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loveinhawkins · 1 year

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The RV careens out of the trailer park and hits the open road with what pretty much amounts to ‘all speed, no grace.’ The turn Steve makes is, quite frankly, abysmal; he’s sure that if his driving instructor could see him now, the poor man would be weeping in distress.

Yet his passengers erupt into cheers as they pass the Leaving Hawkins sign, like he’s pulled some kind of James Bond move.

And, for all his insistence on being the absolute antithesis to so-called ‘jock culture’, Eddie rushes over to the driver’s seat, starts squeezing Steve’s shoulder with decidedly jock-like exuberance.

“Holy shit, holy shit, that was so fucking cool, Harrington.”

Oh, he’s definitely broken through the depression stage of the ‘finding out there’s an alternate dimension in Hawkins’ journey—landing firmly in the fuck it, might as well have some fun stage.

Steve could tell they’d reached that point even before the goddamn ‘big boy’ comment, when Eddie had taken one look at the Michael Myers mask, looked Max dead in the eye and said, “This is gonna be. So fuckin’ stupid. Let’s do it.”

Steve goes through a few seconds more of having his shoulder pummelled before saying, “Dude, you’re doing a shitty job at being undercover, stay down.”

“Like, do you have any idea,” Eddie says breathily, as if Steve hasn’t spoken, “just how perfect that was? That was, God, a childhood dream fully—”

“You dreamed of stealing an RV?” Steve says dubiously.

“Not in such crude literal terms, no. C’mon, Harrington, you must’ve had an imagination once—”

“Hey!”

“—didn’t you ever dream of, like, daring escapes, pulling the sword outta the stone, all that shit?”

Steve thinks about it. “I mean,” he says, “when I was a kid, I just kinda… climbed trees and stuff.”

Eddie sighs as if he can’t decide whether Steve’s done something especially annoying or endearing. “Of course you did.”

They reach a stop sign and Eddie finally flops into the passenger seat, facing Steve like he’s sitting side saddle on a horse.

“So,” Steve says, “I take a right after this, yeah?”

“Mm-hmm, well remembered, Mr Getaway Driver.”

Steve scoffs, glances over—finds Eddie framing him with his index finger and thumb, like a director trying to capture the perfect shot.

“James Dean,” Eddie says authoritatively, dropping his hands.

“What?”

“Was tryin’ to figure it out, your whole look, you know? Very Rebel Without a Cause.”

“Okay,” Steve says, “but I have a cause, we all do.”

Eddie just blinks at him, and Steve chuckles.

“You, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Steve has a moment to appreciate the way Eddie’s eyes go all soft and maybe just a little shiny, before he has to set off again. He takes the right turning.

“We should watch it,” Eddie says eventually. “Hell, I’ll take any movie. Just gimme, like, two hours of not having to think.”

“Tell me about it.”

Steve’s sure he’ll never complain about double VHS tapes ever again. Then a thought occurs to him.

“Shit.” He calls to the back. “Rob?”

“Yeah?”

“Y’know when we left Family Video, did we even lock up?”

“Yes,” Robin says followed immediately by, “No?”

Steve snorts. “God, we’re so fired.”

He hears Robin making her way up to the front, then Eddie saying, “Oof, Buckley, that was right in the ribs.”

“Why the sudden concern about our jobs, dingus?”

“I’m not concerned, I just got reminded of—Eddie was mentioning—”

“—Rebel Without a Cause,” Eddie finishes.

“Oh, Steve, I know you’ve seen it, I put it on last week!”

“Uh, maybe I was preoccupied doing, I dunno, my job.”

“It’s the one with—”

“James Dean,” Eddie cuts in.

“Yeah, I gathered, thanks,” Steve says sarcastically, but he can’t help smiling as he does so.

“—and it’s, you know,” Robin goes on, “troubled kid moves to a new town, and—”

“Aw,” Steve says, “you think I’m troubled, Munson?”

“It’s all in the eyes, Harrington. Such depths.”

“Right?” Robin says, and she’s laughing, tongue-in-cheek, “I’ve always said so.”

“You ever considered wearing a leather jacket?”

Steve laughs, too. “Tell ya what, Eddie, why don’t I just wear all your clothes?”

“Well, we know denim suits you.”

“If only you saw his last car-stealing outfit, Eddie.”

Steve sighs. “Robin, shut it.”

“Excuse me,” Eddie says, “d’you have form, Harrington? Grand theft auto form?”

“Literally once. Crazy circumstances.” Rest in peace, Todfather. “It was a Cadillac.”

“A Cadillac.” Eddie sighs dreamily. “Do you have any photos?”

“Uh, no, I was kinda busy.”

“I shall mourn the loss.”

“Take the next left here,” Nancy calls, which Steve is grateful for—the directions had gone completely out of his head.

“Wheeler, come up to the front,” Eddie says, “it’s a party.”

She must do, because her voice sounds much closer when she says, “Shit, I think I forgot to lock up, too.”

“Don’t worry,” Steve says, “no-one’s gonna ransack The Weekly Streak.”

Another stop sign—Steve looks over, smirks at how Eddie has ended up squished between Nancy and Robin, all of them sharing the one seat.

“They better not.” To Eddie, Nancy adds, “I think I gave your uncle the impression that I’m doing a big piece on you. Like, testimonials for an innocent man, stuff like that.”

For a flicker of a second, Eddie looks nauseated at the thought—Steve spots the shift, the decision to make a joke about it.

“Well, Wheeler, you better make me sound good.”

“Oh, I was going more for journalistic integrity.”

“Hey.”

Steve hears a couple of thumps behind him; without even glancing in the mirror, he says, “Sit your asses down, shitheads, don’t make me turn this thing around.”

“Don’t make me turn this thing around!” Lucas parrots.

Max scoffs playfully: “Nineteen going on forty.”

“Eddie was standing before!” Erica points out.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, Eddie’s a law unto himself. Look, just sit down and, like, make a list or something, I’ll stop off for food after we’ve—”

Dustin laughs. “You really are forty.”

“Uh-huh, one more wisecrack and you’re not getting any chocolate pudding.”

Steve’s hamming it up, he knows he is—smiles to himself as he hears a quartet of giggles.

“Can you believe they used to think I was cool?” he says.

“I dunno, Harrington,” Eddie says warmly, “at least one of them doth protest too much.”

Nancy stands in search of a pen, Robin following, insisting to Dustin that, “We’re getting one of those camp stoves, if I don’t eat something hot soon, I’m gonna die.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Maybe it’s because they’ll soon be arriving at The War Zone; his levity slips just a little when he says, “It’s probably, like, a proximity thing. Henderson’ll have a scientific term for it.”

Eddie chuckles. “What, the Steve Harrington effect?”

Steve shrugs. “You get too close, the shine wears off eventually.”

He doesn’t realise until he’s said it that the joking, perhaps, has stopped somewhere along the way.

“Huh,” Eddie says. “I’m no scientist, but that doesn’t sound like the Steve Harrington effect to me.”

“No?” Steve says.

He can see the parking lot in the distance, and he gestures for Eddie to duck.

“Nope,” Eddie says. Steve can hear him moving, crouching to hide behind the driver’s seat.

He parks and everyone’s abruptly all business, deciding who’s staying in the RV, who’s going into The War Zone.

Steve hates it, has a sudden intense longing to keep talking about movies, to just be stupid.

And maybe Eddie can tell, because just before Steve heads out, he catches his eye, smiles.

“Hey, don’t worry, Harrington,” he says with a tiny, fleeting wink. “You’re still my leading man.”

#Eddie staring at Steve dreamily: you have the range darling #conversations in the RV are becoming another fave #pre steddie #steddie #steddie ficlet #steddie fic #steve and robin #steve and the party #eddie and nancy #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 6 months

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To Hunt a Silver Stag (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Knight!Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Fae Princess!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.6k

WARNINGS: Arranged marriage, talks of childbirth, traditional views of women & men in medieval times, talks of war, death, heavy religious imagery/symbolism, blood, gore, sword wounds, stitches, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The wedding was fast approaching.

Your nightly conversations had now taken the tone of urgency—a newfound anxiety that perpetuated every inch of the courtyard. Discussion of all manner of flight; boats and horses, magic, and the simple act of dashing away in the small hours. Gaz would not be able to come with you, but he would give you all the time and distraction you would need when the time was right. The best option right now was the horses in the stable—cloak yourself as your knight made a commotion about an intruder on the opposite end of the castle. It was coming together, day after day. Until tonight.

Until you’d been summoned to have supper with the King and his court.

You sit now at the very opposite of the table from your betrothed, many eyes darting from the sides of sockets for even a glance at your face. Your crown is still present, along with your belt; your dress is of your collection, and you had seen the looks of disdain when you proudly wore it in—Gaz trailing behind through the main doors of the dining hall.

No one has called in the food yet. Now is the time for talk.

“I imagine you’ve had time to settle in, My Lady?” The King smiles like a snake, and your silver eyes miss nothing as the lines of his face contort; harsh leather and the dunes of sand. “Has my castle become a home to you?” In the corner of your vision, Gaz stands with his hands behind his back at the side of the room along with many other knights. A show of strength? Maybe.

But you don’t feel nervous about your confidant, though. The time for hesitation between the two of you has passed—it was all or nothing.

You speak slowly and clearly, face the picture of calm.

“It is a great thing to be able to see the works of mortal hands. It is an achievement, to be sure.” Your lashes move in a slow blink. “Yet, nothing can be a home such as the one I came from.”

“Ah,” Michael takes it in stride, nodding as the men at the sides of the table glance at one another, sneering. As if saying that you were homesick was a sin of some sort. Brown eyes continue to be locked on your measured body—sitting straight and your hands in your lap. “Yes. I understand. Many have heard of the splendor of your homeland.”

The sconces on the walls flicker. This feels like more of an interrogation than a supper.

“It is a place very few see,” you speak slowly, thinking what this game might entail. “Those that do are left changed. Such is how it has always been.”

“My children will have equal claim, then?” Michael smiles, and the court’s eyes glint. “To the lands?”

Your body stills, gaze unwavering as your piercing orbs level across the table. The very air shifts in an instant.

“Repeat yourself,” you order slowly.

The court blinks quickly, some even straighten in their chairs. Gaz’s feet shift near the window—his lips flattening on his face as he takes a low breath down his nose. Your tone made the hairs on his arms raise by themselves, something primal in the way you articulate.

Yet, the King seems to not know that there’s a line not to be crossed with you. He can’t understand the nearly inextinguishable loyalty to your own—to your people. No rat-like mortal man would ever amount. No kingdom made of stone and iron.

Your fingers tighten under the table, sharpness breeding in your skin.

Any further insinuation on his part was suddenly very detrimental to his survival rate. Your magic flows through you, and the sparse, and nearly dead, potted plants near the corners of the room quiver. Gaz notices immediately, his jaw subtly clenching.

Not here, he wants to tell you, his feet shifting with anticipation. Fucking hell, not here, Stag.

But he served a King that he could never love—you served a kingdom that you would give your immortal life for in an instant.

His Highness tilts his head, eyes glinting as your silver hue sparks up like a candle’s flames.

“It’s an honest question, is it not?” Michael huffs, moving one of his hands to call the servants to bring in supper. Your senses go into overdrive as the large doors open, blinking quickly at the humming in the air that only increases as the staff moves closer.

Your mouth opens and closes for a moment, eyes lightly flinching as a headache begins to form. You can’t even answer the King, and your magic halts itself immediately as your head snaps to the side in horror.

Iron.

You can’t see the King’s slow smirk as the iron platters are carried in, placed on the table in great heaps of glorious spoils. Large pigs and birds stuffed with vegetables—on the very material that makes your hands begin to shake as the tops are taken off with great showmanship. As if this was an achievement.

A platter is dropped ahead of you with a clink of metal to wood, but your eyes only stare at the dead ones that smugly look right back as your heart constricts.

Gaz’s wide expression is frozen on his face, body immobile at the cruel display so openly perpetuated by the court. His hands tighten into fists, eyes darting back and forth from you to the iron and the death on the table. He can see the way your muscles tense, the way your fingers twitch and flinch.

“So,” the King motions again. “I ask, will my Heir have a claim to the Fae thrown?”

“Not in a million years,” you say slowly at first, your mind addled and skin beginning to sweat. The King stills—just like everyone else in the room. A shiver of rage filters behind those rat eyes as you continue. “Not in the seasons of the Mothers, not in an hour of contemplation, a day of rage, or even the seconds it would take for a Basilisk to devour your wretched corpse.”

It was a wonder you kept your composure as your hands rose from under the table—heart palpitating as a low growl raised from the table. Yet, everyone is shocked at what you do next.

Your hands grasp the ironware and Gaz has already set a firm step forward in a mute panic of wide eyes and a sucked-in breath—but he’s too late.

You ignore the burn; the agony that rips through your hands and your bones, killing your soul and making your skin itch like it was on fire. Maybe it was. The iron is heavy in your hands as you glare at the King with every ounce of hate a creature as old as you can hold.

You stab at a piece of food, hold the fork aloft, and hiss on a tight, strained breath.

“Not even if the cold iron in my palm turns to pure gold will I see any child of yours growing in my womb.” Your hand moves forward, and with a slow bite, you take down a piece of the greasy and roasted corpse; holding back a gag as your skin boils and blisters under the iron’s hold.

The food slams into your stomach as if a rock.

It’s a curse you level with no magic besides your hatred, and that in and of itself is far more potent.

The King’s shocked nature turns to confusion, and then to a swift and all-consuming rage.

“Chain her,” he whispers at first, a quiet murmur above the horror of the faces of the court. Then he screams and stands up, slamming his hands to the table with actions half his age. A petulant child. A greedy little boy. “Chain her!”

A hand grasps yours and rips the fork from your grasp, hurling it halfway up the table by the time you can register above your blackening gaze that Gaz is forcing a ripped strip of his cape into the weeping flesh.

“Christ,” he gasps, quickly glancing at your face as your crown dips and moves as your head does. Everything is buzzing—even being close to this much iron leaves you weak.

You suck down large breaths, but there’s no time for this.

“Chain her!” King Michael screeches. “I want her in the dungeons!”

Your arm is taken up, your feet sliding over the floor as Gaz drags you up, shoving you behind him. The sound of a sword being drawn is enough to momentarily snap you out of your agony, your hand shaking violently as you breathe hard and bend your spine forward slightly.

You blink wildly, gasping at the scene ahead of you.

Your knight stands firm ahead of you, his back wide and shielding you from the risen court and the King. The other knights in the room watch with wide eyes, hands on their weapons in utter confusion.

“I’d stay back if you knew what was best for you,” Gaz eases out, casual in his delivery but you can hear the rapid pound of his heart. He’s nervous. Incredibly so—adrenaline striking through his veins just as it does yours.

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t right; he wasn’t supposed to be involved.

“Gaz,” you stutter, so strange to hear yourself in a state of anxiety after so many years of calm and elegance. There’s nothing elegant about you now. “Do not.”

He was throwing away everything he’d worked for.

“Stay behind me,” the knight mutters, his dark eyes searching the room for anyone to move forward and attack—none do. “Don’t move until I tell you to, yeah?” He had a reputation for being a skilled swordsman; no one here would risk rushing without more weapons at the ready.

Gaz’s sword rests easily in his right hand, the left going to unsheathe his dagger and let it rest at his side, fingers twitching around the hilt as he takes a slow breath, eyes traveling the room.

They land on the King, face contorted into the picture of wrath, wrinkled, and old body shaking.

“Step aside, boy,” Michael says lowly. “And I’ll let you walk with your head.”

“Wouldn’t be much good to me if I allowed this to happen, would it,” Gaz tilts his skull, a flicker of a smirk on his lips. Seriousness slips back in on the backs of knife edges. “Cut your losses. Let her leave, she doesn’t want this.”

“I don’t care what this creature wants,” the King shouts, moving out from the table and taking firm steps forward, his knight flanking him as the court goers, back up quickly; panic in their eyes. “It’s going to give me power.”

A greedy gaze finds yours behind the swell of Gaz’s back—hearing your Knight’s growl at the next words to enter the tense dining hall.

“Whether she agrees to it or not.”

Your face twists, a sliver of fear making your legs back up a step. Magic, you needed your magic. But the iron—there’s so much of it here; it’s infecting your mind like a bug in the back of your brain. Buzzing, buzzing, buzzing.

You shake your head, uninjured hand coming up to dig your fingers into your temple.

Gaz spits, “Not fucking happening, you old bastard.” His silver sword raises, and with a twirl of his wrist, sending the blade in an arch, the tip is leveled into the air. “You’ll have to get through me first, won’t you?”

“I will not—!” The King stumbles for a moment, body shaking and legs loose. One of his hands snaps to his chest and he blinks to himself, cape dragging across the floor. A ragged cough moves out of his mouth.

You move forward sluggishly, hand resting itself on the back of Gaz’s armored spine as he startles and looks over his shoulder at you.

“Stag,” he warns in an accented mutter, but your eyes are not gazing at him. They’re on the King.

On his failing heart and its broken beating.

The man’s breath is in a gasp, his orbs snapping to and fro like a rabbit as he reaches out a hand, a swift cry from the other men making the knights dash. They grab at him just before he slams to the ground, but one of the court’s men shouts out fearfully, “It’s her—she’s done something!”

“Grab her!”

“Cast her into the irons!”

“She’s killing out King!”

Gaz dashes on his heels, hooking an arm around your waist as you pant, unbelieving as to what is happening. Killing? No, you hadn’t even done anything—this wasn’t your fault!

“Run,” the knight barks, shoving you out of the door and into the hallway. “Damnit, Stag, you need to bloody go. Now!” His browns lock with your silver eyes, stiff until they soften at your blatant shocked fear. A beat of nothingness comes back to the both of you—memories of a courtyard and a cape around your shoulders. You stare, fingers shaking and blood pooling into the makeshift bandage of your palm.

“No, no! What about you?” He shakes his head, and in a swift moment, his gaze goes back to the clamor of commotion—of horrible cries of ‘the King is dead! The King is dead!’

A thin smirk makes your face burn with panic.

“I need to give you an exit, remember?” A tiny wink. “Thank me later, Princess, when you’re safe. Go home.”

He nods pushing on your shoulder delicately. Backing up and twirling his sword again as he licks his lips. You watch, crown more heavy than it had ever been before.

Gaz looks at you as if you’re the only person to ever exist—just as he had when you’d restored the courtyard to glory he’d never seen it in before. He glances down your face, down your body, in all of the time those few seconds were before the yells from the other knights start up—angry, furious, from behind.

He calls firmly, bluntly, but the words are more layered than even you can know. Gaz whispers, his eyes so light and open it leaves you breathless like all of the air has turned to water. You’re drowning in it.

“You don’t belong here.”

You try to step forward, desperate in a way you’d never been to grapple for this mortal man, but the door has already shut right in your face with a heavy boom. An iron bolt is locked in place.

—

The trees try to pull their branches aside as you rush through them, but your fast feet are too quick. Sharp wood slaps your cheeks, pulling at the long strands of your dress and the broken straps of your corset.

You run over rocks, and feel the earth guide you along deep in your soul, not once do you stumble, not once do you falter besides once—to turn and glance. To cast your wide eyes on the fading fire-light of the castle; the sounds of bells ringing out.

Gaz.

He was still back there—fighting. When you had to rip yourself away from the door and rush down the stone corridors, you’d heard the clash of iron and silver against one another; shouts. Like battling wolves, all rabid teeth and a flurry of slitted eyes. Such violence here—such baseless malice.

A King was going to put you in chains, and by whatever deity is truly out there, his heart had given out just in time. And your knight. Your sacrificial knight was left behind.

He can take care of himself, you try to ease, bare feet jumping a stream as your injured palm burns with a thousand suns. I have to place my trust in him. I have to.

He had told you to go home—flee. Back to your castle that touches the sky, back to magic and trees older than any man, woman, or child. Sliding along the ground, you halt.

Atop your head, your crown is crooked, and some of the gems have fallen off, glinting behind you in the upturned earth. Panting, you twist on your feet, moving them like a deer and unable to properly think. This had never happened to you before—this…this pain. Not just the one in your hand but the one that emanates from your heart.

Gaz.

In such a short time, day, weeks, he’d grabbed your immortality and made it stop. You had become mortal with him, and a part of you is mortal yet. He’d touched you—he’d grappled into the place between your ribs and made you care about him. His wonder; his awe for no other reason than he was kind. Hand coming up to grasp at your neck, you fight the burn in your eyes, something that had not happened in decades, trying to drag you back into tears.

You cover your mouth, eyes shut tight.

No, no.

“This cannot be happening,” you gasp in a whisper that moves the trees; eyes watch from bushes. “No, no this isn’t true, do not speak of it,” you whimper to the branches, to their hidden words that pierce your heaving lungs. “I need to go home, I must see the ages pass with no bias—I can not grow attached to a knight. Not to one that death can touch so easily! Do you not understand?!”

Shouts ring into the trees, and your head snaps up, face tight.

Why can’t you go any farther? No curse holds you here! No spell, no enchantment! You are a God to them! You make the world grow with only a word, you carry life and death as if it is a suggestion! This is not probable—it isn't logical.

And then you think about the man who had freely given up everything for you in chains, and your sob echoes over the woods like a brand.

Fleeing once more, you go not in the direction of home, a place so very far away, but in the direction of a large mound of stone—speaking to them through bitter tears and making you lick at the sides of your mouth. Torchlight moves through the trunks of silent sentinels as the rock itself splinters and breaks, your body slipping inside a cage of your own making before you collapse.

The stone groans and breaks and it is like you were never there as the ground shifts—moving the tracks you’d left behind in newly tilled earth. Countless horses rush past, their knight riders with iron bindings swinging from their fists, oblivious.

But the stone you panic inside of is no worthy prison. Even you knew: there was no greater cage for a Fae than love.

—

Gaz stumbled through the woods, his right leg dragging behind as he gritted his teeth harder, panting through the drops of blood that slipped over his lips.

“Fuck,” he grunts, collapsing against one of the tree’s trunks and resting the side of his head against it. “Fuck.”

He’d barely made it out.

The castle was overrun with knights, guards, the people, and the court—all of them. The King was dead. Dead, and they were blaming it on you.

“Serves him right,” Gaz pushes on, eyes fluttering shut as blood slides over his armor. He doesn’t know where the wounds start and where they end, but he does know that he has to keep walking. There’s a trail to follow, and the earth is showing it to him.

The man can’t stop until he knows you’re alright.

Panting, the gems on the ground are one by one plucked and pocketed, kept safe in the same pouch that once held his sigil ring; an achievement he’d been proud of himself for.

A knight, he’d told his family—his friends. It was a station of the highest honor.

Look what that had gotten him. Serving a bastard who called himself a God. Who pushed judgments and demanded utter loyalty to them.

Gaz would rather hang.

Coughing, blood splatters to the ground, and on the bank of a small river, his dragging feet fail him. Falling forward, the tattered remains of Gaz’s cape fluttered around him as his hands splattered through the water. A chilled breeze rushes through the trees, waking them.

He restrains himself from crying out, eyes clenched shut as his forehead skates the water. The clear liquid goes crimson with every wave, like the remnants of a fresh kill.

Body too weak to move, Gaz growls in defiance, slamming a fist into the mud and shoving forward.

He had to find you. He had to make sure you were making your way back home safely—he…he had to fix the wrongs that he hadn’t even been a part of. Even by association, the knight was layered with a horrible guilt. Gaz can’t forget your eyes—your silver tint and the way your head moved; the way you spoke.

A stag. A deer. A hart. A creature that needed to be set free from the confines of stone and iron. He’d do it all over, but that was just his nature. Gaz was just—he was good. Kind.

Even the trees knew that.

Raising his head, vision blurry, brown eyes lock onto the tiny body of a white dove.

Staring, Gaz’s face slackens, blinking through the water and the blood until the image in front of him becomes clearer.

“L,” he stutters, voice failing before he clears his throat and forces himself further upwards as his arms scream at him. “Lysander?”

The bird has its head cocked to the side, a black obsidian orb stuck on him. It doesn't coo or flap its wings—it watches. Waits. Without anything, it takes to the air and flutters over to a large stump, body hopping until it rests once more with tapping feet.

Again, it stares.

Gaz gapes at it, moonlight over his armor, making it glint and shine even with the dents and long cuts. A flicker of hope beats in his breast, and with a deep breath and a broken groan of pain, his failing body is once more on its two feet.

“Take me to her,” he pleads in a breathy exhale.

Gaz may not be able to stalk like a wolf, or even walk like a human now, but if there was a sliver of a chance that a Fae princess was waiting for him, he’d follow even if he had to drag himself there on busted legs.

Lysander’s beak clicks and the bird flies from one landmark to another, following the trail of gems and leading the broken knight behind him.

On and on Gaz walks, not able to stop for fear he may not be able to get back up again. His pouch becomes heavy, his body likely to give out any second, when Lysander flutters atop a large stone face and finally stops. Collapsing to the ground, the knight coughs up blood to the ground, body a heap on the ground earth as he rests his head and pants like an animal.

“Christ,” he gasps, eyes fluttering as darkness begins to swallow him; a maw of a dragon right over his form, waiting to chomp down. “Where…” Gaz begins to ask, flesh shivering even through all of the layers of sweat he carries.

Where are you?

Brown eyes move from the bird to the trees, through the gaps between the trunks and the spilling moonlight. You were nowhere—nothing to be seen except the eyes of animals and the wind moving the branches of the silent watchers of this place. The trees here move, trying to tell him something. Ever since he’d met you, everything had taken on new meaning.

Gaz tried to focus on breathing, but it was getting harder and harder to keep conscious.

Lysander was doing something at the rock face—tapping his beak against the surface in steady intervals, only pausing to look down at him and tilt his head as if to ask, ‘Still alive down there?”

The knight glares at the bird, body losing strength until his chest connects down to the ground, eyes gazing off into the trees as the wind caresses his cheeks.

It was calm here. Gaz’s ears twitched at the sound of rock and stone, but the rapid hands on his cheeks captured his attention more than anything. His body is forced onto his back, a wide, terrified face blurred in front of him.

But that voice…

“Gaz!”

Oh, he could fall into this abyss happily if the last words he heard were you calling his name.

—

You rip the last of the hem of your dress to use as bandages and see your hands quiver in all of their blood-stained glory. Along the cuts in Gaz’s skin, you had threaded through the gold that had once belonged to your antlered crown—the needle, a fragment of the very same bone you had broken along a rock. You’d raced to the river and asked the water for help, and it had followed swiftly with the help of the wind to clean wounds and aches.

Now, you were wrapping what was left, the night beginning to slink back into the morning as you kept the break in the cliff face open to the air. The grass was awash with blood.

You both can’t stay here if you want to live by tomorrow.

Lysander had brought Gaz to you, and now, he lays on the ground with his cape under his head—your hands healing him the best you can. You poured your magic tirelessly, hour after hour, but you had to focus on the worst wounds first.

The slit on his stomach, namely—from an axe or some larger weapon, you know not, but it had left most of the carnage that needed to be attended to. If you were anything less than Fae, Gaz would be dead.

The thought ravaged your mind like a boar through undergrowth.

“You were not supposed to do that,” you mutter, fingers running the length of his tunic and grasping it, pulling the article down to hide the large scar that now moves up his stomach. Your head is light from the power it took. Plants and animals were so much easier; less to work with than human flesh. “Damn you, Knight. I would damn your name as well if I had the horrific pleasure of knowing it. Damn you.”

Such words were below you, but you can’t help how they come out.

You stare at his face, the light of morning barely giving it illumination. He breathes softly, and it is your only relief to watch his chest rise and fall—broken armor discarded to the side by your panicked fingers. His heartbeat.

Bump-bump, bump-bump, bump-bump.

Your eyes flutter to it, trying to ease yourself as you take a deep breath and think.

You’re still too close to the castle for your liking. But he’s far too broken to move so soon.

Finger reaching out, your tips trail the raised skin of your glinting stitches, gold stuck between the flesh, peeling it back together along the forearm. All of it will scar. Violently so.

Your chest constricts, and you glare at his face.

“Why would you do that,” you hiss, growling in a tone that is foreign to you even if it still sounds elegant. A Fae’s wrath is one to behold. “Why? You owe me nothing, do you not understand that? You’re supposed to be a beast—a little man who…who…” you trail, teeth snapping as your head raises and whips away, nose to the air.

Yet, your crown had been broken just to save this human’s life. Willingly.

Mortals were supposed to be selfish. They were supposed to be like King Michael—that was what you’d been taught; that was what you knew.

But everything Gaz did was the opposite of that.

Love is a cage, you tell yourself again, and keep your face to the side. Unwilling to look down at the body that had been so eager to defend you.

You don’t like the wild feeling it makes breed like rodents in your heart, little claws moving up your throat and scratching at your teeth.

“...Gonna finish that sentence, Love?”

Your body startles, head snapping down to meet half-closed browns in an instant—you hiss. “Don’t speak, fool.”

“Fool?” A weak chuckle wafts out, a hoarse voice as a head tries to shift on numb bone. “That’s not very nice, then.”

“I should make your lungs turn to dirt,” your sentence makes his brow flinch upwards, amused despite it all. “Change the very fabric of your muscle into oak wood.”

“Moody, are you?”

Your eyes flash, and the grass around you shudders in answer as Lysander cleans his feathers a short distance away. Gaz tries a low smirk, softening his voice as his mind tries to focus above the noise in his head. “Joking.”

Your face is troubled, jaw clenching. You can’t admit to yourself how much at ease his open eyes put you. You sigh, blinking away the sharp edge of your expression—it shifts back to the perfect calm it always wears.

Gaz watches, your clothes torn and your palm still hidden away behind his cape’s cloth. He grunts suddenly, and the pain comes back in sharp pins as his face tightens.

You can only watch, mind trying to come up with a solution that you know you don’t have. Magic can only do so much...but you have to try. He’s earned that much from you, at the very least. Your hand goes and hovers over the man’s cheek, pulling back only once before it captures the swell of it.

Gaz swallows hard, and his eyes shift back through the haze of his shaking agony.

A kiss is leveled on his forehead, and it’s like the wounds cease to exist. He sags back onto the ground after a moment, skin tingling as magic runs its course through him like a stream of fire. It burns away the bad bits—keeping only the sensation of a princess pushing away his ails with a willing gift of her lips.

A small noise is made in the back of his throat before Gaz takes a long and steady breath. His eyelids flutter.

You pull back and place a hand on your head, grunting as the strength drains from you one wisp of magic at a time. Your skull pulses, and you know you’ve reached your limit. There was nothing more you could do.

A calloused hand runs up to grasp at your wrist, and you let Gaz pull it back, his fingers twitching with healing nerves as he takes the limb and levels it at his lips. He holds it there until you open your eyes and look at him, a line of sweat running your temple. The knight watches it fall, skin hot.

“Thank you,” he whispers into your hand, only letting it move away when he knows you understand his words. Gaz whispers even as his eyes fight sleep. “Are you hurt, My Lady?”

“Right now,” your injured hand still burns—it always will. You restrain a flinch because of it. “You must focus on yourself, Knight. Such concerns are not needed. You almost gave your life for me.”

The last sentence is uttered no more than a squeak of a mouse in an open field. The thought…troubles you. It…it makes you want to run.

Gaz smiles slowly, body mostly still.

“Well, I can’t let a beauty like you get hurt now, can I? That would just be bloody wrong of me.” A pause. You don’t seem to find his jokes very funny. Gaz’s heart skips beats when you look at him like that. He softens, and your hand once more runs the length of his bandages, making him shiver. It was addicting: touching him. Feeling the heat of his flesh.

“I’d do it again,” Gaz mutters. “I took an oath.”

“An oath to a King that was worth less than a rock on the bottom of the ocean,” you whisper. “It means nothing now.”

“It was never nothing to me.” Gaz’s eyes don’t leave yours. “Fighting for you will never be nothing.”

You shake slightly, face heating up. All of this is wrong to you—foreign. But why does it make you feel like everything will be okay?

“I didn’t ask for your protection, Gaz,” you try once more. One final attempt to keep your slipping self-control. Weak fingers skate your chin, usually such a high and mighty thing, now stooped low and bent just to gaze upon the feeble body of a broken mortal man.

A man who will die in a blink. A man that should never have made a dent in your unbreakable mind; your knowledge of lives innumerable. A man that you can’t look away from as he smiles at you like that. Softy. Openly.

Kindly.

Love is a cage.

“You never had to ask me, Stag…I would give my name to you, even if it was the last thing I had left of me.”

Your eyes widen; your breath hitches as if you’d been stabbed in the heart. You nearly reel back, horror and something more trapped in every vein in your body. Ludicrous. That…that was absurd. Laughable!

His name? No, no never. That was a lie; a trick. Something so powerful, just to be uttered away like that by a bloodless mind. No.

But not a single part of him is lying. Your jaw is slack in pure wonder. Struck dumb.

He wasn’t lying.

A low breeze goes through the trees—it slips past tattered clothes and the crimson grass. Whispering; talking in tongues you can’t understand at the moment above the noise from Gaz’s eyes. He’s still smiling at you, a knowing glint in his orbs as his fingers squeeze your chin. You catch his hand before it falls, grasping it without looking away. His pulse sings, and his throat releases a hum.

If love is a cage, you’d never wanted to be a prisoner more.

TAGS:

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ryotono · 1 year

Text

Hashiras/Pillars and [Y/N] and quotes and mucho rizz hihi (sorry)

Feat. Kamaboko squad!

Enjoy!

When Tanjiro attacks sanemi:

[Y/N]: GET HIM BOY, F*CKING KICK HIS ASS AYOOO

Giyuu: so it's you the bad influence

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

In the Battle against Upper moon one:

[Y/N] looking at Kokushibo: so, he is your like great-great-grandfather?

Muichiro: yes

[Y/N]: oh...

[Y/N]: is he single?

Muichiro: wtf

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Tanjiro: what's your breathing style? you're a hashira, so must be something really cool!

[Y/N]: I can tell you only if you promise it's a secret between us

Tanjiro: oh ofc!

[Y/N] get closer: it's rizz

Tanjiro: what

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Zenitsu: what do you mean "Rizz" that's not even a breathing style-

[Y/N] pointing to the other pillars: do you see all that people?

Zenitsu: yes?

[Y/N]: all of them are my bitches, except for muichiro, muichiro is my baby

[Y/N]: so don't do "tHaT's NoT eVeN a BrEaThInG sTyLE" to me boy, because my rizz is upper than you ever gonna be, understood?

Zenitsu, crying: y-yes sir

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hashira meeting:

Giyuu: y'all joking, [Y/N] doesn't have a crush in me

Gyomei: yes they do

Uzui: sadly they do

Sanemi: they fucking do you blind ass f*cker ("no offense gyomei" "it's okay")

Mitsuri: they do!!! ^^

Muichiro: that cloud looks like a duck, ha

Shinobu: they do tomioka san

Rengoku: NO JOKES, THEY DO PARTNER!

Obanai: they do, and it's disgusting

[Y/N]: yes I do, very much actually

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

[Y/N]: okay but what about your great-great-uncle?

Muichiro: leave me alone

[Y/N]: answer the question muichiro, ANSWER

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Inosuke: HEY YOU, THE HASHIRA

[Y/N]: hm, me?

Inosuke: YES, FIGHT ME!

[Y/N]: HOLY SH*T PEPPA PIG??

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

[Y/N]: I don't understand, how could i have food poisoning?

Shinobu: did you eat something strange?

[Y/N]: no! I just made me some food

Shinobu: that explains a lot

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

[Y/N]: so you telling that we have to beat Michael Jackson?

Ubuyashiki: yes- wait, who-

[Y/N]: what if "HEE HEE" us? I'm scared, rengoku hold me

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

[Y/N]: I’ve only had Kamaboko Squad for a day and a half

[Y/N]: but if anything happened to them I’d kill everyone in this room and then myself.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sanemi: WHAT DID YOU SAY?

[Y/N]: i said that if you keep screaming and threatening your beautiful little brother, I'm gonna get your sword and f*cking shove in your ass, got it :)?

Sanemi: alright

let's try again

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Sanemi: WHAT DID YOU SAY?

[Y/N]: I hate you, but at the same time I want to kiss you so bad, and give you all the love and support you deserve babe

Sanemi: ???

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

[Y/N] in a mission with Mitsuri and Obanai:

Obanai, obviously furious: can't you just go away? There's enough pillars in this mission

[Y/N]: yeah I can go, but I don't want to miss your failure to confess to Mitsuri, start dating, eventually getting married and have kids, living happy, but because your such a weakass, none of this is going to happen

Obanai: ... You don't need to say that y'know

[Y/N]: oh yes I need

just kidding I love obanai

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Gyomei: hello there

[Y/N]: boobs

Gyomei: sorry?

[Y/N] sweating: i-i mean titties- NO I MEAN BIG MEN BOOBS F*CK I MEAN HI HELLO HOW ARE YOU??

Gyomei:

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

X: Master Ubuyashiki, we need to stop the Hashira [Y/N]

Ubuyashiki: why is that

X: They are adopting all the kids here, started with that group with the demon sister, then the younger brothers of the Wind and Flame Pillar and the girls from Butterfly State, even the Mist Pillar are gone

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Akaza: guess it's your end now rengoku

[Y/N]: THE FUCK IT'S NOT YOUR KICKED BASKETBALL SON OF A BI-

TANJIRO: WHERE'D YOU EVEN COME FROM?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Extra!

Akaza: and suddenly appears this crackhead kinda of demon slayer, and starts barking at me

Kokushibo: like a dog?

Akaza: yes

Demon [Y/N]: heh, I like them

TWO [Y/N]'S????? AND CRACKHEAS??? PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN PEOPLE

That's all for today! Thank you all for reading and interacting with my other posts ;) Love y'all!!!!

(English is not my first language, so I'm sorry for any misspelling or errors)

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sleepyeye17 · 1 year

Text

More of Steve playing DnD

“And with a groan, the ship sinks below the waves,” Eddie says.

“Hang on,” Dustin says. “So we’re in the lifeboat, but Lady Applejack and Sir Stephan are still in the water?”

“That is correct.”

“Okay, well, I want to help them. I hold out my oar to Lady Applejack.”

Eddie rolls.

“You hold out your oar to Lady Applejack, and she grabs it, and climbs aboard. She’s shivering, but otherwise unharmed.”

“I want to help Sir Stephan,” Erica says.

“Thank you,” Steve says. Eddie nods and rolls again.

“Sir Stephan Volfhair climbs out of the water, shirtless, the fabric of his pants clinging to his—“

“Woah woah woah!” Erica says. “Who are you, Jane Austin?”

Eddie narrows his eyes at her.

“First of all, don’t disrespect Jane. Second of all, I am simply setting the scene.”

“For the record, I think you’re doing an excellent job,” Steve says.

“Thank you.” Eddie falls back into his narrative voice. “The sea beast has spotted you!” Groans of dismay from the gang. “It rounds on you, it’s red eyes bulging, fangs dripping with blood!”

“Punch it!” Steve shouts. The gang turns to look at him. “Punch it in the face!”

“That’s your action?” Eddie asks.

“Yeah.”

“Roll strength, then.”

Steve rolls.

“Twelve?”

“Sir Stephan Volfhair lifts his mighty hand, his bare hairy chest wet with sea water, his muscles glistening in the moonlight—“

“Oh my god do you mind?” Mike snaps.

“I don’t mind,” Steve says, grinning.

“I’m the one in charge here,” Eddie says. “I set the scene.”

Mike huffs and rolls his eyes.

“His mighty fist comes down across the beast's neck and it lets out a howl of agony! It’s slowed down, but not yet dead. Sir Michael. What do you do?”

“I stab it with my sword.” He rolls and cheers. “Natural twenty!”

“Excellent! Sir Michael stabs the serpent. It dies.”

“Seriously?” Mike says. “That’s it?”

“Yes, you kill the serpent.”

“Where are my glistening muscles?”

“You don’t have any. Moving on.”

#steve harrington #steve x eddie #mike wheeler #eddie munson #steddie #Joe Quinn #joe keery #joseph quinn #I've never actually played DnD #forgive the errors #stranger things #Steve harrington plays DnD #erica sinclair #steddie drabble

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sinner-sunflower · 4 months

Text

RadioApple AU idea for S2

PART 2 !!!!

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

s2 happens and Lucifer and Alastor have been personally involved with each other for quite some time now.

Lilith comes back and Charlie is all happy and although awkward around his ex-wife, Lucifer is happy too.

The whole drama happens when Lilith attempts to take (unwillingly) Charlie with her to heaven for her "safety".

Charlie is confused at her mom and tries to fight back but her mother was too strong.

Lucifer swoops in to save his daughter but he doesn't want to fight Lilith because deep down, she was the first woman he ever loved.

The other hotel residents try to help but to no avail.

But Alastor was just standing there, still sporting a smile but strained. Someone is like "fuckin help us??"

But he still doesn't move. Then laughing was heard. It was Eve. (Yes, I am cramming them all here)

Eve was the one who has him on a leash and she and Lilith made a deal. As long as Charlie is in hell, Alastor must look after her with Lilith gone, in return, Lilith teams up with Eve to do something (idk something sus and probably evil). Michael appears.

Lucifer, shocked, gets stabbed or hit with a holy/angelic attack and it weakens him.

Michael: must you play with your food, Eve?

Eve taunts Lucifer: You think you can be loved? Your wife sold you out and your dear Alastor was merely pretending to care. I needed to keep a close eye on you and you made it so easy. A being so starved for love. Pathetic,

And Alastor can't refute it cos Eve shuts his mouth up but he is looking at Lucifer with devastation.

Seeing Lucifer weakened, Michael sends his sword down to finish him off but it is stopped.

Lucifer in full devil form rises and smiles but his eyes have tears streaming down his face. Lucifer snaps and rages.

Charlie shouts for her father as she disappears to heaven with Eve, Lilith, and Michael.

Everyone in the hotel flees for their safety and Lucifer's rampage can be seen in all of Pride.

It only ends when Satan and the other sins came to temporary "seal" him (in a sleep) for if they did not do that, Hell will be no more

It took all 6 other sins their full power to weaken Lucifer enough to seal him.

---------

PART 2 !!!!

#hazbin lucifer #hazbin charlie #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin angel dust #radio demon #vivziepop #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel season 2 #hazbin lilith #hazbin eve #radioapple #appleradio #alastor x lucifer

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bllk-after-dark · 1 year

Text

ARCHANGEL.

an angel of greater than ordinary rank.

pairing. michael kaiser x fem!reader

content warnings. MINORS & AGELESS BLOGS DNI, nsfw, heavy christian mythology/theology, sex on sacred ground (church), kaiser is the archangel michael, reader is an altar server, sex on altar, loss of virginity, fingering, missionary & doggy style, not proofread/edited

summary. you've been serving in the st. michael church for many years, a simple duty in your life and yet you pray to him, the patron of the church you serve. and one day, heavenly flesh made mortal, he stands in front of you and asks for a serving.

word count. 3.9k

fallen angel. masterlist

Altar serving was something you do every sunday. Not because you loved it, that has passed a long time ago, when you were still a kid in awe, but because it was a duty and at this point, part of your routine. It was part of your life, born into a christian family that went to church every sunday. Your father has been an altar server too, long before they allowed girls to serve, and now your younger siblings were too. It was tradition, and tradition was not meant to be broken.

You were one of the eldest in the group, guiding the younger ones through their service, whispering their tasks during the mass. Having almost ten years of altar serving under your belt, you were not only allowed to help prepare and teach the new generation, but also assist the acolyte every sunday.

And while you may not love altar serving, it still brought you peace being here, in the church that has been named after the Archangel Michael. Saint Michael Church, a relatively big one for the small number of people in your commune. An old one too, with the ceilings filled with paintings with angels, but especially Archangel Michael. In fact, this church was the only one with paintings of angels who had other wing colors than white in your country.

This attracted some tourists, but the church was never overrun. It was a shame, then you often let your gaze wander during your servings, with your back straight and hands on your lap, taking in the Archangel Michael with his flaming sword, long blonde hair that takes the color of the sky at the tips and the feathers of his wings ruffled, blood and dirt sprinkled across them, but it could never hide the true beauty of his wings. Even the statues had wings that span at least two meters, and their tips, just like his hair, dipped in blue. Here and there was a golden feather found, as if someone had dripped molten gold on the wings.

Yes, the art in the church you served was unusual but truly beautiful. You may not believe in the Holy Father, not like your parents did, but you did find peace here. Maybe it was the sheer presence the angel radiated in his own church, maybe it was because you had so many memories here, practically grown up with him gazing down at you, but you liked it here.

You may no longer love the altar serving like you did as a child, but you still loved to stand here on holy ground, where only the priest and other servers were allowed, so near to the altar, so near to him. It made you feel special, maybe just for an hour, where you stood in a white robe, bringing bread and wine before the Archangel Michael. One of the statues was on the altar, taking more than half of the sacred table, leaving just enough space for the bible and the communion to be placed. It was a true artwork, just like all the other statues and paintings in the church, but the artist paid special attention to this one.

It was unknown why it stood here, when normally only a holy cross would be placed, but the statue has always been here and no one dared to change its place. You didn’t mind, because most sundays you could take in every detail of the artwork, sitting near to the altar.

And like many sundays in the past and possibly in the future, you’re the one helping cleaning up. Blowing out the candles, collecting the left behind songbooks and of course cleaning up after your fellow altar servers.

Yet unlike other sundays, you’re alone. The acolyte had to leave early, very apologetic but still asking you to finish everything up. You couldn’t deny her request, fully knowing how stressful her private life was with her family. And so you start doing all the task, a bit slower than usual now that you’re alone.

Cleaning up and tidying the altar is the last thing on your list and then you could finally go home. You watch your steps, carrying the bucket with wine first, then followed by all the other things you had to lock in the safe, since they’re made out of gold. In the end, you would put a big white clothing over the statue, preventing the light and dust from damaging the artwork. But you aren’t that far yet, still carrying bowls until the communion cup is left.

A gasp left your lips and the cup fell out of your hands, the sound of its impact on the marble floor ringing in your ears. Wings ruffled, feathers shifted and suddenly he looked at you. The statue made flesh. Archangel Michael.

He was kneeling on the altar, a white robe clinging on his frame, no sword or armor in sight, while his wings started to unfold themselves. So pretty, you could only think. The occasional golden feather almost glowing in the candle light, silver ones shimmering, white feathers almost blinding you but it was the blue ones that held your focus.

A chuckle ripped you out of the trance you were, enchanted by the beauty of the wings- real wings. He was grinning at you, eyes lit up in delight and a grin spreading on his lips.

“Little mortal, I see you’re serving on Holy Grounds named after mine,” he says, voice oh so angelic but also raspy, as if a mere whisper. But he speaks so clearly, his words ringing in your ears and you blink, shake your head, trying to get rid of- what is happening?

“I- I am… your Holiness,” you try. You don’t know how to address him, no one has ever told you how to address an angel. But he just shakes his head, another chuckle escaping his mouth and slips off the altar. He’s barefoot, you realize and he strides over to you, the end of his wings dragging over the floor. They seem heavy, you realize and as if he heard your thoughts (maybe he did, he is an angel after all, can they read the minds of mortals-) his right wing stretches first and the left one soon follows, and so you end up staring at the pair of wings, looming over you and showing hints of the true might Archangel Michael owns.

“You have no need for this, my devotee,” and your heart skips a few beats, eyes going wide when he calls you his devotee. Never have you thought of yourself as one, but now he utters those words, how can you deny it?

“I wish for you to call me Michael, it is my given name after all.” You can only nod and he seems satisfied by that. He stops a few steps in front of you, so near but so far away. Your brain tries to progress the situation, try to understand what your eyes see, but it’s your body that reacts in the end.

You sink on your knees, hands clasped in front of your chest and you bow your head.

“I am not worthy,” you murmur, because you aren’t. You do not believe in god, you do not pray to him, all your prayers, if you ever pray, go to him, to the Archangel Michael. “I am not worthy to see you, your- Michael. I am not worthy to be in your presence, I am-” The words stop and you press your eyes shut. A hand on your cheek makes you snap them open again, not being able to stop the gasp that leaves your mouth.

“Oh, but you are, little devotee of mine. You who are the only one who truly serves me, ever since she was a young girl. You are the most worthy of all.” He kneels in front of you, and still, he towers over your frame, his wings frozen in movement. At this moment, he looks so angelic and sinful at the same time. You shudder at your thoughts, suddenly infesting your mind, spreading and creating pictures in front of your eyes.

The ruffle of feathers makes you snap out of those filthy thoughts, eyes going wide when he pulls you closer, practically lifting you up. You’re frozen in his arms and can only watch in silence how his wings curl around the both of you.

“There is also no need for you to kneel,” he rasps right next to your ear and you shudder, suddenly aware of your hands placed on his half-nacked chest. “A follower so loyal… is allowed to stand in my presence.” But before you can answer him, before you can ask him all the questions you have, he sneaks his arm around your waist and pulls you even closer. A sudden gasp escapes your lips once more and you tremble in his arms, when he suddenly lets his hands wander to your neck.

“A follower so beautiful… little one, will you do me one more service?” He asks this as if you have the choice to refuse him. So you nod, thinking he will ask you to bring bread and wine, or to proclaim your belief in him.

But then he tilts your chin up and you stare at his beautiful blue eyes, enhanced by his long lashes and eyeliner. Who would’ve thought angels have eyeliner, you think hysterically, yet your thoughts go silent, when he presses his lips against yours. You don’t react, your whole body frozen as the angel continues to kiss you. And then the arm around your waist pulls you even closer, bodies pressed against each other and his wings curling tighter against the two of you.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lean onto him, your arms circling around his neck. Your fingers brush over feathers and he moans against your lips, so sweet and sinful. And then- and then you finally return his desperate kiss, his tongue sneaking into your mouth, and you lose yourself. The simple soft kiss turns into something filthy, with your panting and his soft noises and oh what noises he makes. Small gasps, choked moans, all because he’s kissing you. You, nothing more but an altar server, nothing more than a mortal. Leaning closer, you let your lips move against his, inexperienced but it doesn’t matter. Not when he lowly groans or when you pant against his lips, trying to catch your breath. You couldn’t believe it. A man kissing and touching you, for the first time in your life-

“Allow me, devotee of mine. Allow me to see your naked skin, allow me to taste your flesh, allow me to feel your love,” he rasps, close to begging, eyes oh so pleading and you can’t deny him. You would never deny him and if it’s his wish to see, to taste and feel you, then you will strip naked, spread your legs and love him with all your heart and soul.

“Michael,” you whisper, close to his lips and press yourself closer to him. “Michael, take and use me to your wishes, and my heart will listen. I will love you, with mind, heart and soul, and only you.” His pupils are blown wide when you whisper your oath, binding your whole life and soul to him. You don’t even realize what you’ve done, but he does. He feels it, down to his core, the oath you gave to him, on his sacred ground. It makes his essence soar, his wings flutter and his cock harden.

A squeak escapes your lips, when he lifts you up, marching over to the altar and lays you down, all while he drapes his body over you, wings unfolded and feathers gleaming in the candle light. His breath fans over your face and your eyes widen, when he slowly crawls on the holy table.

“Michael, shouldn’t we-,” you try to ask him, mind no longer clouded by his kisses but he just slams his lips on yours again and you forget your protests. Throwing your arms around him, your hands start to wander, hesitant at first to touch his bare skin. He grinds his hips against yours in response and he finally lets you breathe. Only now do you realize that he’s propping himself up on his arms, when he starts touching you with one hand as well. You shiver when he touches you below your shirt, riding up the fabric while he continues to ravish you. Moans leave your lips and you lift your legs to wrap them around his waist, trying to keep him close.

Canting your hips up, you grind onto him but it’s not enough. A whine escapes your lips, you want him closer, you want to touch all of him, you want him in you.

“Normally I am someone who is patient, but for you,” Michael starts to speak, voice raspy next to your neck, where he has pressed kisses and bites on your sensitive skin. “I want to take you, here on this holy table, here in my church and I will.” He rips your shirt off first, fabric flying off without resistance and you gulp at his casual show of strength. His eyes fixate on your simple bra, hiding your tits from him.

Michael looks feral to you, wings shifting every second, pupils blown wide but completely focused on you and your body below him. He doesn’t hesitate and rips off your bra, completely ignoring the fact he could simply open it and latches immediately on your right tit, sucking on your nipples and gently pulling on the other.

You gasp and moan at the new sensations, skin feverish and hot, while you bury a hand in his blond locks. He bites you and you tug his hair, making him groan while you beg for more. It’s new, it’s different, it’s filthy and dangerous, lying on the altar of the church you serve in, half naked while the Archangel Michael leaves his marks on your skin.

If anyone could see you right now… you and your whole family would lose face in the community. Even more than that. But you didn’t care, only caring about Michael’s hands and lips on your body, feeling him and his body and-

He suddenly kneels up, your own legs still between his, over you and shrugs off his white robe, revealing his whole form to you. Your eyes widen and you blush when he takes his cock in his hand without shame, slowly stroking it and watching you with half lidded eyes. His wings are once again spread and they flutter, when you sit up and place your hands on his thighs all while claiming his lips. Curiously, you start kneading his muscles, letting your hands wander until you can finally pull him closer. But he has other plans for you, sneaking his own hands to your waist and lifting you up, only to turn and seat you on his lap. He vanishes your last clothes as well, leaving you naked against him.

A pant leaves your mouth when he stretches his body over yours again, rutting his hips against yours, his cock against your pussy, making you gasp when he spreads your wetness and even touches your clit.

“Oh lord,” he groans close to your neck, lips ghosting over your skin once again and you feel so overwhelmed, overwhelmed with his presence, his touch-

“Michael,” you moan, a desperate sob bubbling out when his cock continues to rub against your pussy and not in you. “Please,” you start to beg. “Please, take me- Michael, have me, I’m ready, please-” and you are. Ready and open for him, your untouched and virgin body ready to have him but he just doesn’t take you. Tears spill in your eyes, frustration filling your mind and your body, but he just slowly continues to caress your body, hands wandering until his fingers dip into your pussy.

You cling onto him, nails ranking down his body, and you beg. You beg and plead, but he ignores you, humming when his fingers finally enter your pussy and start massaging your warm walls. It’s not really new to you, you’ve touched yourself several times, always in the darkness of your room, but it never brought you to an orgasm.

Yet Michael’s fingers make your cunt tingle, your thighs shake when his movements become faster and your moans louder. And when his thumb presses on your clit, you shriek, and start rutting against his hand. “More,” you pant, cheeks flushed and your legs spreading even more, so close-

He claims your lips, mouth parting and tongues dancing, while he presses another finger into you. With a gasp you remove your lips from his, eyes closing in ecstasy and head falling back. Another press of his thumb and a bite into your neck has you shrieking again, cumming for the first time in your life, on the fingers of Michael.

“What a darling you are,” he grumbles lowly, licking your reddened juices from his fingers while you try to blink the stars in your sight away. You whine his name, when he doesn’t touch you again and only stares at you. “You’re such a pretty creature, all for me and for me only.” He leans closer, his mouth almost kissing yours but only brushing against it.

“To think I was the first to ever touch you like this… oh, little devotee of mine, you’ve pleased me so well and you don’t even know it.” His words make you whimper, or maybe even his teasing lips that don’t kiss you. In the end he does, making you taste yourself and you can’t help but moan.

“Can you please- please, in me?” you try to ask, suddenly shy in actually voicing your desires. Getting fucked on an altar, what was wrong with you-

Head thrown back again, mouth wide open in a silent scream and he’s suddenly in you. Cock already moving, slowly but surely working into you, more and more. You just cling onto him, gasps leaving your lips and babbled pleas.

His hips move slowly first, so you could get used to his insane size, but it doesn’t take long until he pistons into you, driving hard and fast, and you can only hold onto him, legs around his waist and your arms around his neck.

You can feel yourself getting close again, your voice echoing in the empty church and- his wings fluttering above you. Oh god, his wings. The feathers were ruffled, chaotic and they seemed to spasm, every time you clenched around him.

“Beloved mine, look at me,” he says to you, but you don’t hear him, so close to your orgasm and eyes fixated on his wings.

“I said,” he suddenly spat, voice ringing in your ears, “look at me.” The feral look in his eyes, his widened pupils and wings looming over you make you cum again. Your whole body shakes, all while you scream his name.

Instead of letting you rest, he grabs your right leg and hoists it over his shoulder, picking his pace up and chasing his own orgasm. You beg him to stop, oversensitive to a point where it’s almost hurting, your hands scrambling for anything to hold yourself but he doesn’t listen, doesn’t stop, fucking you stupid.

Tears start pooling in your eyes and your whimpers and moans turn into sobs. Michael is a monster, for fucking you so hard, fucking you so good, destroying you and your pussy. You don’t know if you want him to stop or not, want him to continue until you cum again or let your poor, aching pussy rest.

He doesn’t let you rest at all, only leaves your pussy for mere seconds, to turn your body on your stomach and you try to pick yourself up, but your limbs are weak. In the end it’s him who picks you up, hands on your waist, planting you on your knees and hands, only to drive into you again.

The hard material of the altar already makes your knees ache, but you forget about the pain as Michael fucks into you again. It’s fast and hard, punching the air out of your lungs and leaves you moaning and crying for more. Tears are running down your cheeks, and you have to lower your arms, now leaning on your elbows. You beg for him to finally let you cum, you beg for him to cum, to touch you, to hold you and he gives you all that, if not more.

Draping himself over you, he whispers praise into your ear and you shudder, when his fingers find your clit again.

“One more, my devotee. Just one more, for me. Come for me, my beloved.” Hearing his praise, calling you beloved, calling you his and the fact he’s still fucking you, paired with his circling fingers has you cry out and cum with a shudder.

Your legs shake, your whole body seems to quiver, but he holds you strong and steady, only to follow you. His hips pressing onto yours, he fills you up and you can hear the rustling feathers over you, while swears and praise fall from his swollen lips.

Thrusting into you with his slowly softening dick, he draws some last whimpers out of you. It’s soft, how he turns you in his arms and keeps you close, his one wing draping over the both of you and hiding you from the world. He presses kisses on your front, cheeks and nose, leaving your lips for the last. Hands wander over your sweaty body and you blush under his half lidded gaze, suddenly ashamed of your nudity.

“There is no need for that, devotee of mine. You’ve taken me, and this well.” His voice suddenly drops. “You’ve taken me so well and you will take me again. And again and again.” His words make your eyes go wide and suddenly, you realize what exactly happened.

You just fucked someone on an altar. In a church. You got fucked by an angel, by Archangel Michael himself, on a freaking altar. You got ravished and stolen of your innocence– Michael took your virginity, here in a church and you had sex.

You can feel his cum dripping out of you, slowly running down and you press your legs together. Why did you suddenly want to make sure no drop of his cum would leave your pussy? Why did you have the sudden desire to-

But Michael doesn’t seem to realize your dilemma, still peppering kisses on your skin and face, absolutely blissful in the afterglow.

“I apologize for being so harsh but my desires got the better of me,” he suddenly speaks up again, completely ignoring his previous words. “Yet… will you allow me to take you again?” Seeing your surprised look, he chuckles and gives you a small peck on the lips.

“Not today, I shall let you rest,” he assures you, as if he just didn’t completely destroy you. But you didn’t care. The promise of another fucking, of another time like that, where he made you scream and cry, makes you shudder. You snuggle closer to him, wiggling your body against his, while the altar uncomfortably presses against your other side. Yet you don’t care, not when you’re being held by the most gorgeous man in the world, an angel and maybe… someone you would learn to love.

But that is something to worry about in the future. Now you enjoyed his fleeting touches, listening and blushing to his praise, oh his praise, and the warmth of the wing that acted like a blanket.

taglist. @scftbunni , @kaiser-samaa , @mikeysonlywhore , @dervaaas , @mi-kage , @yumik00001 , @miraculouscorazone

if you wish to join the taglist for this series, please send this blog a message/ask or comment below the masterpost! all other applications for joining the taglist will be ignored.

anne. woo, i finally posted it. i'm so glad i have this monstrosity finally out and no longer in my drafts... already fearing the next part. dunno why i'm doing this to myself but then i think about angel!kaiser and i no longer question my sanity. enjoy!

#blue lock smut #michael kaiser x female reader #michael kaiser x reader #michael kaiser x you #michael kaiser smut #bllk michael kaiser #bllk smut #blue lock x female reader #blue lock x reader #fallen angel — the series

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bloody-teared-angel · 3 months

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Archangels, Angels or how the show could write itself

I mentioned in one of my posts that Miss Medrano got even the Angelic choirs wrong and by opening up wikipedia page, I also had to refresh my memory with how it works - also on Pinterest are great visuals, alright, let's begin.

I'm going to briefly touch up on Seraphims and Cherubs as they were also used wrong - at least to the knowledge I gathered.

Also, keep in mind there are different versions of each so I'm using the general knowledge that I have, if you want to get deeper into it, I strongly advise to do research on your own.

Also also, I'm taking some info exchanged with another user, sound off in the notes or reblog so I could give proper credit.

Seraphim - they are right under God, singing his praises. They have six wings, flying with one pair, covering their body with two pairs of wings, as if to not blind with their Holy light or to not outshine the great Allfather. So...by this information alone, whoever saw Sera's body (Emily's too...is she a Seraphim? *quick wiki check* Yes, yes, she is) They should be blind or down on their knees as they are moved by their beauty.

Cherubs or Cherubim - dear Allfather upstairs, this one hurts - they are under Seraphims and they respond directly to God and are the protectors of Garden of Eden with their flaming swords.

"But then, who could she use for the C.H.E.R.U.B.S. episode?!" I can hear you say?

*holy trumpets*

Watcher Angels.

Watcher Angels are both good and bad and as the name suggests, they are watching over humans on Earth and many of them descended to couple with human women, which Nephilims were born - blood thirsty giants ( Asmodeus was also born from this coupling but it is one of many versions, in some he's born from Lilith and Adam which I won't get into details.)

And boom. You have a story to use against Haven and some criticism - how Watcher Angels weren't punished but instead one of their children - Asmodeus.

I would also like to make a suggestion: Replace Adam with Kushiel: 'Rigid one of God' one of seven angels of punishment, who punishes individuals in Hell.

There, angel who's main purpose is to punish and no need to make Adam, The First Man into a dumb jock.

And if you want to have a female representative in Heaven - Archangel Ariel: The Lioness of God is right there or if you want someone more popular Archangel Gabriel has both male and female forms. Archangel Jophiel: The Beauty of God is female too but I don't think she would fit very much.

If you want potential angst, Archangel Michael is there.

The Angelic Choir is also very vast and rich and it is just one click away with modern technology.

(Not joking, I found Angelic Choir on pinterest)

#hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel criticism #anti hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel critique #anti helluva boss #helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critique #anti vivziepop #vivziepop critical #vivziepop criticism #vivziepop critique

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drconstellation · 7 months

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All The Colours of the GO Rainbow

Updated 11 Nov 2023

Edit note: I've done quite a big update on Red, Green and Blue, so if you read this before 11 Nov 2023 it might be worth reading it again.

I'm writing this meta about colours in the Good Omens AU in preparation for some future metas I'm planning, where colour will be important. And yes, I'm going to use "colour" as the spelling, as I'm an Australian and I use the UK English as my usual go-to version of English (that is what I was taught at school,) even though I am finding myself flicking between US and UK English here on Tumblr, leaving out u's here and there and putting in z's where I would normally put s's.

I also think its worth having another discussion about it as there are some colours I've have seen discussed here and there, but not at length, and some not at all that I think are important, and I just want to bring them all to one place.

I'm also going to be referring to @cobragardens excellent meta The Colors of Crowley quite a bit in this meta at various points, so you might want to pause and go read that first, then come back.

BLACK

Most people's initial reaction would be to class black as a colour of Hell. Crowley wears a lot of black, and usually a hidden accent of red (aaand something else. I'll discuss that at the end.) But the other demons are actually quite colourful when you get them into the light. They may tend towards the darker shades but there is quite a range of colours seen. Dagon, for example, is a very dark blue, as their avatar is a marine fish. Normally blue is associated with Heaven in GO. But this fits better if we think of black as being the colour of shadow, where the light does not reach, and the place of hidden things, of mystery

And it's worth noting that Aziraphale wears some black when he is trying to perform a magic show. He also wears white and gold at the same time but normally he does not wear these colours, unless he is performing human magic (see S1E1, Warlock's 11th birthday party, and the 1941 minisode S2E4) This should be striking enough for you to sit up and take note. You could say when Aziraphale dons black it is an expression of his act of "mysteriosity."

RED

Again, red is not necessarily a demonic colour, although we tend to associate it with demons, as Lord Beelzebub and Lord Dagon both wear red sashes as a mark of their rank in Hell. Think of it more as the colour of passion and romance in GO. Ooh, got you there! Makes you wonder what Shax is really up to (I know some of you have.) Perhaps they are just passionate about doing their job, or climbing their way to the top of the demonic ranking ladder?

Edit: After writing up a couple of other metas and some more reading maybe a better description is "devotional passion." Shax is devoted to climbing the power ladder in Hell (her red is usually a darker shade of red than Crowley's,) and the Red Team in the paintball fight at Tadfield Manor in S1E2 is devoted to following the rules of Management. Crowley is devoted to Aziraphale, of course.

In Christianity red has an association with the left-hand side, or the sinister side. In GO we tend to call this the "demon side" as there is a lot of shot blocking for shoulder-angels and shoulder-demons. Crowley is typically on Aziraphale's LHS because of this, so when he isn't, we take note. Actually you should take note of all the shot-blocking in GO because who is on the shoulder-right and who is on the shoulder-left of shot tells you so much about their moral stance in that scene! Anyway, in religious iconography it will often be Michael robed in red, with a sword, on the left of Jesus, representing the eccentric, the strange, the excessive, fire - and goats. (Hey, goats are a whole other meta, we are here to talk colour!)

Special mention to the 1941 minisode in S2E4 that is just soaked in red, everywhere you turn: in the sparks flying off the burning buildings as the sparks of love begin to fly, the inside of the book shop where Crowley encourages Aziraphale to think like a professional, the magic shop where danger and chaos lurks in every corner but magic is Aziraphale's personal passion, and the Windmill Theater where he finally gets to perform his magic passion on the stage. Several ops see this as a special memory of Aziraphale's so he colours it with the red of romance. We've got big hopes of seeing a third part to 1941 in S3. Some of this red is also used as a metaphor for flames and fire (there always seems to be something burning after a gun is fired) - we are fanning the flames of passion again!

GOLD

Gold is one the colours of Heaven. Nearly all the angels have some form of gold on them at some point. A gold ring, gold embroidery on their clothes, a golden brooch, gold on their face, Aziraphale's gold watch fob (he has a ring, too). We also see multiple golden lions in various places, which appear to have a connection to Heaven and Jesus. (I'm still planning to write a meta on the lions in the future, but I've got to find them all first! They keep turning up in surprising places...) The lions have a royal connection, one of two royal mentions in this meta, in that they represent the connection Jesus has to the Royal house of Judah, and are a symbol of his return in the Second Coming.

YELLOW

Yellow in GO is probably the hardest colour to interpret. We see a lot of it, because Aziraphale is so fond of it, being the colour of Crowley's eyes. The walls of the book shop are painted yellow, he gives Jimbriel a yellow feather duster to use and he turns the Bentley yellow on the trip up to Edinburgh, much to Crowley's disgust. (To be fair, Crowley's Mayfair flat in S1 was colour-coded to Aziraphale's eyes in return, in greys and subtle blues, but that's another discussion.)

But I think the important thing to emphasis here is that yellow is NOT the same as gold, and we shouldn't blend the two colours together.

While some point out that yellow can be seen as an imperial or royal colour, as it is the colour of the Sun, when you put this colour in context in the GO AU, it more clearly points to being the colour of fear, as Cobragarden's explains in The Colours of Crowley. I would expand on their words, and say that is why Crowley doesn't wear his sunglasses in front of Jimbriel when looking after him in the book shop - its a measure of how afraid he is that the the real Gabriel might reappear at any moment. And back in S1 when Crowley is trying to work out how to escape the burning Odegra sigil he inadvertently created Hastur appears in the front seat of the Bentley in pursuit of him and reaches out to remove his sunglasses. The shock on Crowley's face in the moment is palpable, because he realises he's in the shit unless he thinks quickly - which he bravely does!

GREEN

Green is the colour of chaos.

Originally I wrote that Green was Hell, but on after writing this and going on to write further metas (I think I’ve mentioned this elsewhere, and this is an evolving meta) and a brief discussion in the Notes at the bottom with noneorother, I decided I would re-write this for a better fit.

It still fits Hell, however, as Hell is chaos compared to Heaven. It’s overcrowded, its clogged with bundled paperwork that hasn’t been filed, there is old furniture everywhere. It’s still the overgrown suffocating swamp of decay, with the leaking pipes and the light struggling to find its way down through the mess. It’s still Furfur, with plans to unexpectedly disrupt our hero’s magic act. It’s still the colour of the fog outside the bookshop during the Eldritch Ball, signalling that things are not going to plan. Demons love chaos, its their purpose. It’s the opposite to Heaven, which is rigid and structured.

A recent post from @noneorother highlights that the intense green used for Hell in S2 is influenced by the the Powell & Pressburger movie The Tales of Hoffmann. They say:

Whenever something evil happens in "The automaton ball" sequence, the light changes to this sickly green. Colour is THE important symbolism in Hoffmann, so now we know green is evil.

But they wanted to add that evil is not necessarily Hell. And we would have to agree. Because Aziraphale also has a lot of green associated with him, and he has nothing to do with Hell - he's more an agent of chaos, if anything. He's unpredictable. Let us address this in it's own section below.

Veridian/Teal/Aquamarine

This is a special section to discuss the blue-green hues that Aziraphale wears. Heaven mixed with Hell. Lawful mixed with Chaos. He is one unique angel. The first sight of these colours is in 1601, when we find out that the Arrangement first proposed by Crowley in 537 is now in full swing, where he has some teal strips in his Elizabethan costume.

While I'm told its traditional to have a darker colour on the back panel of waistcoats, it's notable that the back of Aziraphale's waistcoat is a distinctly dark viridian green. Why not dark blue? Or a shade of brown to go with the other shades of brown and beige the angels tend to wear? But what's the meta-writer's motto in GO? There are no accidents...

He also wears a pale aquamarine shirt in the present day. (wearecrowley has posted a nice set of GIFs that highlight it here) No white for him since 1941 at least, although his 1821 shirt also looks green to me, but its hard to tell in the dim candlelight of night time Edinburgh (unless he is performing magic, then he is in white, gold, and mysterious black or being discorporated, then he is colourless white - back to his "native" state, like Muriel in her Earthly Inspector uniform.) The cape he wears in the 1941 minisode is also a fascinating colour. I am having trouble pinning down exactly what it would be called - Teal? A darker aquamarine? Perhaps turquoise. It's certainly part of his colour palette, and still indicating a lawful-chaos mix. A "dark horse" indeed!

[Edit: So i saw someone describe Heaven and Hell as Lawfulness and Chaos, and I thought that was a perfect fit for Aziraphale here with his blue-greens. Remember Crowley described him as "unpredictable" to Nina? Yeah...]

[Edit 2: I've made some changes above because I re-wrote the section on Green. This is an evolving meta!]

BLUE

Blue is a signal of Heaven, the colour of the sky, and a colour traditionally associated with the archangels Gabriel and Michael. We see it in a number of places, in both S1 and S2, where it is used with deliberate care.

Usually a primary shade of blue, this represents the rigid lawfulness and rules of Heaven, as compared to the chaos associated with Hell. In Christian iconography blue is what Gabriel wears as the right-hand-side shoulder angel to Jesus. It represents the Law, mercy, protection, water, sheep(!) and foundation. The "good" shoulder angel is always on the right shoulder in shot-blocking in the show.

Below are some examples of where we see it:

The blue paint on the back of Aziraphale's coat when he gets hit by a paintball at Tadfield Manor in S1E2.

The colour of Newt's car, Dick Turpin (which actually presents an interesting juxtaposition, as Newt is a Crowley parallel.)

The colour of the external walls of the coffee shop in S2, and some of the inside, which is also the same as the take-away cups, such as the one the Metatron offers to Aziraphale.

The colour of the gecko Jemima asks to be turned into in the Job minisode.

The colour of the suit Jimbriel wears at the eldritch ball, and the glorious ostrich feather jacket he dons when he exits the book shop to give himself up to the demons.

PURPLE

Purple has long been the colour of royalty, since ancient days. This was for good reason - there was only one natural source of the rich purple dye. That came from a small marine snail that was found on the coast of modern day Lebanon, near Tyre, and they held the monopoly on this trade for centuries. Only kings and emperor's could afford to have cloth dyed in this colour, known as Tyrian purple. It wasn't until the first synthetic purple dye was created in 1856 that the common man could afford to wear it as well.

In Good Omens we see Gabriel, the Prince of Heaven, wearing this colour in his ties, and also showing it in his irises in both S1 and S2. But only when he is Gabriel, not as Jim.

[Edit: So I only just found out that the colour he wears is lilac and is modeled after Elizabeth Taylor's famous eyes. But hey, she was a queen of the screen - movie royalty! And you still need to explain all the other purple below. Also, she was only born around 100 years ago and Gabriel has theoretically been around for...a lot longer, so I'd say Gabriel came first.]

There are a couple of other places we see it used. One is when angel Crowley starts up his nebula. The plume of miracle energy emanating from the book shop after the 25 lazurii miracle is also this colour.

Archangel Saraqael's chair is purple when she is on Earth. And Saraqael and Muriel both have purple in their tartan when in Heaven.

WHITE

White is the colour of the angels. It is the colour of Aziraphale's wings and the colour of his robes during ancient times from the Beginning up to Rome. Once the Arrangement starts, the white starts to be replaced with other colours, and the shades of teal and other blue-greens start to appear.

By the present day he has virtually lost all trace of white, except for his hair. He then only appears in all white when discorporated.

Muriel turns up in a conspicuously bright white police uniform on Earth, and the other angels all have some form of white on them.

Crowley sometimes has small accents of white as well. They can be easily missed, such as the white shirt cuff protruding from his sleek black Elizabethan costume in 1601. Remember they are discussing the Arrangement here - so they are both showing signs of taking on each other's colours at this point. On the other hand, I know quite a few people have commented on the white in his 1941 garb, on his tie, and his pocket handkerchief (and remember, he wears a grey shirt, not black, because he doesn't want to be mistaken for a black-shirted fascist during the war years.)

SILVER/GRAY

There are two colours I keep seeing that I'm going to group together as one, and that is silver and gray.

The senior archangels are notably dressed in what I've seen described as dove-gray, but an article on the costumes calls it pearl-gray, and it was meant to look a bit shimmery. I sometimes refer to this group of angels as the Archangels with the capital A, or the seraphim, the closest angels to God. This includes Gabriel, our current Prince of Heaven, Michael, Uriel. And I'm going to include Crowley in his trademark Tactical Turtleneck master spy disguise when he infiltrated Heaven with Muriel in S2E6. Hey, he could have worn white!

So where does this colour come from?

I've spent a bit of time banging on in the past about "traditional colours" of the archangels, in particular Gabriel and Michael's being blue, and the missing Raphael's being green. Part of the problem is, though, if you go looking online for who's colour is whose, you get a big variation in answers. Michael nearly always comes out with being associated with blue, and Raphael with green, so no problem there, but all the other traditionally named seraphim seem to get other colours put against them. For Gabriel, though, a commonly associated colour does appear to be white or silver.

Now my guess would be that sparkly silver would be too naff a look for the angels. I mean, look at what Crowley manifests as a blending-in "bees" disguise, a slightly shiny grayish suit, which kind of mocks the other Archangels (and you're overdoing the gold hints there a bit, Crowley) but it is curiously the same style as Saraqael's garb, and they did supposedly work together on the Horsehead Nebula. Hmmm. The Archangel's pearl-gray suits look very corporate and business-like, echoing a large soul-crushing business entity.

But this is not the only time Crowley wears this upper echelon colour; he has quite a habit of wearing it, particularly once the Arrangement kicks in.

The problem is, he nearly always wears near-solid black (unless he is trying not to get killed, like in 1793 Paris - Cobragarden's meta on the context why here - or 1941 London - see above,) so it stands out. I find this a far more interesting than the red accents, and should note that we don't always see it on him; its not there in 1967, for example.

One colour that is noticeably missing in the full GO rainbow is orange. We don't get it handed to us on a plate as much as the other colours do. Perhaps one exception is the sign for The Resurrectionist pub in Edinburgh, where Jesus is wearing an orange robe under a blue cloth. [Edit: It must be my screen colour, its been mentioned to me that the under-robe is actually crimson red.]

So now we have run through all the colours, it can be interesting to look at them in combination.

Bonus points for noticing the white mugs for the S2 coffee shop (six-shots of espresso,) to go with the blue take-away cups. The shop is blue-white-gold themed. Truly meant to be a place where Heaven is obtainable on Earth! It also kind of reminds me of the sky - blue sky overhead, white clouds, and a golden Sun shining down (from the brass lamps.) [Edit: There is a paler green inside the coffee shop - its easy to miss, we are too busy watching the characters!]

The book shop also has a combination of colours - predominately red and yellow. Yellow for fear, and red for passion and romance. Ouch, what a combination!

Aziraphales's white, gold and black combination for performing magic also has me intrigued. It's not just the black, but so much golden colour in the form of a golden vest. And we get it both times in both 1941 and 2019. An angel from Heaven trying to hide what he really is.

I've added an extra section below as part of a reblog on the angel off-whites and shades of brown that also appear, as I realised I missed them, and do a character analysis of the Metatron, so make sure you read that as well.

If you are interested in my analysis on the tartan in GO I've one here at: What the Tartan Tells Us

For further meta reading on colour in GO try the following:

If you haven't read it yet, do go and read Cobragardens The Colours of Crowley, Red and Yellow can hurt a fellow: Colour Symbolism in 1941 Part 1 and Part 2 as it makes the colours more character specific, whereas I've tried to give the colours a more over-arching theme here.

And for the importance of the yellow colour Vavavoom! which is used on the book shop walls, (and matches Crowley's eyes) see Vidavalors post on The Vavoom: Or, when the show's hinting Crowley & Aziraphale first kissed

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doverstar · 1 year

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Even 1991's Hook showed that Jack and Peter fell for the allure of Neverland while Maggie never forgot and just wanted to go home. Implying, the way 2003's Peter Pan outright said, girls are much too clever. Disney is stomping all over this story.

Listen to me, Hook is a genius Peter Pan adaptation/reimagining. In so many ways. I know as a film, it apparently had its disappointments, but just speaking as a Peter Pan fan (of the book and the play), whatever Jim Hart/Nick Castle were doing when they were making story decisions for that movie, it worked. I could gush.

I'm going to gush. This is going to be long. If you like Peter Pan, keep reading.

Disney is stomping all over the story with their new movie in so many ways. And Peter Pan 2003 is an almost one-to-one, 108% accurate adaptation of the original book/play, so I'm gonna talk about that in regards to Hook- First of all, yes, the whole Maggie thing is SO smart and SO accurate to how Barrie chose to portray women in general in the original story. All the major female characters have their silly, petty, foolish moments like real women of all ages do, yes, but when Barrie portrays what's naturally good about good women, he knocks it out of the park. Wendy is selfless and compassionate, Tink dies for someone she loves, Mrs. Darling is a graceful nurturer and her husband's rock. Like, when Barrie uses Peter to say "girls are too clever to fall out of their prams", that's not just Peter being manipulative, that's the kind of thing Barrie really thought about females. It's in all of his plays and all of his books. He doesn't ignore women's general faults, but he does love to showcase why it's not good for man to be alone. In the original story, when you're in the Neverland, the longer you stay there, the less you remember of your life on the mainland. John and Michael just totally forget they ever had real parents and start acting like Wendy, who is playing pretend, is their only mother figure. Wendy is realizing she's forgetting real life too, and makes it a nightly thing to tell all the boys the same story - of how they got to Neverland and how they're eventually gonna go back, and why, and how their real mother specifically will always be waiting for them and she has no doubt about that because that's real love. And that's what Hook is about, second of all. Peter forgets who he used to be as a child, and it's actually normal for Peter to forget important things - finite memory in an infinite existence - but this is him forgetting who he is. And that's a big deal because he forgets not only what it was like to be young and what he personally was missing (parents, a family, the gaping hole in his magical life that created a lack of consistent real love), but he forgets what made him as a character the hero of the story. As sword-fighting leader of the Lost Boys, Peter Pan was confident, honorable, and unafraid.

This is who Peter Pan is. He's selfish and arrogant and kind of a butt sometimes (like little boys often are) but the thing that makes him special isn't that he can fly or never age (though those things are cool). The other Lost Boys can fly and don't age, either, in the original story. Peter is a born leader. Peter protects the Lost Boys. Peter doesn't kill a pirate while he's sleeping; he waits for the guy to wake up. Peter won't strike Hook while he's unarmed and tries to help him up onto solid ground in the middle of a fight before continuing the duel because that's the right thing. Peter won't keep a girl in Neverland against her will. Peter lets the kite take Wendy to safety and sits wounded on a rock alone, waiting to die without being scared. Peter Pan is a hero. Peter Banning forgot all of that. Peter Banning doesn't remember what it's like to be young, or to want parents, or to crave real love. He doesn't remember that to die will be an awfully big adventure. He's terrified of death. He's terrified of heights. He's scared of everything. He doesn't protect his kids or care about their interests or watch when they're putting on a play or attend a single baseball game or spend any time with them at all. The one thing Peter Pan had to be forever barred from, Peter Banning got to have - a family - and he forgets what it feels like not to have that and neglects them. So Jack gets to Neverland and is scared (and manipulated by pirates, the thing his great-grandmother before him went through and never fell for), and he's spent his young life craving the attention and affection of his workaholic Peter Banning dad and never gets it, literally watches Peter give up on saving him and Maggie because he's too scared (Peter Pan never gave up) and that hurts, so of course he starts forgetting who he is and where he came from because that's easier and he's his father's son. But Maggie!! is Wendy's great-granddaughter!!! and like the other women in the Peter Pan canon, she doesn't forget for one second who she is or where they came from or what's important, and she knows the pirates are bad and Peter is good, and she knows her family loves her, and she knows her dad loves her, and even though she watched Peter give up too, she begs Jack not to forget and tries actively to remind him of the truth. She rejects the pirate life. She never loses faith. She's just a little kid but she's polite and she's a good girl and she won't do what mommy said not to even in Neverland. Wendy wrote "dirty pig" on the greasy windows of the Jolly Roger because she wasn't scared of pirates and she was disgusted that grown men never took care of business on that ship and it was filthy. Maggie is cut of the same cloth, just much younger on her first trip to Neverland.

LisTEN. There are no girls in the Lost Boys because GIRLS in the Peter Pan canon have something that little boys don't right away, because girls are different from boys. Girls are naturally more in touch with emotions. Girls are often (not always) more mature. They understand things little boys sometimes (not always) don't understand. Girls are sometimes (not always) smarter than boys in certain areas. Girls are much too clever to fall out of their prams, and girls don't forget what's important and that they must grow up someday, and girls - mothers - will always keep the window open for their children. There are no girls in the Lost Boys! DEAL WITH IT. It's OKAY.

Hook is amazing. It takes little details in the margins and paragraphs of Barrie's story and incorporates them in this one zany film. It takes some of the clearest messages and themes in the book and yells it through a megaphone. "Don't forget the great things about being a child! Don't forget what true love is! Don't forget why it's necessary to grow up! Don't forget what's bad about staying a kid forever! Grow up, but keep the childlike faith and the childlike confidence and remember what kids need, and give those things to your own children!"

Hook says this stuff with Tootles. It says it with Rufio. It says it with Jack and with Maggie in two different outcomes. It says it most of all with Peter.

I LOVE HOOK. I watch it all the time, especially on rainy days. I will die on this hill. Go watch it. It's on HBO Max and you can watch it free right here with no ads you're welcome, and I myself own two copies of it on DVD just in case.

Thank you for listening and drop me a line with your own thoughts if you have any; I don't want to be rambling in a vacuum XD

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