s been so long,” you said in exasperation, your words mixed with sniffles. “The Sedation— We didn’t even get to say goodbye!” You paused, removing yourself from his chest and looking up at him. “Rather, I didn’t get to say goodbye to Dan Feng. But with you here, maybe now I can.”

He nodded in understanding. His ending was so abrupt. Due to his own hubris and for the life of his closest friend, he ended up sacrificing himself. And in the long run, he learned he even sacrificed you. Dan Heng would never treat your relationship with him so casually again. He should’ve showed you it was the top priority in his life. 

Dan Heng watched in silence as you closed your eyes and whispered under your breath. He didn’t fully understand what you were saying, but he allowed you to have your private moment and say your goodbyes. He said goodbye to the past you as well—a right that was also stripped away from him as he was forced into reincarnation without second thought. Anger rose in his cheeks at those who took that away from him. From you. But it died down. Ultimately, what Dan Feng did wasn’t a part of him now. Maybe the person he is today wouldn’t have agreed with those past actions in the first place. 

Moments turned into minutes and minutes turned to hours before you finally opened your eyes and looked at him. Your gaze was clearer, as if it was truly him—Dan Heng—you were seeing. 

You smiled wistfully, hand gently stroking the spine of his tail. “I may have said goodbye to Dan Feng, but, at your core, the Dan Heng in front of me still feels like the man I love.”

He hummed in thought. He understood exactly what you were feeling. “Your core is the same too,” he said, his palm resting on your chest where your heart was beating. “You’re someone I will always love. And I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”

Your face broke into an expression of sadness and Dan Heng felt his heart tightened. 

“I’m sorry I, as Dan Feng, left you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you until the end.”

You shook your head, trying to force a happy look on your face. “No, it’s okay. You didn’t leave me. You were taken and punished and I couldn’t say goodbye. But I forgive you.”

“Why? I valued my power and my friend’s life and, ultimately, was selfish and didn’t consider the impact on yours. There are so many reasons I don’t want to hold onto my past. But if being here with you means facing it, I will.”

You sighed, a small, sad chuckle escaping your lips. “You see someone selfish and arrogant, but I see a kind and selfless soul who wanted his friend to be there with him forever.”

Dan Heng thought back in shame of the Blade he met on Luofu. 

“Our pasts are linked, but so are our presents,” you said, lifting his chin up. “You’re not Dan Feng anymore, are you?”

He nodded firmly. 

You smiled in acceptance. “You’re not exactly my first love, Dan Feng, but I have a feeling I’ll like this Dan Heng person even more, anyway.”

His body immediately warmed and he wanted to melt into your touch. You were always so kind, so thoughtful. Dan Feng may have messed up and got the two of you separated, but he would never. 

“In our last life and this life, and if we have even more to come, we will always find each other,” he vowed. 

You touched your forehead to his before leaning in for a kiss. He met your lips as if he were securing a promise. A promise not to leave you again, a promise he was really here, and a promise he still loved you. There was so much he had to learn about your new life—and you, his. But Dan Heng was certain it’d only make him love you more. 

He had gone through the betrayal of a friend, the betrayal of a nation, and death and exile from the very place he once called home, but no pain compared to that of losing you. And now that he found you again, he didn’t want to make the same mistakes as his past reincarnation. 

You placed your hand on his cheek and deepened the kiss, breaking him out of his thoughts. Your hand was warm against the cool air of the night. Dan Heng ran his hand down to your waist and wrapped around to rest on the small of your back. He pushed you closer to him, wanting to feel your body against his. The heat emanated through the fabric of your clothes and the faint smell of wildflowers and vanilla filled his senses. It was a familiar scent he had always loved. 

He smiled into the kiss and you moved closer, draping a leg around his hip. Dan Heng didn’t ever want to let you go, but he knew he had nothing to fear. Now he knew the strength of your bond—how the draw to each other could withstand lifetimes. 

Not even time itself could separate you from him. 

[duke-daemon]

hazbin hotel redesigns wooooooooo

okay so. i'm gonna discuss my thoughts about them n shit, putting under a readmore bc it's gonna get long and rambley. sorry in advance for the shit formatting, i'm on mobile </3

just some general shit about how i would rewrite it. i think the premise of redeeming sinners is entertaining but is executed horribly. i also am a fan of the "heaven isn't great either" idea but again, executed horribly. i'd make the hierarchy of angels more accurate because it's cool as hell and i have autism about it. the characters from hell would swear still (albeit not as much), but the angels would outright refuse to swear or make vulgar jokes ever. this would be partially to further the gap between heaven and hell and make the differences more stark.

hell would also be more like dante's inferno (again because i think its cool). the ars goetia would get a full redesign and would be more prevalent in demonic society.

now for the characters!

---

VAGGIE VALTIEL:

starting off with vaggie, or Valtiel as i've renamed her because let's be honest her original name sucks. Valtiel (Val for short) was an aspiring power angel who wanted to be an exorcist. she looked up to lute and thought the idea of killing demons was really cool and badass. however when she actually was on the field for the first time she discovered how awful this actually was. she tried to help a few demons but lute figured it out and felled her right then and there. the rest of her story is relatively the same. personality wise she's more stoic and less prone to all-out aggression. she still get angry, sure, but it's in a quieter and more menacing way. you DO NOT want to fuck with Valtiel.

CHARLIE:

next up is charlie! i had two ideas for her. the first one (unsettling drawing) has her as a mannequin/doll type demon. lucifer and/or lilith was unable to conceive and as such they built a kid from scratch. she's overall similar to og charlie personality wise, very kind and cheerful despite her unsettling appearance. she struggles with empathy sometimes but really does mean well. her motive for rehabilitating sinners is so they get to see their family again. being able to see heaven from where they are in hell must make them sad, so she wants to help make them happy again!

the second idea for charlie has her as an angel. specifically i casted her as a dominion angel due to their reputation as holy judges. she was once a demon but has been rehabilitated and has risen into angelhood! she now wants to help her former kin do the same and redeem themselves in heaven's gaze. again, similar cheery personality, but a bit more prudish in this rendition

tangent time!

as a side tangent, valtiel and charlie would have a different relationship in this rewrite. their relationship felt shoehorned in in the original show, like it was just there for the hell of it. we didn't see much development between them and it just felt kinda bland. so in my rewrite, charlie and valtiel are amiable exes. they tried dating when valtiel first fell (when charlie was still a demon in the charlie-angel version) but realized their feelings for each other were much more platonic than romantic. they ended things off on good terms, deciding they were much better as friends. they are still besties to this day! later charlie ends up with emily (or 'ellie' as i plan to rename her)

back to the characters

Alastor:

note: i made alastor mixed-race, which could be seen as bad by some due to vivzie saying he's black. however, as many have pointed out, he has no ethnic features whatsoever and i honestly wouldn't be surprised if she said that just to get away with using voodoo symbols (a closed religion) in his imagery/design. like viv, i am incredibly white and have little to no knowledge of voodoo, and even if i did i would not use it for something like this anyways due to the stigma the religion already has and (again) it being a closed practice. as such i removed it from his concept altogether, but made him mixed race (white passing) because.. why not i guess, i forgor my actual reasoning

with that being said...

alastor is by far my favorite of the redesigns and i'm honestly tempted to turn him into a legally distinct oc. i imagine he's somewhat reserved, along the lines of norman bates albeit a bit more extroverted. during his life he was a serial killer with a day job as a radio announcer. he took pleasure in reporting about his own murders on the radio, but that is eventually what got him caught (ie accidentally letting slip info that wasn't released to the public). as a result he was sentenced to death. upon arriving in hell, he quickly rose through the ranks to borderline overlord status and is a feared presence by demons and sinners alike. why is he bothering to assist in the hotel project? who knows... his motives are a mystery, like the rest of what he does

(he isn't actually alastair crowley i just thought the naming convention was ironic. however he may have also dabbled with satanic magic in lifetime..)

Angel Dust:

TW: brief discussion of SA

this is definitely my second favorite redesign. i loooove insect themes and wanted to do more than just Extra Arms, so he now has fucked up legs and a lot of eyes too! story-wise, angel used to be a criminal mastermind, hated by both the mafia and the feds. he was a gentleman thief, arranging massive heists under the cover of night while also partaking in the occasional drag show. he ended up a cocaine addict later in life, which caused his work to become sloppier. eventually he was killed in a heist gone wrong, specifically shot by the police.

i'm not gonna go too in-depth on the SA part of his story, but he is hypersexual due to being assaulted in both his life and afterlife. it would be something he'd be working on in the rewrite. his reason for coming to the hotel in the first place may have even been for help with this trauma. underneath his sultry exterior is a broken guy who really just needs someone to care about him for who he really is and not for what his body can do.

LUTE:

so lute and adam are some of the characters i have the most gripes about. the biggest one being why viv chose adam as the leader of the exorcists in the first place. if she wants a biblical figure tied to demon killing, Archangel Michael is RIGHT THERE, aka the one destined to kill satan during the events of Revelations. if she wants the first human to die, that would be Abel, not Adam. and i kinda doubt abel would want to do the stuff that HH!adam has been doing. if she wants an angel related to torture, Dumah is her guy! an angel that rules over wicked souls and tortures sinners every day except sabbath. so many better options...

with that out of the way, Lute is still the lieutenant of the exorcist, who are a specially chosen group of powers sent to purge hell once a year. think navy seals. she's pretty much the same as in the show, albeit more muscular and visually different from other exorcists (seriously why do they all look exactly the same?????) she's a very repressed lesbian who hasn't had time to work on that due to her duties

i also redesigned the exorcist uniform/armor because those LED purge masks are fugly as hell and their clothes don't even look remotely like armor.

Adam + Final Thoughts

i did start a redesign of adam but got bored of it. regardless, i think he'd be the head of C.H.E.R.U.B. instead of the exorcists. he doesn't want his children to make the same mistakes he and eve did, so together they started C.H.E.R.U.B. to help lost souls stay out of hell

final thoughts uhhhh i'm tired. show sucks, it had so much potential but viv ruined it by being a shitty writer and an even shittier person. the designs are fine i guess but they all look exactly the same and are in desperate need of variety. the humor is dogshit, saying dick and balls and penis over and over and over again doesn't make it any funnier than the first three times you made that joke. anyways that's it, i hope you liked my inane ramblings. gonna go vanish for another forty years or so, adios

[suhyla]

فصبر جميل

I used to really struggle with the concept of beautiful patience. How is patience beautiful? What was the secret? I have had the same thoughts about this verse for years and every time I would read Surah Yusuf in a hardship I would ask myself the same question.

It did not click until this Ramadan.

Beautiful patience is to embrace the waiting because you know what follows is surely a great relief. That is the only way to bear patience upon something that doesn’t make sense or a hardship that shakes you to your core. It is to remember Who put this in your path. When you know who Allah is, when you internalize His attributes, when you are upon absolute certainty that He is with you. That He is the Most Merciful and not a single thing happens to you without being full of His mercy. That everything that happens to you is full of khayr because He will never hurt a believer. That He is the Most Powerful and the One who opens the most tightly shut doors. That all of this could change at any moment. That He has complete control over your affairs and complete knowledge, so He is protecting you from something and when the time is right, this hardship will certainly pass. That He is the Most Generous, so *never* will you sincerely ask Him for something and beg him, clinging to His mercy and refusing to give up your duaa, except that He will respond with *more* than what you asked Him for. Wallahi not a single time will Allah not give you even more than you asked Him for if you internalize all of this. Only then— does patience become beautiful. Because you know what is coming will make you forget all the pain that has passed. That He is preparing you for something great. That He is shaping you into someone great. That His love can be found in every little detail and it will all make sense one day, no matter how long it takes.

Endure with beautiful patience, my friends. How can we know who Allah is and expect anything but the absolute best from Him? No— Allah is unlike anyone and anything. Even what you imagine to be the best case scenario will fall short of what He actually gives you. Do not doubt that for a moment. He is Allah. He is beautiful in all that He does 🩵

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[vidavalor]

The *Original* Original Sin Theory or... why Aziraphale's "I forgive you"s really mean "forgive me" and just why he wants Crowley's absolution...

Will this break your heart in a good way and make the end of S2 hurt less? more? both? idk let's find out...

I want to talk about what the Before the Beginning scene does to the Eden scene and what all that suggests about Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship... because it might be enough to upend what we think this relationship is quite a bit, at least from Aziraphale's POV, if it goes in the direction that I think they are hinting at in S3, which I'm basing off of where they took it in S2 in these scenes.

This also contains an analysis of That Scene from 2.06 that ties into lots of other scenes and some other meta related to the show and it's a bit long-- like, the mother of all metas-- but there are pretty gifs and I brought snacks? Just letting you know it's a long post but tuck in with some tea if you're in the mood and thanks for reading. :)

Under the big cutty thing...

Before we get started, a couple of quick warnings: I curse a bit in here. It's in the show itself but just letting you know it's here a bit, too. I also mention *very* briefly suicide ideation in the characters and also very briefly (one sentence) Satan's mind-control of Crowley in S1 in a way that might be sensitive for a sexual assault survivor. There is general mention of religious trauma and abusive relationships (not Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship) all over this. If you are okay with the show, you should be more than fine reading this but just wanted to let you know up front. If you're okay with that, read on...

So, the Before the Beginning scene contains a twist, in that we learn that pre-Fall Crowley is naive to Heaven while Aziraphale is the one who is wary of it. This is especially interesting because, best we can tell, no angel has Fallen yet. There aren't *explicit* consequences for asking questions yet, as Crowley doesn't think it could get him into trouble to do so... but *Aziraphale* does. Heaven in S1 and S2 is shown to be basically a fascist state full of bullies jockeying for power where the ones on top dole out all sorts of abuses to maintain a sense of order among the rank and file. We see the emotional and even physical abuse they dole out to Aziraphale and how little they tolerate any sort of dissent, even from an archangel, based on what they ultimately do when Gabriel doesn't want to do arma-bloody-geddon anymore. Heaven is basically The Kremlin. Toe out of line and they'll toss you off a high-rise while telling everyone how sad it is that you recently had a spell of depression and heart troubles as a way of scaring everyone else into submission, right? What's surprising to us is that Aziraphale knows this *absolutely* Before the Beginning and he's terrified on Crowley's behalf, since this place functions as a kind of mafia state.

This implies something really kind of dark which is that Aziraphale knows enough to know how to toe a party line and keep quiet about any doubts he has. He knows how to survive in a way that then-innocent Crowley did not. He tries to tell Crowley that questioning things is going to get him angel-killed but Crowley has a faith in God that's different than Aziraphale's was even before the Earth was fully created. Crowley believed in Her more than Aziraphale does. He doesn't think anything will happen to him. Aziraphale knows what will and this implies knowledge of the abuse of the system and it completely changes our perspective of Aziraphale throughout the rest of the series. We often think of him as either willfully naive or just desperately optimistic regarding Heaven's goodness but, in reality, he's neither of those things. He's something else, entirely. His actions are not expressing naivete or desperate optimism or anything else.

They are expressions of guilt.

And the Eden scene tells us why he has that guilt.

The Eden scene introduces us to Crowley and Aziraphale and the series itself and it has Crowley posit the central question of the show regarding the nature of angels and demons:

Objectively, when you watch this scene, you think this is about the tempting of Eve and the flaming sword. It is... but it's also not *just* about that. Because Crowley and Aziraphale are watching Adam & Eve venture off beyond the Garden of Eden in this scene. They're still within view so the flaming sword situation happened a matter of minutes earlier. Yet, when Crowley posits that central question of which one of them actually did the good thing and which did the bad thing, Aziraphale reveals that it wouldn't be funny at all if what Crowley is saying (that Aziraphale actually did the bad thing) is true. He's distressed about it and so Crowley, somewhat dryly, reassures him that he's an angel so he couldn't have done the wrong thing. (Crowley, of course, being a literal former angel punished for doing the wrong thing lol and that being the joke but also in there is also the layer of Crowley genuinely liking Aziraphale and trying to tell him that it's all okay and meaning it.) Aziraphale is relieved and this is the key bit here-- he says oh good "because it's been bothering me."

The tone of this is that this central question of whether or not he did wrong or right by Crowley and whether or not Crowley was wrong or right in his actions *has been bothering* Aziraphale and he phrases it in a way that implies he's been losing angelic sleep (so to speak) about it for a little while now. If this was *just about Adam and Eve* then Aziraphale's reaction here makes absolutely no sense because the camera also then cuts in their conversation to in front of Crowley and Aziraphale *to show us Adam and Eve still visible in the near-distance* fighting off the lion with the flaming sword. They literally *just left* so how could Aziraphale be all in knots for awhile now over whether or not he made the wrong call? He's not. You can argue that his decision here in Eden to help Adam and Eve by giving them his flaming sword-- by standing up and doing something in the face of God to help out other beings he secretly thinks might have been treated unfairly-- *is a direct response to what he failed to do back in Before the Beginning*...

... which was to stand up for Crowley.

Meaning: Aziraphale doesn't need to see Heaven's files to find out what happened to Crowley when Crowley fell because he was there. S3 is going to be about preventing the Second Coming and so plot allusions to the crucification (which had its own Crowley & Aziraphale scene in S1) will likely abound. Aziraphale was there when Lucifer and The Gang were tossed out of Heaven. To be fair to Aziraphale, there is basically nothing he could have done to prevent this and the best possible situation is that he didn't even have the chance to. The worst possible situation is that he's literally Judas and sold Crowley out, out of fear of being tossed out of Heaven himself. I tend to think it's more that he just didn't stand up and say anything in support of Crowley to prevent himself from being seen as on the side of the eventual demons. Still, just as Crowley thinks the punishment for Adam and Eve was harsh, Aziraphale thought that asking questions and being curious wasn't enough to send Lucifer and everyone around him to Hell to be damned for all of eternity but it caused an obvious existential crisis in him that he still struggles to totally resolve.

If he disagreed with the decision to cast out the suggestion box-happy angels, he was as "bad" as they were. If he agreed with the decision, he was condemning them and that didn't seem angelic, either. How to be a good angel, which is the only thing he had ever tried to be or knew how to be? He did what he thought must be right-- to follow what the other, more powerful angels said the word of God was-- and if it was Her will, then it must be what was right, even if it was *extremely difficult* to see how this lovebug here was really an evil, demonic creature of Hell...

Not to mention that Aziraphale was in love with WhateverHeWasCalledPre-Crawly!Crowley. (We will just call him "Crowley" for this whole meta, because that is the name he chose for himself.) And maybe Angel!Crowley went after the more glamorous, daring guys. Heaven honestly seems like both a fascist state and high school at once (is there really a difference? lol). Crowley describes how he wound up falling in S1 as that he "hung out with the wrong crowd" and Aziraphale in Before the Beginning honestly seems like he's been flying around watching Crowley make stars for ages, trying to work up the nerve to or find an opportunity to introduce himself to the beautiful hot cool arty science-y guy who barely looks at him when his other option for a view are nebulas... or Benedict Cumberbatch's Lucifer/Satan, whose "stroke of demonic genius, dahling" bit in S1 and dark assault on his fave Crowley while Crowley was driving had a real "Angel!Crowley went for the bad boy who were so bad pre-Fall that they wound up fucking Satan afterwards and friend-zoned angels like Aziraphale" vibes. Alternatively, maybe he didn't totally? Before the Beginning seems to be the first time they met and maybe after that, Crowley and Aziraphale became close. It's just that Crowley canonically also wound up sitting at the cool kids' table because they were the only ones questioning things and he wound up damned for eternity for it and Aziraphale?

Aziraphale blames himself for it.

He has blamed himself for Crowley's Fall for six thousand years.

When they speak in Eden, Aziraphale is being confronted for the first time with what has come of his nebula-joyous, freshly baked blueberry muffin of an angel. He calls himself "Crawly" now-- or that's the name he's been given-- because who he was is dead. His eyes are yellow. He's now a snake. He's maybe a bit sarcastic, a bit dry, and a lot more guarded and aloof but Aziraphale sees flickers of Angel!Crowley in there. He's *kind* to Aziraphale. He's still inquisitive, in spite of it being what damned him to Hell. Aziraphale, God help him, is still wildly into him and, ugh, maybe even *more* so, in spite of everything.

And 'everything', for Aziraphale, includes Crowley being a demon being Aziraphale's fault.

They don't talk about it. Ever.

They don't talk about it because Aziraphale thinks that Crowley doesn't remember. Crowley's memory loss of a lot of his time pre-Fall is canon in S2-- something we, the audience, will need to understand the whole picture when/if we end up getting this revelation in S3 of Crowley's Fall and that Aziraphale feels he's at least partially responsible. What's even harder for Aziraphale is that because Crowley doesn't remember his time as an angel, he doesn't remember their full history together. He doesn't remember how they met and protecting Aziraphale from the first celestial shower and all the times they chatted after that and if they were in love back then, Crowley doesn't remember it. Eden then becomes, to Crowley, the first time they meet... but then look at how while Aziraphale seems to think that Crowley doesn't know him while Aziraphale knows Crowley-- the moment that he pauses so Crowley can introduce himself-- *Crowley* seems a little bemused. Why?

Because what Aziraphale has failed to consider is that the one memory that the demons are allowed to keep, most likely, is their Fall, which means that if Aziraphale was there when Crowley fell, Crowley actually *does* remember him. At minimum, he remembers Aziraphale being there and looking stricken by what was happening so even if he can't remember more than that, he knows he's safe with Aziraphale and that Aziraphale cared about him, which would explain why he risked going to talk to with him on the wall in Eden. He knows they were friends and that Aziraphale is good and he can trust him. It's also theoretically possible that if Crowley remembers his Fall and if Aziraphale was there, it's a trigger to him being able to remember all of his and Aziraphale's time before Crowley fell. Aziraphale might not know this and because these two idiots do not know how to talk-- and especially don't talk about this-- Crowley hasn't told him. In part because Crowley can't go back and he doesn't want them to dwell on Angel!Crowley when Crowley is who he is and if that's a demon, it's a demon, and the whole system can go fuck itself anyway, as far as Crowley's concerned.

Aziraphale, though, is still back on "it's my fault". He thinks he literally took goodness from the world; that he participated in the murder of his friend and the love of his life. He has never. In six. thousand. years. lol. told Crowley that he feels like this because he still thinks that Crowley doesn't remember Aziraphale betraying him and he is terrified that if he told Crowley he did-- if he told him that he was responsible, in part, for his Fall-- that Crowley would hate him and Crowley is Aziraphale's only friend in the universe and Aziraphale is madly in love with him. He couldn't bear the loss of him. He can handle their occasional spats and disagreements, knowing that Crowley always comes back, but this? If Crowley knew that his Fall was Aziraphale's fault? Aziraphale thinks Crowley wouldn't come back from that and he'd never see him again.

In reality? Crowley either already knows this and has the whole time or suspects it or if he found it out, would forgive Aziraphale for it. If he knows, he already has. His counter-argument is, like, what were you supposed to do to save me, exactly, angel? You alone versus all the hierarchy of Heaven and God Herself? I'm *glad* you didn't do something stupid and get yourself tossed into a pit of boiling sulphur. You don't deserve that.

Thing is, though, because they've never had this conversation because they DO NOT TALK lol, Aziraphale thinks he *does* deserve that. But look at what's happened since he made the decision not to save Crowley from falling...

...nothing.

Nothing has happened to Aziraphale. He didn't fall for it himself. He didn't fall for betraying the angel he loved and he wonders every. single. day. why he didn't and the only thing he can come up with is that he must have done the right thing. *It must be* that Crowley did the bad thing and Aziraphale did the good one because Crowley was damned to Hell for all of eternity and Aziraphale is still an angel of Heaven, six thousand years later. It's not for Aziraphale to question God. Her will is ineffable. It's ineffable because he cannot begin to understand how any of this can possibly be just and that just keeps happening over and over and over and over throughout the years to come in every situation he and Crowley find themselves in, from Job to The Flood to Wee Morag and Elspeth to Arma-bloody-geddon, right?

Aziraphale begins to lose count of how many times he's gone up against God at this point. Gives away his flaming sword to Adam and Eve. Saves as many as he could during The Flood-- *with* Crowley. (You know they did.) Lies to Gabriel's face in the eyes of God to save Job and Sitis' children... and learning that Falling was political, really, in the process. Nothing happened to Aziraphale for Job's kids. He suffered no consequence for lying to Heaven and God because Crowley was willing to lie for him-- to protect him from Falling, where Aziraphale couldn't protect Crowley himself ages before-- and nothing happened. Falling, suddenly, didn't seem totally God-ordained it it could be tossed aside by something as simple as having a demon just choose not to toss you to Satan. Crowley didn't take him to Hell because he didn't feel like Aziraphale belonged there. It wound up all entirely within Crowley's control, which then made Aziraphale begin to question if God was even really behind the Fall of Lucifer and the Gang or if it wasn't just the thugs in charge of Heaven who decided to toss them out... thoughts he was terrified to think and didn't dare voice aloud, at least not then.

In another era, Aziraphale and Crowley stood there together to witness the torture and murder of Jesus Christ in the name of God, in a parallel to the Fall. What happened to Jesus? He was betrayed by his closest friend, then tortured and murdered by those in the government who thought he posed a threat to social order. Heaven as Pontius Pilate. Aziraphale as a kind of Judas, in Aziraphale's mind, anyway.

Jesus as Crowley.

Time goes on and he and The Demon Crowley form friendship in their own right, regardless of what Crowley might remember from before his Fall. They form their Arrangement off of that and Aziraphale learns even more that, often, no one is really paying attention to what they do. That no one seems to notice if Crowley performs an angelic miracle or if Aziraphale performs what has become termed a 'demonic miracle'... because, really, *they're the same*, though that's not something Aziraphale can fully admit. He cannot allow himself to believe that demons *are angels* because if there's nothing different between demons and angels than Aziraphale doesn't know anything at all.

Anything at all... He doesn't know what being an angel *is* and it's what he supposedly is so it means he doesn't know who or what he is, really.

He doesn't know what God wants or if he truly believes in Her.

He doesn't know what the purpose of all of this is-- why Crowley had to suffer, why demons in general have to, why the *humans* do. Why it all has to be destroyed eventually. To what end?

Aziraphale has the same questions Crowley does and sometimes, late at night, often a little drunk, he'll dare to ask them with Crowley, and every morning that he still wakes up and sobers up and finds himself still an angel when Crowley Fell for so much less than Aziraphale has ever thought or done, he wonders just *why?*

Why is he still an angel when he, really, is no different from Crowley? Why Crowley is damned? Punished for all of eternity for curiosity and innovation and imagination, while Aziraphale is still an angel, doomed to only have until the clock runs out on Armageddon before losing him for the rest of fucking *eternity* but, until then, stuck suffering watching him suffer while remaining an angel? Is being an angel at this point, really, his punishment for failing the apparently foul fiend he adores?

Does Aziraphale ever have any answers to these questions? Good God, no lol. He's six thousand years into this and he's in the same spot as Amnesiac!ArchangelFuckingGabriel in 2.01:

...would be okay if you could just be one near particular person?

Of course Aziraphale knows what this feels like. Of course. We know he does. And that's why he hasn't been able to make a real move in six thousand years-- because it's his fault, as far as he's concerned.

Crowley's damnation is his fault. Crowley cannot really love him, or couldn't if he knew. Not because he's a demon, though Aziraphale might have thought that at one point but he definitely was cured of it by events in 1941. The more time that goes by, the more Aziraphale knows that Crowley loves him-- that he's *in* love with him-- and the worse it all gets for Aziraphale because every day that he hasn't told Crowley that he didn't prevent him from Falling is another day within the last *six thousand years* of them falling in love and the betrayal seems to get worse and worse to Aziraphale. The time to have this conversation was on the wall in Eden and it still hasn't happened. Still, over time, he starts to realize that Crowley, if ever knew, would forgive him.

Because his Crowley has the kindest of hearts. He really does, and that wasn't taken from him when he Fell and Aziraphale finds every opportunity he can to delight in seeing that and making Crowley reveal it.

It goes against everything Aziraphale is supposed to believe.

Demons are not supposed to be good-- if they were, they wouldn't have Fallen. Yet, Aziraphale knows Crowley is. He never has truly believed that Crowley isn't-- even when he could have, at least at the start. He worried, maybe, that he had helped create a monster out of the most lovely being he'd ever known but Crowley just kept proving him wrong about that, time and time again. *Crowley* doesn't believe it about himself, really, because that's his own trauma from his Fall but Aziraphale believes it about him and that's often good enough for Crowley.

But, really, this is why they still haven't gotten together in six thousand years. This is why Aziraphale seems like he can never get beyond "I'm an angel and you're a demon", no matter what Crowley does or how he proves that there are shades of gray and also, that the entire system is bullshit. It is not that Aziraphale doesn't *know* that it's bullshit-- it's that if he admits that it is, if he stops believing in Heaven (even if he doesn't stop believing in God), then he's left with nothing but the crushing weight of guilt that he has for all the pain that Crowley has been through.

If he tells himself that Crowley Fell *for a reason* and that he (Aziraphale) was *right* to not interfere, to not try to thwart God, even if it would have likely failed, just on principle, to stand up for his friend... then Aziraphale doesn't have to deal with the fact that he made what he really considers to be a colossal mistake and that it has caused the continued pain and torture and eternal damnation of the being he considers his soulmate...

...which is why everytime that pain comes to the surface in something Crowley says or does, Aziraphale *cannot handle it at all whatsoever* and reverts to You'reADemonI'mAnAngel!Mode.

Example: Crowley's religious trauma on display in their bandstand argument:

Crowley owns this, even if he's still traumatized by it. He's saying it sarcastically, making a joke on a song Aziraphale probably barely knows, if he knows at all ("Unforgettable"-- Nat King Cole). Aziraphale *aches* at Crowley saying this-- because it reminds him that it's partially his own fault. And he can't. Do. Anything. About. It.

He's an all-powerful *angel* here but he can't change this for Crowley. He can't stop his suffering some six thousand years after his Fall. He's looking at sexy goth Crowley here and he's thinking about curly-haired, beaming, ball of light! Crowley and that they are *the same person* and Aziraphale *does* know that. He knows it and he loves him passionately and desperately and he is one of the most powerful beings ever in existence and he's standing there looking at the man-shaped-being he adores talking about how he still aches from the betrayal of his fellow angels and his mother God and *there is no way for Aziraphale to fix it* when he can mend broken bones and heal the sick and let their be light! all over the place. He can do proper magic and still, he cannot take away Crowley's pain.

This is Aziraphale's Hell. He didn't Fall but he's been in Hell anyway.

So when Crowley's religious trauma and pain comes out, usually in an argument like in the bandstand scene, Aziraphale does the only thing he thinks he *can* do, right? He's an angel. Still. Somehow. He's an angel and there must be some reason for that and an angel is not a demon-- an angel is a purer being, a healer-- and so he says "I forgive you". He doesn't mean it to be patronizing, even if it is. ("I am a *great deal* holier than thou," as he told Crowley at one point and that was the point, right?) He is trying to say "I am still of Heaven and if it's absolution you need, I can give it to you."

He is trying to say: You are not unforgivable to me.

The real lyric of the song Crowley parodies in the bandstand is what Aziraphale means, whether he knows that song or not...

Unforgettable/That's what you are...

*Crowley*, though, doesn't know about Aziraphale's inner turmoil because *heavy sigh* FFS TALK, YOU IDIOTS *breathes* lol, so *he* hears:

I still think I am better than you and you are Fallen, so you're not worthy of me. I can't love you, not the way you want. I love all beings because I'm an angel and I you know I'm in love with you but I can't *allow* myself to be because it goes against the nature of an angel and I've only done eleven thousand things that should have made me Fall over the years but letting myself be in love with you is the rubicon I won't cross, apparently...

Crowley knows by the time they're having the bandstand argument enough about Aziraphale's general religious trauma (not necessarily about how it pertains to Crowley's Fall but about it in general) to know that he spits out hateful garbage when he feels cornered and how to just call it bullshit and move on. ("I don't even like you."/"You doooo.") But he understandably walks away when Aziraphale pushes him away past a point he can handle-- and Aziraphale knows how to do that. He does it *intentionally.* The "I forgive you" is sadness because it's all he has to offer Crowley but he also knows it'll piss Crowley off enough to end the argument, so he says it intentionally to get Crowley to go away. In this scene (which parallels the end of S2 quite a bit, as many have noticed), Aziraphale is trying to deal with it all on his own, right?

He knows where the antichrist is. He's just not telling Crowley yet. He's trying to deal with it to keep him safe. He's doing it because he thinks he should-- that maybe, when it's something of this level of importance, that his job should be as an angel first, above his side with Crowley. (It's also worth mentioning here that Aziraphale is straight up terrified of Falling, not even just for being damned to Hell but because then, if he's no longer in Heaven, he has exactly zero power to even *try* to protect Crowley.) At the end of S2? With The Metatron?

Aziraphale does the same thing as with the antichrist for a time in S1, really.

The beginning of S2 shows us that Aziraphale has known that Heaven is North Korea since Before the Beginning so now marry that with its last scenes and see the arc that connects them-- Aziraphale does what he does out of guilt over what happened to Crowley to *protect* Crowley. He didn't want to do any of it without Crowley and when The Metatron finally offers that carrot, Aziraphale is suspicious as all hell (pardon the pun) and here we have this moment where part of him *wants* this to all be real, right?

Times change and sometimes, your parents who traumatized the living fuck out of you and didn't approve of your boyfriend, grow the hell up a bit and try to repent and mend fences. Maybe the trust is broken but maybe it can be healed and *as an angel*, Aziraphale is a being of goodness and hope and optimism. He's pure of heart, as Crowley put it to Nina. He *wants* that to be the case... but he also knows it likely is not.

Still... they can't run. There's nowhere that Heaven won't find them. It's no life for them-- no life for Crowley, in Aziraphale's mind, no matter how many times Crowley tries to get him to run away with him. "We can go off together!" begs Crowley, over and over, and Aziraphale's only really ever found that Crowley will only slither off if he's ticked off enough and only "I forgive you" ever really does that enough to work lol. He *means* I love you endlessly but you know this is impossible, you bloody maddening, gorgeous serpent! Will you stop reminding me of what we could have when it can never happen?! but that's not exactly how Crowley's taking it.

In the end, to Aziraphale, Aziraphale is an angel and Crowley is a demon and they are doomed to spend eternity apart and Aziraphale thinks he has no one to blame, really, but himself. If he had somehow saved Crowley six thousand years ago-- or had somehow been brave enough to stand up for him and Fallen alongside him-- they could have been together forever.

But he wasn't then and now The Metatron is here and it's time for Aziraphale to go back to Heaven and he knows, as he sits there drinking coffee with the being whose posse sent Crowley in a free fall into a pit of boiling sulphur, that Crowley will never, ever, ever, EVER go back to Heaven.

But he also knows that Heaven is here to collect Aziraphale and they are making it clear that there is no escape. There's nowhere to run. Everyday, it's been getting closer for six thousand years and going faster than a roller coaster for the last handful but a love like Beez and Gabe's will surely never come his and Crowley's way now.

It was always going to end like this. Nothing lasts forever. He told Crowley that, Before the Beginning. Six thousand years. That was all the time they had before the end of Earth, the place they'd come to call home. They found a way to borrow a few more years at the end of it since S1 and he got to dance with Crowley, their fingers brushing, and that is going to have to be enough because they're out of time.

The Metatron never needed say it directly but it was evident: they wanted Aziraphale to go to Heaven and they would say or do anything to get him up there and Aziraphale may have bought it for a moment but he's definitely figured out by the end of S2 that they need him up there not to become the Supreme Archangel but because his time as an angel is now over. The threat to Crowley is unspoken but omnipresent.

The Metatron makes it sound like he doesn't care if Crowley comes back up to Heaven with Aziraphale or not and he really doesn't and why would that be? Why would he be eager to have the two most troublesome beings in all of Heaven and Hell teaming up and getting in the way of his Second Coming plans, which he absolutely *knows* they won't support? Because they won't have jobs waiting for them up there. Crowley will not be restored to full angelic status.

They're going to kill them. Aziraphale knows it. He's known what Heaven is since Before the Beginning, even if he's been in denial about it for almost as long to try to assuage his own guilt over participating in it.

And it's a lot easier a goal for Heaven to accomplish if they separate them and just Aziraphale goes up to Heaven. If Aziraphale goes alone-- if he keeps Crowley from following-- then Crowley is not a threat to them if Aziraphale is gone.

They aren't as powerful apart.

Aziraphale knows that if Crowley comes to Heaven with him that they will kill him and Aziraphale thinks okay, this is it... this is my moment of redemption.

Six thousand years since Crowley Fell and I can finally make up for not saving him by saving him now.

I can go with The Metatron and let Heaven kill me and know that they will not threaten Crowley if they do because what they are threatened by is both of us together. One of us, alone, is less of a threat and the only problem here is that if I go... Crowley will follow me.

If I just go without telling him what The Metatron said and I don't come back right away, he'll go to Heaven, worried that something happened to me, and they'll kill him when he comes looking for me. He'll find out they've Book of Life'd me and do something stupid and my sacrifice to keep him safe will all be for nothing.

So what's our tortured angel to do?

Bandstand 2.0, right?

He's got to piss Crowley off enough that Crowley won't follow him.

He's got to piss Crowley off so much that Crowley *will never come back* and the worst part is that Aziraphale knows *exactly* how to do it.

He makes his own plans and if things get drastic enough, he'll blow up that damn halo, metaphorically-speaking this time. To save Crowley, he will break Crowley.

It's darkly romantic, really. He'll sacrifice himself for Crowley but to be sure that Crowley will be safe and not follow, he'll have to break his heart a bit first-- to further their misunderstandings in a season based on "I don't think your exactly is my exactly exactly"-level miscommunications.

So Aziraphale accepts The Metatron's offer and lets The Metatron think he completely believes that the offer is legit and maybe a part of him is still hoping that it is but he knows it's really not and that this is a suicide run. This is Aziraphale's Holy Water arc...

...and speaking of Holy Water... that arc from the perspective of this being Aziraphale's mentality... Crowley, tortured by Hell for what he did while with Aziraphale in 1827, then refusing to talk about it, showing up with a cane, sullen and depressed, asking Aziraphale for the one thing that would kill him and Aziraphale's unwillingness to understand that it wasn't completely suicide ideation on Crowley's part but as a way to *protect Aziraphale* and keep him safe. Crowley wanted what could kill a demon not to kill himself but to kill one that might come after Aziraphale. All Aziraphale could see, though, was Crowley's physical and emotional pain, that he could barely keep hidden in that era, and how Aziraphale couldn't make it better. All he could see was how he failed him and led him to this suffering. All he could see in a note begging for "holy water" was Crowley wanting a suicide pill, wanting to destroy himself, unable to take any more, in so much pain that he'd leave Aziraphale forever to make it stop. Aziraphale is blinded entirely by guilt and fails to see what Crowley is really saying, which was, ironically, the last time Crowley began to try to tell Aziraphale how he felt, which was:

I've been thinking-- what if it all goes wrong? (What if I lose you? I'm terrified of losing you. I love you. I wake up from nightmares of you being destroyed by the demons who just spent a couple of decades after 1827 not that long ago torturing me. I didn't know for sure if you were still alive during any of it.) We have a lot in common, you and me. (We're a team. A... group of the two of us.) What if it all goes pear-shaped? I need you to get me the magical demon-killing stuff so I have a weapon against *my own fellow fallen angels* that I can use in case they come after us. I would kill another demon and send every legion of Hell after me to protect you.

Aziraphale: I like pears.

(My God, they are so stupid. Please. I can't take any more lol.)

So, yeah... it's Aziraphale's turn for the holy water suicide run here only with an actual suicide run...

It takes the books in The Blitz for Aziraphale to really understand what Crowley was asking for and what he meant by asking for holy water and by 1967, he gives Crowley the holy water, in the one moment when *they actually talk*, as much as they can, about how much they love one another, that exists prior to the end of its parallel-- the end of S2.

So, yeah, Aziraphale "goes to tell his friend the good news" with a look on his face like he's marching to his death *because he is* and he knows it. His last moments with Crowley, in some of his last moments in existence, he already knows will be spent upsetting the man-shaped being he loves. He's got it all planned out. Not exactly the picnic of his dreams but it'll redeem him and save Crowley and that's all that matters to Aziraphale in this moment.

He will sound naive to the threat of Heaven and because Crowley doesn't remember pre-Fall, he won't remember how Aziraphale warned him against taking on the brass in Heaven so Crowley won't be suspicious, he'll be *frustrated*, like he was in the bandstand. He'll get angry. Aziraphale's goal is to get him to storm out-- but it has to be a really, really, bad relationship-ending storming out.

He can't come back after he drives The Bentley around the block like he did back in 2.01 and say "okay, fine, I'll help you" and Aziraphale knows that if he plays this right, he can make it so Crowley won't because helping Gabriel was one thing but asking Crowley to become an angel with him and pretending like they can go fix the broken system of Heaven is going to be Crowley's bridge too far. It's *the only thing* that Aziraphale believes is Crowley's bridge too far where Aziraphale is concerned and isn't that heartbreaking as hell? That Crowley loves him this much? And they never got to be together the way they wanted? That they were just beginning to get close to trying to figure that out?

That, hours ago, Aziraphale was asking him to dance and trying to ignore the signs of trouble around the corner, desperately wanting more time with him? That they are semi-immortal beings that always somehow seem to be out of time?

Truer words have never been spoken, Crowley. Little did you know, poor demon...

So Aziraphale goes into the bookshop and Crowley looks all worked up and wants to say something and some part of Aziraphale begins to hear warning alarms going off in his head because Crowley *never* looks like this-- is never this flustered, never this uncomfortable, never this nervous, never in a rush to say something-- and Aziraphale thinks no, can't be, we don't talk about this... even if, ironically, all of S2 shows that Aziraphale has been trying *for just that*. It was just a few hours ago that he was trying to Jane Austen a ball for them to use as a pretense to discuss their feelings because, in the height of ironies here, right?

Aziraphale was ready.

They'd had some time without Heaven and Hell breathing so much down their necks, even if the threat still loomed, and spent every day together and it was perfect and it was lovely and he knew Crowley would forgive him and Aziraphale was almost there, right, he was *almost* ready to tell him. He was almost ready to tell him he loved him and that it was him, all those millennia ago, who could have done something and didn't and he's so, so, so sorry and can Crowley ever forgive him? Is there any way that Crowley could ever forgive him after what he didn't say and didn't do when he should have? For all the times since that he's said things in anger when, really, he was madly in love and just full of his own issues to sort out? (Damn, Aziraphale, we're beginning to see your affinity for Austen heroes here...)

But he's out of time so there will be none of that now. Now is his karmic payback. Six thousand beautiful years with the being he loves and feels he doesn't deserve have led to Aziraphale's redemption being that he can sacrifice himself to save him. He can leave the world they love with Crowley and Crowley's *goodness* in it, as it should be. So when Crowley says he needs to say something, Aziraphale cannot-- CANNOT-- let him speak because he cannot bear it.

He suddenly fears that of course-- OF COURSE-- the one moment in all of these trillions of moments they've lived through where Crowley is about to directly say he loves him for the first time is the also the same fucking moment when Aziraphale has to destroy their relationship to save Crowley's life and Aziraphale will be dead after this and he cannot bear hearing what his life could have been. He can't hear Crowley say this right now or else he worries he might lose his nerve. He *wants* to hear it but if Crowley speaks first, Aziraphale might cave, he might be weak again like he was when Crowley Fell, he might fail him again, and he can't. Not after all this time. Not when he loves Crowley so much.

"What's that lovely human expression?! 'Hold that thought!'" he blurts out, in a callback to, of course, the moment Crowley saved him in 1941-- to that night where Aziraphale really realized for the first time that Crowley wasn't just capable of good or capable of being friendly towards him but that Crowley *loved* him and that he loved the Demon Crowley, whether or not he should. ("But somewhere in my wicked, miserable past," sings Frances McDormand as the Voice of God, from her apparent favorite film lol, "I must have done something good.")

Ah, yes. Played for suckers. Here is where it's important to note that in 1941, Aziraphale had no idea that Rose was really Greta and that he, in fact, was the one being played for a sucker. By the end of S2, though, it could be argued that he very much knows that The Metatron is Fraulein Greta Klauschmidt-- someone who presented herself as Captain Rose Montgomery, an agent of anti-fascist good, who approached Aziraphale in his bookshop and told him that he could be an agent of change, too. He could help save the world and stop the global rising tide of fascism represented by the Third Reich. He could even do so using his books. They plotted a sting together, in which he'd bring his books to a church and seem to give them to Nazis to give to the Fuhrer, only for agents to surround them and arrest the Nazis. Aziraphale, desperate to *do* good and to *be* good, falls for this-- he fails to see that Rose is really Greta, a Nazi agent who fools him into working for the enemy and getting him to help destroy the world in the process. Pretty obvious to see here that Greta is The Metatron in S2... but it's likely that Aziraphale knows it and is playing along because it's his turn to save Crowley, unlike what happened in 1941, when Crowley saves him and his books.

Crowley, in the bookshop back at the end of S2 in our present time, stops speaking at the "hold that thought", looking like he's about to be ill, and has to also be thinking of 1941 and the church now that Aziraphale has referenced it. Maybe, in some way, it's an unconscious effort on Aziraphale's part to convey to Crowley that this is a charade-- that he doesn't mean this, that it's an act-- but he really doesn't want Crowley to figure that out. It would defeat his goal. But he also doesn't want to hurt him because he loves him but this is the only way that Aziraphale can see to save him. So he starts gushing about his coffee with The Metatron, right? We all remember this pain lol.

Maybe I've misjudged him. (Aziraphale, we suspect you know that he tossed Crowley into hellfire and stole Gabriel's memories so honestly, the worst part of all of this is that you're so traumatized that Crowley is *buying* what you're saying here...) And guess what?! He wants me to be the new Supreme Archangel! And he said you can come! And you can be an angel again! It will be so fun! We can have a slumber party, Crowley, after days of doing good, and braid each other's hair!

Crowley is like jfc fml are you even serious right now? Which, of course, is what Aziraphale *was going for.* It's the "I don't even like you" and the "we're hereditary enemies" and the "I'm an angel, you're a demon" way of trying to intentionally push Crowley away but the new version of it because none of that flies with S2 Crowley-- most of it barely flew with him in S1-- because Crowley *knows.*

He knows that Aziraphale loves him. And he knows that Aziraphale knows him, which is to say he knows how to hurt him, and that's what this is but also Crowley just sees it as how much Heaven has hurt them both. How much they've hurt Aziraphale. Because just as Aziraphale looks at Crowley in the throes of his religious trauma-- "Unforgivable. It's what I am", etc.-- and wants to help and save and protect him, Crowley feels the same way in return when Aziraphale is like this. Frustrated, sure, but in just as much pain at how much pain Aziraphale is in and feels powerless to stop it but will do whatever he can to try to, yeah?

For Aziraphale, this is all going fairly well (it's miserable but in terms of goal, it's working) through "tell me you said no" but the problem is that Crowley is still pleading. He's still trying to work through it because they're an *us* now and also ironically of course this is when Crowley's been trying to do better with storming out lol so he's trying to couple-solve this. He's not just *leaving* like how Aziraphale had hoped. He had been trying to sell to Crowley that he could pick Heaven over Crowley and Crowley is just kinda... not believing it so much at first and, instead, is trying to approach it like a problem for the two of them to solve together, instead of as a decision that Aziraphale has made for his life that he's stating that Crowley can take or leave.

Which calls back to this scene in 2.01 at the start of this arc, when Crowley calls their life *his* life and Aziraphale counters with that he thought *they* had carved out a life for themselves *together* and Crowley answers: "so did I!" Because they haven't had a discussion about what they are, exactly, at that point, Crowley still cautiously calls *their* life *his* life, retaining a sense of autonomy, as if he's only making decisions for himself when, in reality, they are a couple who are trying to make a life together and have been doing so consciously since S1. Crowley calls that life "precious" and "peaceful" to Aziraphale-- beautiful, lovely things that they both treasure and want and find with one another-- but also "fragile". The threats to them still loom large in the background and they are still so afraid to go much further in their relationship because, in part, of those threats and how terrified they are of losing one another... which just makes the end of S2 even more brutal, really.

(*mantras* cottage in the south downs cottage in the south downs...)

So back in That Scene later in S2, Aziraphale is then just kind of stuck trying to figure out how to get Crowley to be so angry with him that he storms out and never comes back in the face of Crowley trying to very much not do that and then Crowley starts saying that he needs to say what he was going to say or he never will and Aziraphale *knows*, ok? He knows what Crowley needs to say. He just literally cannot believe this is going to happen right now. He honestly can't believe it's happening at all but right now?!

He knows before Crowley begins speaking. He probably knew when he told him to "hold that thought" a few moments before but he *really* knows now. Crowley has no idea that Aziraphale has planned for this to be the last time they ever see one another and to go sacrifice himself to Heaven for whatever they want to do with him to keep them away from Crowley. Crowley looks like he's about to pass out from nerves and can barely speak and just...

...six. thousand. years...

...I know we have all looked at the heartbreak of this scene from Crowley's POV here every which way to Sunday, okay, but just imagine you are Aziraphale, who has loved this being since before the literal beginning of time, and you blame yourself for his pain and suffering, and he's standing here, braver than you've ever been with him, looking into your eyes and telling you that he knows that you love him and that he loves you and he knows you both have known this for basically the entirety of your existence together and he can't pretend anymore. He doesn't want to pretend anymore. He knows things have changed over the last few years between you and he wants more of that. He wants to be with you.

The two of you are not even human, just human-adjacent beings who have gone native from the stars and clouds here, who live and love like humans, who know that maybe the angels and demons have it backwards and God's great creatures are the humans-- that it should be the good in them that you should be trying to emulate-- and Crowley had never been more beautifully, impossibly human than while he's standing there looking ready to pass out while asking you if, after six millennia, it might be alright for him to not hide how much he loves you.

How many times has Aziraphale imagined this by this point? A million? How many different ways? There's at least half of them when he imagines that he's the one who gets up the courage first but there are so. many. Crowley. fantasies. Ones in every time period. But always *a fantasy*, at least up until maybe very recently. Why?

Not even just Heaven and Hell and the threat of being caught but the fact that Aziraphale believes that Crowley doesn't know Aziraphale didn't save him during The Fall and how could he ever really love him if he knew? How could Aziraphale ever go to him like this and give Crowley everything he knows Crowley has desired for so long without telling him the truth about Aziraphale's role in Crowley's Fall-- but then, Aziraphale assumes, he'd lose Crowley forever? So this has always been a pipe dream for Aziraphale-- fantasies from a world where they ever stood a chance of being together-- never really something that could be reality and here it is, starting, happening *now*...

...after six. thousand. years. of living with this guilt and in the last moments in which he will ever see Crowley before he heads to his likely death, with no time to tell him the truth and beg for his forgiveness, no time to ever know what their lives might be like if they could be together.

As Crowley, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, mused dramatically, if not inaccurately, earlier in the season... it's always too late.

It's punishment, in Aziraphale's mind. That's what Crowley's proposal, his confession, is now. It's his Fall, whether he falls or not when he leaves the bookshop for Heaven. It's karmic retribution-- it's God, finally saying something, and what she's saying is:

Look at what you've done, Aziraphale...

Look at how he loves you.

He was never unforgivable.

You are.

Aziraphale might be erased from existence once he gets to Heaven and he knows that's a possibility but he basically is dying here. Crowley is killing him. Crowley has pointed that silver bullet gun straight at his head and fired but he's missed and the bullet isn't in Aziraphale's teeth, it's gone through him.

Crowley, here, tears in his eyes, asking for whatever time they have. An eternity? Impossible, unlikely. Angel and demon. One day, the war will begin again-- another war to end all wars, like all the ones they've fell more and more in love during throughout history-- but it might be the one where Heaven or Hell wins and they're doomed to spend eternity apart. Crowley has said before he thinks the real war is humanity versus Heaven and Hell and that sounds like he thinks there's a chance they could survive it but who knows? They don't know. They're immortal beings who live like humans and that's, of late, included a sense of mortality. They don't know how much time they have left and Crowley is asking for all of it. He is asking for whatever time they have left to be spent together, openly loving one another, and what he doesn't know is what Aziraphale knows:

That they're already out of time.

Crowley is proposing marriage unaware that Aziraphale is dying. It's always too late, Crowley had stated earlier but had hope that maybe it wasn't but it is. And Aziraphale?

Gah. Aziraphale...

He's never loved him more. He's never wanted him more. He wants to tell him that he wants that, too, that they can have it, that Crowley can have anything he wants, but it's not true. It's not true because they could run out the back door of the bookshop now and hop in the Bentley and end-of-Grease it up to Alpha Centauri and Heaven will still find them. Heaven and Hell will still be after them. Running away solves nothing and Crowley always, ultimately, anyway, comes back and this time-- this time-- for Crowley's own good, to save his life, Aziraphale needs him to leave the bookshop and never come back.

And the moment that Crowley confesses that he loves him and that he knows Aziraphale loves him in return and that they've both known this, forever, and asks him if he can be allowed to just love him, Aziraphale loves him so much in return that he'll break his heart to save him from dying.

Dying is... not on, as High!Crowley put it in 1827 lol, but suicide-ish attempts are, if it's Aziraphale's turn this time.

So he twists the knife. He hides the goats as pigeons and he looks at Crowley and does a bit of this:

...only with the exact opposite intent. In the Job minisode, Crowley cannot speak aloud his true intentions. (Something he can finally do in the S2 finale, when he declares his love for Aziraphale.) He cannot tell Aziraphale outrightly that he had zero desire whatosever to kill Job's kids and animals and doesn't plan on actually doing it and, in fact, is actively engaged in a bit of bait-and-switch to make it look like he's doing what he's supposed to be doing as mandated by Heaven! this time as well as Hell (a nice little extra bit of paralleling to the end of S2 and Aziraphale, there.) He wants Aziraphale to believe him enough to allow him to pull it off because saving the kids and the pets (and protecting Aziraphale from any harm that might come to him if he gets in the way of what Crowley's been asked to do) matters more to Crowley than Aziraphale believing him...

...and believing him here means believing *in* him. Believing that they are on the same side and it's their own side and they're in it together. Crowley has to lie to him here *and it works for a moment*. It's really important to note that *it works*. Aziraphale believes that Crowley can do this and that he wants to-- that he not only can but he *longs* (lol) to "kill the blameless kids of Job"-- but it's all in Crowley's wording. He isn't *actually* lying. He *does* long to kill the blameless kids of Job like how he killed the blameless goats of Job-- because he "killed the blameless goats of Job" by turning them into pigeons. So he's really saying to Aziraphale that he longs to *fake the deaths* of the blameless kids of Job and plans to in the same way that he did the goats. In that moment, though? It didn't matter if Crowley was lying or telling the truth. There was only one goal--

--to get Aziraphale to walk away.

To get Aziraphale to leave, for his own safety, and let Crowley handle this. Better that he misunderstand Crowley and be disappointed in him and think him a lost cause than to get himself into trouble. Crowley out here loving Aziraphale that much in the days of Bildad the Shuite. (This poor mfer. Six. Thousand. Years lol.)

So what caused Crowley's plan to save Aziraphale in the Job era to not work?

One of the pigeons bleated, right?

Aziraphale heard it and realized that Crowley hadn't been lying so much as he had been trying to protect Aziraphale from his plan of subterfuge against the Almighty and Satan. The difference is that there are no bleating pigeons in the S2 finale... there's just *a whole certain famous other kind of damn bird instead* and its *absence* from the scene is the big emotional gut punch moment. And we all know it but I'll gif it anyway since this is already a depressing meta (cottage in the south downs cottage in the south downs...)...

...and that *is* the point. Because unlike back in the Bildad the Shuite days, there is no bleating pigeon (at least, not yet) to make Crowley realize that all is not what it seems and that Aziraphale is trying to lie to him and get him to leave to protect him from Heaven.

As Aziraphale is like mortally wounded here by Crowley's confession of love and is so not going to recover from this, he's now got to not only get Crowley to leave feeling like Aziraphale rejected being their own team for Heaven, he has to now do it with all of it out in the open-- with Crowley having openly confessed love for him, with him having asked for them to be together. He's not just going to have to frustrate Crowley more than he ever has before and get him to leave more angry than he was before, he has to, instead, smash into little tiny bits the very beautiful, very passionate, beating heart of the being he has loved since he met him *making the stars* in the bloody sky here...

The only way to get Crowley to go now is to make Crowley think he's rejecting the idea of loving him. Aziraphale honestly can't even sell the idea that he *doesn't* love Crowley because Crowley won't believe it-- he knows Aziraphale does and he's said as much in his whole marriage proposal here. So it has to be that Crowley thinks Aziraphale chose Heaven over loving him. Chose being an angel. That he really meant all of those 'hereditary enemies' and 'you're a demon' moments and to sell that, he sells it.

(You're a dark horse, Mr. Fell, Nina said of him in 2.01... the same turn of phrase Crowley uses when surprised by the secret skills and narrative power of Jane Austen later on in the pub.)

Aziraphale does love himself a bit of theatre. A bit of a disappearing act. The West End, The West End...

...our Nefertiti-fooling fellow...

He sells it with:

Well, of course you said no, *you're* the bad guys...

Come with me... I'll run, it you can be *my second-in-command*...

We can be together. *Angels*. Doing *good*...

...oh, Crowley... nothing lasts forever...

For his final act, The Marvelous Mr. Fell will saw his ineffable husband's heart in half by spewing a litany of everything he can think of to say that will piss him off enough to make him leave the bookshop broken-hearted enough to never come back.

Only someone put a miracle blocker on here because, try as he might and good heavens (pardon the pun), Aziraphale is *trying* here...

...this turnip is not turning into a damn inkwell.

Crowley finally starts to go-- it's looking promising. Finally, Aziraphale thinks, this misery might end. Six thousand years of wanting to speak of all of this between them and hoping for some happiness when-- if-- it could maybe someday arrive, if it even could-- and it's the worst moment of Aziraphale's existence and he knows it is the same for Crowley.

Crowley stops and the "do you hear that?" And no, Aziraphale doesn't hear anything, he just has never been more upset and Crowley needs to just go because Aziraphale can't handle another moment of this, how could it possibly get worse?

Nightingales. Of course.

A call back to S1's "no more world-class composers/little restaurants where they know you/gravalax and dill sauce/old bookshops" but this time, it's "no nightingales". There's Armageddon coming that neither of them know about in this moment. It's still a 'someday, they'll try again' concept to them in this scene, not an extremely immediate threat, as Aziraphale doesn't learn about The Second Coming until after this. So the end of the world that Crowley references here is the end of *their* world and that means no nightingales. No romance. No *them*, together. Worth remembering that Crowley thought, up until maybe what? Five minutes ago? That they were headed to breakfast at the Ritz together. They should have been sitting there together *in this moment*, is what he's saying. Miracling the pianist to play "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" and gazing at one another over teapots and mimosas and croissants.

That's gone, since you chose Heaven instead, is what Crowley states and Aziraphale knows it because, God help him (no, literally, GOD HELP HIM! WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GO OFF TO THIS SEASON, FRANCES?!), it's what he's *trying* to make happen.

You idiot, says the once-Bildad the Shuite, who thought he was taking his beloved to the ox rib special this morning and not getting dumped for an old floating head and the cinematic world's most contentious to-go cup of coffee, we could have been... us.

Not really a part of the theory here, just the observation that Crowley's confession/proposal begins with him unable to say "a couple", in case this all goes pear-shaped and he needs to have never said something that romantic, so he says instead "a team", "a group-- of the two of us". He says it without saying it. But, by the end? He just says "us." He *present*-tenses it. He's like forget everything else, angel, we could have just kept on being us because we both know what we are. We don't need to find the right turn of phrase or even the most specific human word for it. We are just *us* and we could have kept on with that but you chose the mentality of your abusive family and asked me to be what I'm not and I still love you because I *know* you but I can't be with you like that and *you* know that.

And he kisses him. Because Franny McD says you ain't suffered enough yet, Aziraphale lol. Should I just gif it while we're miserable? If you've read this far, a month has passed and hopefully, you've taken breaks and I do apologize but I'm gonna gif it because yeah. Here we go, folks...

God, make it stop, pleads Aziraphale to literal God and here comes Crowley with the S1 wall slam parallel, all dammit, angel, I know you've wanted us to snog for centuries and this is our last chance.

I know people have opinions about this kiss and I know we're all posting them here, obviously myself included, but while I've seen a lot of like... 'Crowley knows it's the only time they ever will be able to because Aziraphale is leaving him for Heaven' and 'Crowley wants to remind Aziraphale what he's giving up and could have had' and 'Crowley tries the kiss to see if it'll change Aziraphale's mind' takes-- and I agree with all of those things and think they're all right-- I've not seen a lot of 'Crowley kisses Aziraphale *for Aziraphale*' and I think that's a big part of it, too.

Crowley really isn't stupid. Not when it comes to Aziraphale wanting him. It would be honestly hard to spend a zillion lifetimes on Earth and not get it after like...

And Crowley understands Aziraphale's particular brand of religious trauma more than most, since he has a variant version of it himself. He understands that where his whole thing is that he's very much *not* an angel anymore, that Aziraphale's identity is wrapped up in being one and the conflicts he has with Heaven and while Crowley is not yet quite hearing what Nina said-- that she just got out of an abusive relationship and that she's not yet ready to be with Maggie and needs time-- and marrying that to Aziraphale and Heaven (especially because Aziraphale is showing exactly zero signs of trying to get out of his relationship with Heaven lol), Crowley wants Aziraphale to have had what he (Aziraphale) wanted, even if it was for only a moment. He can't go with him. This is the *one* scenario where Crowley cannot follow where Aziraphale goes, where he can't come to him and rescue him, because Aziraphale has said he doesn't want him to. Aziraphale wants to go and do this and the only way he'll take Crowley is if Crowley wants to become an angel again, which Crowley will not do.

And damned if there isn't a part of Aziraphale that thinks that if The Metatron can really be trusted, wouldn't that be something? That if he gets up there to Heaven and he really is made Supreme Archangel and if Crowley changes his mind, if he comes back, like he always does... if he storms out and leaves but then misses him too much and takes the elevator up... then maybe Aziraphale could make him an angel again and while Crowley hears in Aziraphale offering that you aren't good enough as a demon-- you're not good, period and even if he doesn't totally believe that Aziraphale really thinks that but knows Aziraphale has enough religious conflict that it's a problem for their relationship, what Aziraphale *really* means is... I could fix it.

I could go back and un-Fall you. I could take away your pain. I could stop your suffering. I'd have the *power* to do it when I don't right now and it kills me, every day. I could right the wrong I did, the sin I committed-- the real Original Sin-- six thousand years ago when I betrayed you, when Heaven betrayed you.

I could do right by you, the way She never did.

I am going to Heaven to either have the power to do that or to be obliterated into non-existence and I don't totally know which, though surviving is not looking promising, but all I know is that it's too dangerous for you to follow me right now until I do know so I'd rather hurt you than see you dead.

You want to be with me and I am afraid it will lead to your destruction so I need to say anything to put the breaks on your attempt and make you back off. To a lesser extent, I've done it before. Can do again.

Only this time, no hope of the possible, future picnic, I'm afraid...

It really is the worst possible Aziraphale nightmare here like... everything he's ever wanted. Six millennia of wanting to pull Crowley close and he has to reject him or Crowley could die. Fanfic season here said Coffee Shop AU and also a reverse-Fuck or Die for the ages. People complaining that it's awkward? YES. It's supposed to be. Crowley has no idea that Aziraphale is facing a round of sudden death here and was just hoping for his one fabulous kiss and vavoom. Even if it didn't change anything-- he wanted *Aziraphale* to feel that. To know how much he's wanted this for so long and to have it, even if they can't again. The intent is terribly romantic, as is Aziraphale flailing in the middle of it and giving in because he is made of strong, halo-exploding stuff here but he's wanted this forever. He goes up on his toes, he leans in, his hands flail around and he touches Crowley's back. He *shouldn't* do any of this if he's trying to meet his goal of getting Crowley to leave because it gave Crowley hope. It might have even been what motivated Crowley to stay outside and not go right away, or at least a part of it. But Aziraphale had to because he loves him and he couldn't help it.

Then, *sob*, The Michael Sheen eviscerating all of us here...

For anyone who might still be saying that is an "I didn't want his kiss" face... hard, HARD, VERY HARD disagree. That is "I didn't want *this* kiss, like this, right now." That is a man-shaped being who was just kissed by the love of his life for what may have been the first time but, at minimum, is for what he believes will be the *last* time. (I'm still out here holding out some hope for Blitz, Part 3-- a nice first kiss after they kill some Zombie Nazis with Chekhov's derringer in the bookshop but I digress...somehow, even if this entire long meta is one long digression, I digress lol...)

It's the face of a man gutted by the fact that this, in his wildest dreams, was not supposed to happen like this and he's been alive for damn ever at this point so he's had *all* the wildest dreams. And a lot of them, let's be real, have centered around Crowley doing just this. Exactly this. Crowley ain't wrong with the 'grabbing him by the collar and kissing him senseless in the middle of the bookshop' thing. He's wanted to do it for centuries. And the middle of the bookshop bit? That's important, too. This is their home. It's *their* home, even if Crowley is technically homeless. It's safe for him in here and Aziraphale has made it so. It's where they've spent thousands of hours together, happy and safe in each other's company, and here they are, bouille-bouile-bouile-baby-ing finally and it's a complete and utter, unmitigated trash truck dumpster fire.

Honestly, this was a better kiss than in S2 lol. S1 laying down though how long they've been dreaming about it (and having Crowley start listing animals that are in Aziraphale's nonsense magic spell, like he flashes back to 1941 when thinking about the end of the world and kissing Aziraphale in the bookshop... so you can see why I'm moderately hopeful that maybe they did kiss then, once, before then trying to never again until Crowley kisses Aziraphale in 2.06.)

I'm going to bring this back around now to the comparison I made above with Crowley and Jesus and talk about how 2.06's end scenes are also like the last temptation of Christ. Good Omens makes it pretty clear that Aziraphale is the tempter, really, of the two of them, in their relationship. Crowley can't say no to him and Aziraphale has learned it and loves to puppy eyes Crowley into anything he wants.

Crowley knows it and is fine with it. He's smitten and happy to be wrapped around Aziraphale's finger. Crowley has tempted Aziraphale and we see that in S2 with the ox rib. He is, himself, just by existing, tempting to Aziraphale. But in terms of temptation carrying with it a bit of manipulation and *that* kind of tempting being what's demonic in nature? Then Aziraphale is, and always has been, the demon of the two of them. This is true into the end of S2, as while there is almost nothing that Crowley would deny Aziraphale, there is really only one thing and that's to change who he is for him. To become an angel again, to work for Heaven again, after what they've done to him and Aziraphale. So the end of S2 is then Aziraphale's temptation-- it's a test, of sorts, for Crowley, even if Aziraphale doesn't intend for it to be. Crowley resists the temptation. Even for Aziraphale, he won't follow the path of darkness for himself and become something he's not. Crowley-Jesus. (Aziraphale-Satan S3 incoming lol.)

And if you've been reading all of this right then you know what happens next and what it means from the POV of this guilt-ridden Aziraphale...

I honestly don't think Aziraphale is really that angry *with Crowley* at this point-- I think he's just angry. He's reached his limit and then some. He has a lot of simmering, under the surface rage on a good day that only bubbles over when he's stressed by a situation he can't control and here is the ultimate one, really. He's a little mad at Crowley because they've waited countless years for that and in an argument, while ironically probably kind of perfect for them, is not really how *either* of them wanted it to be... but, mostly, Aziraphale is just angry that he can't have any of those moments at all. That they're out of time. That they had all this time and they never really could be safely together and that he's been haunted for six thousand years of the image of his fluffy cloud of redheaded sunshine, bloodied and stricken, and then tossed to Hell while Aziraphale was powerless to stop it. He's never seen those eyes since and he loves the snake ones. He loves all of Crowley with all he has but he's never been allowed to *have* him and never felt safe enough to try and now it's all over. And he still has to make Crowley fucking leave this bookshop for his plan of self-sacrifice to fucking work here so...

...I forgive you. It's the worst thing he can think of. The thing Crowley always hates. The thing that he knows makes Crowley feel lesser and demonic, even if Aziraphale has always, always meant it as an I love you. He even spits it out to Crowley with an almost self-deprecating, referential tone to it-- like "here we go again-- you say you love me and I say 'I forgive you' because I can't say anything else, can I?" The anger is laced underneath it and all the pain but he's intentionally referencing how this this the thing he says whenever Crowley says they can be their own side. He's trying to claim that nothing has changed in all of these years, when they both know that everything has changed since S1 and the bandstand. That's what makes it hurt both of them even more. Aziraphale chooses to say "I forgive you" because he knows that Crowley has never heard it for how Aziraphale means it and Aziraphale is a little bitter about it and lets it show in the moment, since Aziraphale's I forgive you always really means...

I can't stand to see you in pain and if there's any power in me as an angel to stop it, then I will do that so I forgive you and may that make it easier, may that make it all okay, even though I know it won't.

And just before saying I forgive you, Aziraphale's mouth works and he almost-- almost-- says I love you instead... what Crowley would really give anything to hear.

You can see the 'l' forming there, the beginning of "love", what he *really* wanted to say... what Crowley himself didn't even actually explicitly say. Crowley said it without saying it. He called them a couple without saying that word, asked for eternity without fully asking for it, said he loved him by acknowledging that they had both been pretending, but Crowley was terrified and so he said the things in a way that made it obvious what he was saying and asking for but, so unused to not speaking in code are they, that Crowley didn't say he loved Aziraphale, not directly. He did say it. He just didn't say it in those words.

And for a second, Aziraphale almost does.

He can't stand that he's breaking Crowley's heart. He can't stand that Crowley has kissed him and Aziraphale only briefly kissed him back, only barely touched him, when he really wanted to go at him like an ox rib and never let him go, and he starts to say the truth because no part of him really *wants* to be lying like this to Crowley. But he stops. And not even just because he needs Crowley to leave the shop to save his life but because, in the last four minutes, Crowley has confessed love and proposed and they've kissed and Aziraphale, pretty sure he actually died somewhere in the middle there and he's now stuck somewhere in one of Dante's worst circles of Hell lol, just cannot *also* have this be the moment where he says "I love you" to Crowley.

It's not even false hope that maybe they'll somehow have more time. With Heaven breathing down his neck in the form of The Metatron, Aziraphale has no real hope of that. He just always dreamed of telling him and not like this. He doesn't want Crowley to hear it like this, either, not as a part of a rejection. The anger, instead, surfaces, because why can't he and Crowley just *have* this?! How the hell did Gabriel and Beezlebub get to fuck off to Alpha Centauri after dating for ten minutes when he and Crowley have spent bloody eons in queer pining hell over here? What did they ever do that was so wrong to deserve this? Why was Crowley asking questions so terrible? Why have they had to spend thousands of years pretending not to love each other as if love-- the epitome of the angelic-- was unholy? Why, Aziraphale is wondering, now that they are out of time, did he ever spend so many years terrified when, in the end, it all ended tragically anyway?

How many of those years could Aziraphale have spent loving Crowley the way they ought to have been able to have and denied themselves of for so long?

And then Crowley finally does it. Tells him "don't bother" about the forgiveness-- about the love, as Aziraphale has always meant it-- and he leaves. It worked. The anger and pain and saying "I forgive you" after that kiss... it worked. And Crowley leaves and Aziraphale, alone, is a complete mess of broken and furious and broken some more.

Crowley, as we know, doesn't get to see this moment. Muriel does! Great for fic! Hilarious by show standards that the new angel who is literally being ordered to take over Aziraphale's home against his will is who witnesses the aftermath of the intimate moment our angel has been craving, oh, just since before the dawn of humanity over here.

He touches his lips, his hand trembles... have you all noticed that Aziraphale is literally fucking *tasting and eating* what of himself Crowley left in his mouth here? He's pulling every bit of Crowley to his tongue from his teeth and *swallowing*, like he knows it's all of him he'll ever again be able to consume, like he's committing how he tastes to memory for the last like, who knows, ten? fifteen? twenty minutes? of his own existence that he knows he probably has left...

Jesus fucking Christ, Michael Sheen...

This is all without yet mentioning the single most under-analyzed line in S2 that calls into question a ton of stuff, which is this beauty from Shax, right off the top of 2.01:

"Beezlebub's put some of the lesser demons on half-rations."

What does this have to do with Aziraphale consuming Crowley's kiss like it's the most scrumptious thing he's ever tasted (because it is) and being furious that it'll be their last?

Because that Shax line casually confirms that demons eat. Do they eat human food or some sort of demon food or both? Who knows, really, but they're *supposed* to eat. Ok, but is it just a demon thing? No, because it ties to Crowley's comments in S1 about how he complained that the food wasn't really that good lately when hanging out with Lucifer and The Gang, which then implies that, at least back then, *angels* ate, too. Eating was a normal thing. Over time, though, we know that the higher angels have come to see eating as human and pedestrian and not something befitting of an angel. Some demons eat-- even Crowley eats, if less than and differently than Aziraphale-- but the angels think it's beneath them and if we have confirmation via Shax in S2 that they are supposed to be eating and basically only don't die because they're immortal beings and not human, even if they have human corporations, then the show is saying that all of these angels are fucking starving themselves.

They're doing what they're told and denying their own nature and their own needs in the process.

S2 also shows that with the ox rib, right?

Aziraphale went *at* that thing. He'd never eaten at all in a couple thousand years after being told it was un-angelic and so when he tasted food for the first time, he went so overboard that he's been Mr. Prim and Proper with his napkins and table etiquette ever since out of embarrassment over Crowley watching him food orgasm once-- and that's the metaphor there, as we've all figured out. Our show that has a sex worker named Mrs. Sandwich is all about its ongoing food-as-sex metaphor. S2 even opens with the hilarious turnabout from S1 as a "thank you for my pornography", "why do you consume *that*?" Gabriel shows up at the bookshop-- naked-- and has a food orgasm trying hot chocolate for the first time.

Gabe, babe, Aziraphale does not need the play-by-play here....

Mah point is... mah point is that Tumblr is maxing me at 30 images per post and so you'll just have to picture Crowley slurring "dolphins" while I get to my actual point here...

Mah point is while this is a whole separate analysis almost and one that many of you have already done in different ways re: food & sex on the show, my point here is that starving yourself of food in Good Omens is analogous to being touch-starved or love-deprived and before someone yells at me about how angelic beings don't necessarily need sex or are by nature not into sex unless they make an Effort, I agree with you and Neil Gaiman. I'm just also saying the show is suggesting that they all have human corporations and that many of those human corporations are not sex-averse so for those of them that are not, they're literally out here touch-starved and/or sex-starved here in different ways. But, you say, maybe Crowley is hungry (goodness knows, Crowley *is hungry* lol) but Aziraphale eats all the time!

Yeah. Aziraphale eats *food*, all the time. But he isn't touched all the time. He doesn't have sex all the time. He isn't kissed all the time. The 2.06 scene shows him *physically* making that metaphor of food and sex real for us-- we watch him *consume* what remains of Crowley's kiss--showing that he's desperate for it and deprived of it. He's starved for it, to a point of trembling hands and rolling every bit of Crowley's lingering taste around his mouth like he's taking on every last bite of the best crepe he could ever imagine in all his days...

...and then being, understandably, full of rage that this is the only time he's going to ever have Crowley-- and all he's ever going to have of him, when Crowley just offered all of himself-- forever.

And then The Metatron comes back and is Aziraphale ready to go to his death now? And, Friends, Aziraphale...

...is absolutely not.

He's turned away from the door, barely containing tears. When the door opened and he turned, he half-hoped it'd be Crowley but it was grr That Bastard instead. He looks out the window and Crowley is still out there...

...he left but he didn't really *leave*... and it somehow then still isn't over and will someone please just take Aziraphale out back and angel-shoot him? He can't take any more of this.

What about the shop? he asks, in a moment of desperation and terror over what's to come and some blind, stupid hope that he can somehow get out of all of this with him and Crowley still alive and The Metatron, who anticipated this, tells him Muriel lives here now. Aziraphale looks around the home he's made for him and Crowley for the last 223 years and his favorite books and possessions. Crowley's hat from 1941 is on the hat stand, the horse statue is where Crowley put his glasses back when he trusted him, back when he let Aziraphale see his pretty yellow eyes whenever Aziraphale wanted in recent years... before he just put his glasses back on now and closed himself off again.

Aziraphale is never going to see those eyes he loves again. He didn't even get to kiss Crowley without the sunglasses on before it was all over.

Even Gabriel had something to take up to Heaven with him to remind him of the demon he loved but Aziraphale goes to Heaven and to his death empty-handed because he pushed Crowley away to save him from all of this and, in the final push, he looks at Crowley standing there by The Bentley, all that secretly optimistic, beautiful, romantic hope about him still in him from the angel Aziraphale first met, all the awareness there of Aziraphale-- the only being who really knows him-- and so he's still waiting, still hoping. It goes back a few hours to the ball.

I'll be back. I won't leave you on your own.

But it's Aziraphale's call now and he gets into the elevator. The Metatron wins because Aziraphale's love for Crowley wins. He'll die before he lets anything happen to him, even if he wants to run to that car and to him but where would they run *to*? There's no place to go. Crowley has always been wrong about that. They can't go off together. There's no place safe from Heaven for them.

So Aziraphale gets into the elevator at The Dirty Donkey, leaving Crowley alone in the street once again, just with less hope this time than in 1967.

So Aziraphale leaves the bookshop this time, instead of going into it like he did in S1, when he left Crowley in the street, standing beside The Bentley, while clutching a different book this time-- Agnes Nutter's prophecies in his hand versus The Book of Life and its threatened erasure hanging over Aziraphale like the specter that it is. What was predicted about the future versus erasure from the past and all time. Nothing to see here, Crowley! Everything is as it's seems.

Everything is tickety-boo!

Tickety-boo?

Yes, which is also what Aziraphale-as-Crowley said... when he was kidnapped by Heaven and Hell in S1, remember? When he was taken from Earth to be sentenced to death... along *with* Crowley.

This time, Aziraphale is shutting Crowley out again. Telling him 'mind how you go' again, this time a bit more, uh, emphatically lol. And on their heels, again, the end of the world. Arma-bloody-geddon 2.0: The Second Coming.

Aziraphale heard The Metatron saying that was the plan-- as, of course, our villain walked away and meant for it not to be totally heard, further implying that they have no plans to really make Aziraphale the Supreme Archangel and that this is all a remix of Fraulein Greta Klauschmidt. That then makes this all somehow *even worse*... because now Aziraphale gets in the elevator to ride up to his death to save Crowley but now he knows that it was all for nothing.

War is coming. The planet they love will be destroyed. Crowley, if he knows him well enough, will likely die trying to save it. When he does, he'll still be damned to Hell for all of eternity while Aziraphale thinks he likely won't exist at all once he makes it upstairs and Michael finally gets to Book of Life him. Let the other angels think he's been played for a sucker. Better they think him a fool than that they come for Crowley.

He doesn't want to Fall and doesn't wish for it. If they take his memories as punishment, and they almost certainly will, he won't remember any of the moments he spent with Crowley and even if they could have eternity together in Hell if the world is destroyed, he wouldn't wish Crowley the pain of being around him when he didn't remember anything.

Aziraphale only finding out about The Second Coming in the moment before he gets on the elevator-- *after* everything happens with Crowley-- is a million times worse because now Aziraphale is riding to his death knowing that everything they've done in six thousand years doesn't matter and that the events of S1 didn't matter because all it did was delay the inevitable end of the world and everything Aziraphale loves is about to be destroyed.

That, apparently, was God's ineffable, Great Plan.

All of that is what is on Aziraphale's face on the ride up to Heaven in the final splitscreen.

In that splitscreen, Crowley, for what it's worth, is visually echoing the driving back from Tadfield bit that leads to the "tickety-boo" moment of Aziraphale lying to him by omission. He looks close to a parallel to the S1 moment where he suddenly yelled:

"DUCKS!"

They're what water slides off of. In this context? They were also the thing itching at the back of Crowley's mind-- the not quite right thing, the puzzle he couldn't quite figure out, the question he coudln't yet quite answer... until he could. That's positive, actually. It means there might be something for him to realize, even if that realization might come too late in the short term. (They will solve everything and be fine, memory-intact, immortal beings in love who go off together by the end of it. This is all just until then.)

Ducks are also, sort of, the be all and end all of Good Omens. Crowley knows how to take care of them, after all, when others do not. You feed them frozen peas-- they are good for them and they love them, too. (Don't feed him coffee, you Metatron idiot! He only ever drank one mug of it in S1 and it led to the *points above* see: tickety-boo Aziraphale lying to Crowley paralleling sequence of scenes.) [The "do you have one, single, better idea?" scene is Aziraphale drinking coffee, for reference.]

So, yeah, by comparison here... Aziraphale, you are a duck lol. You have been fed bread by idiots for far too long when, really, you need to be eating frozen peas. Crowley knows this and he knows how to take care of you. With any luck, he's about to have his duck-moment-paralleling epiphany any moment now, though I fear you're already going to be memory-wiped and fallen to Hell when he does. That's okay, though, because this is the main scene that still needs a go-around in paralleling and we know Crowley knows where the dungeons are down there from unfortunate, personal experience.

Cottage in the south downs, cottage in the south downs, cottage in the south downs, cottage....

Notes: Hi! If you have made it all the way here, thank you for reading. I hope it was worth the read for you. You all write such great stuff that I felt inspired to put my lit and film studies and psych background to use and jump in a bit. Thanks for indulging me. I also wish to note that there is a gif above that is by @fuckyeahgoodomens but for some reason, the credit was not working properly so I just wanted to make sure you knew who was providing us the visual joy.