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angelspathway · 5 months

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The trainee.

(Not my gif)

Note: this is the first shift from content. I hope you guys like. I kinda threw this together, so it’s short.

Graduating from training was easy enough, but finding a higher power to work under was even harder. She had been searching ever since she graduated from her training, which was more or less 5 hours. Her feet ached and pulsed as the cold concrete ground touched her bare feet, shivers running up her spine. Only being alive for a few days in Heaven made unused to the coldness as she trailed down the endless hallway. She did ask aziraphale, a brief professor of hers in her flight training, if she could possibly be his little apprentice, but he was helping design humans for a new planet, thus being too busy to even train her right now. He did point her in the direction of Heaven's most prized possession, saying they would very much appreciate the help with the creation of Earth;

Raphael, the starmaker.

She just had to find where he worked. Let's see... "follow the light trail to the beam path and you will be able to fly right into the room." aziraphale had explained to the newer angel and then watched as she shuffled away awkwardly. The young angel followed the slater's words carefully and ended up in a light trail that she hoped led to the angel that would accept her assistance.

A wave of a cold and slightly suffocating air smacked her out the beam of light, into a realm of light. She lets out a small whimper, rubbing at her arms. "Raphael!" she called into the empty space, floating around a bit, slightly off balance. The air was thinner and less stable for her to be able to stand on. She took a shaky step, immediately falling. It felt like she was floating, before a hand grabbed her hand in their cold ones. "Gotta use your wings, newbie. There isn't gravity in here." he wore a warm smile as he pulls the angel upwards towards him. "You do know how to use them, right?"

He still wore that warm smile as his cold hands squeezed hers with the intention of reassurance incase the younger angel didn’t know how to produce her wings. Thank the almighty that she did or she might embarrass herself in front of the higher up. She produced her wings, skinnier and smaller then the angel in front of her. "Now, why have you come to visit me in the middle of a workload?" he questioned, his eyes shining brighter then the stars he created. The starmaker was an elder angel, but a kinder one, like aziraphale. He seemed naturally curious and innocent, making him popular among the younger angels. At least, this angel in front of him believed so. She unconsciously messed with the sleeves of the older angel's robe trying to remember why she was here.

"Oh... a job.. I was wondering if I could train under you for experience for my assignments?" her voice was soft and her eyes widen when he gave a quick nod.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, bringing the angel into his side and taking her along. " I do need to show you all the basics, but I would appreciate some help around here!"

So, the younger angel worked under the starmaker, quickly becoming rather close to Raphael. She talked about him all the time with some of her friends. Raphael took her everywhere with him and the trainee followed him like a little pet, obeying his space. She had earned all his respect by the time he disappeared and the galaxy was closed down from any other angel entering it. She remembered being interrogated intensely about her Faith in the Almighty’s great plan and her wings be inspected thoroughly for any impurities. She retained her innocence, worrying for her boss's safety. She was transferred to Aziraphale’s training program, not being promoted with the rest of her friends and having her put under restrictions. The higher ups claimed it was her’s and Heaven's safety, but she has been Aziraphale's trainee for 6,000 years.

She never knew why this happened or where her former boss was currently.

To be honest, it might break the poor angel's heart. Don't cha think?

#short story #crowley #angel crowley #good omens #my angels #crowley x reader #female reader

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angelspathway · 6 months

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UPDATES FROM GAZA

#israel is a terrorist state #gaza #freepalastine🇵🇸#palestine #i stand with palestine #i stand with gaza #pray for gaza #pray for palestine #genocidenotwar #free gaza

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angelspathway · 6 months

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From the start: Miles Morales x black fem! reader

Summary: crush on best friend

Warnings: confessing feelings, feeling heartbroken, injuries, jealously, sadness

Note: I am in my feelings.

Later note: I don't think I am ever gonna finish this. I cannot find the motivation. I'm sorry but, please enjoy.

‘Don't you notice how

I get quiet when there's no one else around?

Me and you and awkward silence

Don't you dare look at me that way

I don't need reminders of how you don't feel the same’

Quietness filled my room. Miles Morales, Harlem's spider man and my best friend, sat in my windowsill, drawing i n his sketchbook. Another picture of that girl he met last year. The atmosphere felt tense, even though neither of us has said a word since he swung into my room, seeking solace from a panic attack. His pencil made scratching noises, heavy and almost sounded like he was ripping the paper. I was still blinking sleep from my eyes because of my disturbed nap. "Miles?"

He looked up at me with saddened dark brown eyes, wiping some freely flowing tears off his cheeks with the sleeve of his puffer jacket. He was breaking my poor lovesick heart with how much this panic attack took affect on him. "You think she forgot about me?" the softness in his sad voice torn me to shreds. I stood up, ignoring the pang in my heart, walking over to him. I sit on the windowsill, scooting closer to him and wrapping my arm around him as he went into another episode of snifflingand crying. I said nothing more as I rub his back. " Let it out, Miles.”

My heart continued to break for him... but it broke for myself. I felt selfish because here was my friend crying about the same girl that he thinks forgot him and I am angry that he still thinks about her while I am here with him all the time.

‘Oh, the burning pain

Listening to you harp on 'bout some new soulmate

"She's so perfect, " blah, blah, blah

Oh, how I wish you'll wake up one day

Run to me, confess your love, at least just let me say’

"Come on, Miles! Not at the arcade too..." I groan in frustration as his mind drifts from eating his nachos to just staring off in the distance, a smile visible on his face. Why couldn't he look at me like that? "Earth to Miles?", I wave my hand in front of his face. I was annoyed about how often he thought about her, especially nowadays.

He snapped out of it, looking at me with that bright look. He gave me the sweetest embarrassed smile, stuffing a nacho in his mouth. "Sorry... Its supposed to be our hangout day-"

"Don’t worry about it. Tell me more about the girl that stole my best friend’s heart." I pretended to be interested about this 'Perfect girl', not wanting him to find out about my seething jealously. My heart was screaming at him to confess to me. To be with me instead of her.

I felt selfish... I should be happy that my bestie has a crush, not anger that I wasn't the girl that he wanted.

But...

‘That when I talk to you oh, Cupid walks right through

And shoots an arrow through my heart

And I sound like a loon, but don't you feel it too?

Confess I loved you from the start’

Nevermind, he owes me nothing for being a friend to him. I may have been there for him every day of my life, but he doesn't owe me anything for loving him so damn much. I should've confessed sooner. Maybe then, I wouldn't have to worry so much about something or someone snatching him away from our friendship.

"Hey. Now you are spacing out?" he laughs, placing his hand on top of mines. My stomach filled with nauseating butterflies as I snapped back to reality. I give him an upside down smile, pulling my hand away from his.

"Let’s go play some video games."

‘What's a girl to do?

Lying on my bed, staring into the bluе

Unrequited, terrifying

Lovе is driving me a bit insane

Have to get this off my chest

I'm telling you today’

With a lot of encouragement from my friends and even Miles parents, I decided I needed to confess to him. My heart was beating out of my chest, scared of how he would react to my confession. I walk towards the water tower, his mom telling me where he was. I stopped in my tracks, my heart breaking in two after seeing blonde hair with pink tips. He seemed so happy talking to her, sharing a plate of food. My shoulders dropped, turning to walk away, feeling guilty for the tears in my eyes. I shouldn't be this upset..

He always talked about her... even during our hangouts. He never looked at me that way, never looked at me past being a friend... and it hurts.. it hurts a lot. Mostly because I've been there for him all this time and he cannot see how much I care for him. I leave the party, tears running down my face. I was gasping and trembling a bit. Why did I ever think he would love me? He loves her. I will never be the girl of his life.

#Spotify #across the spiderverse #miles morales #miles morales x reader

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angelspathway · 6 months

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I just.. GOD😩 I am bouncing off the fucking walks right now

Primal

Aziraphale x Crowley x f!Reader || Rating: E (18+ ONLY)

Summary: you request primal play with your lovers.

A/N: this may be the filthiest, most explicit fic I’ve written yet; please mind the tags!

CW: primal play, consensual dubcon/noncon, mild degradation, marathon sex, rough sex, breeding/creampie, come eating/come play, divinity/occult kink, size kink

Tag List: @avocado-writing @dranna @jae-michael @wereallbrokenangels @darktealrat @detectiveapparatiagreen @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @chaospossum @rex-ray @live-logs-and-proper @catlynharper

The shop is silent; your lovers are currently out running some errands around Soho while you pass the time relaxing on the couch. When your phone buzzes on the table, you grab it and glance casually at the text notification. Instantly your eyes widen. It’s from Crowley.

Angel and I would like to take you up on that sexy little idea you had Saturday. If you want this, respond “Yes.”

Your thumbs tap out your reply and send within three seconds: Yes.

Bouncing bubbles on the other end for a few seconds before his response pops up: we’re on our way back to the shop now. you have ten minutes to hide before I sniff out that sweet quim and we have our way with you.

Your core clenches; a frisson of slightly fearful excitement skitters up your spine and you toss your phone aside, launching off the couch. You’d broached the idea tentatively to the two of them over the weekend while slightly sozzled. “You know what really gets me hot?” you’d slurred, wine sloshing in your glass. “Primal play.”

Aziraphale had squinted slightly and smacked his lips. “Primal…like animals?”

“Yeah,” Crowley cut in. “Like…rough sex, angel.” He peered at you over the rim of his glasses. “S’you wanna get hunted down and fucked, eh?” The casual explicitness of his words made you shiver, and you nodded. Crowley grunted thoughtfully and took another sip of wine. “Mmh. Have t’keep that in mind. Tell us more, though, so we can get a better idea of the whole thing.”

And so you had laid out your fantasies in vivid, wine-soaked detail, watched their eyes grow darker and their cocks harden in their trousers. They hadn’t debauched you that night; hadn’t even touched themselves, clearly using their six millennia of understanding to communicate silently between each other. No…they had decided to wait.

And now, they had apparently taken their little outing as a chance to discuss the idea at length and spring it on you. You had told them that half your excitement came from spontaneity—the idea that they could begin hunting you anywhere, at any time. Your heart pounds in your breast as you dash through the bookshop, searching for a perfect hiding spot, aborting decision after decision as the minutes tick by and the adrenaline ramps up.

At last, at the seven minute mark, you finally decide on the upstairs storage closet. It smells of old stuff, dust and mothballs. You frantically squeeze yourself in behind the ancient crates of whatever Aziraphale keeps stored, shielding behind layers of pastel-colored clothing hung on the racks overhead. It’s a pleasant surprise to find that he also keeps extra blankets in here; the mass of old padded quilts folded behind the crates provide a delightful little nest of sorts to snuggle down into while you wait.

You don’t have to wait long; at precisely ten minutes from the moment you replied to Crowley’s text, the downstairs doorbell jingles and two sets of footfalls enter. You can feel the vibration of their steps through the ancient walls and floorboards. Tucked away in your little white-noise nest, you bite your lip and listen hard to the indistinct murmur of muffled voices, moving throughout the lower floor as they begin to search for you.

It takes them all of five minutes to sweep the ground floor and determine you’re not there. The breath catches and holds in your lungs when the narrow wrought iron staircase trembles under the force of their climb. Their words clarify with proximity. “Where aaaaareee youuuuuu, little one?” Crowley sing-songs, his footsteps slow and uneven, creeping across the groaning floorboards.

“She’s not going to answer, Crowley; that would defeat the purpose of letting her hide,” Aziraphale scoffs.

“I know that, angel—it’s a rhetorical—oh, forget it,” Crowley snaps back irritably. You hold your breath and curl into yourself when their footsteps approach the closet. The shadows of their shoes darken the gap for a moment before Crowley murmurs, “Bedroom,” and they move on. You release a tiny, shuddering sigh and relax just a fraction.

“Are you afraid, little one?” you hear Crowley crooning as they stalk. “I can smell you, you know,” he adds. “That tight little cunt is dripping for us, I can taste it in the air. Your lust. How badly you want us to hold you down and take turns splitting you open.”

You bite your knuckle and feel an answering gush of slickness in your underwear. Crowley pauses and gives a wicked chuckle: “Ohh yeah, you like that—I felt your lust spike. Smelt it too—fuck, little thing, you smell so good. I’m going to shove my tongue so deep into that sweet pussy and make you cry. Maybe after Aziraphale cores you open with that fat cock of his and breeds you, I’ll lick his come out of your gaping hole.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Crowley likes to talk dirty, but it’s never been anything like this. Your cunt throbs needily and a strangled whimper of arousal works its way up your throat. It’s a tiny little noise, barely there, but you are dealing with eldritch beings.

You flinch and yelp, startled, when the closet door is slammed open and light floods in. An arm brushes aside the layers of hanging fabric hiding you from sight. Your mouth dries out as Crowley leans into the tiny space with a sharp grin full of evil promise; his yellow snake eyes are uncovered and fixed unblinkingly on you where you’re cowering behind the crates.

“Hello,” he purrs at you, then turns over his shoulder to shout, “Angel, get your arse in here and shut the door.”

Brisk, heavy footfalls approach before Aziraphale’s broad silhouette darkens the threshold. Cast in chiaroscuro, a thin slice of light drawn up one cheek illuminates an almost unrecognizable, blank hunger in those blue eyes. The warmth and kindness is gone, replaced by an unsmiling being whose deafening silence is more frightening than any combination of words. He steps inside the closet and the door thumps closed behind him, plunging all three of you into absolute darkness.

One of them snaps and the miraculous energy tingles over your skin. You’d half expected them to vanish your clothing, but there’s a snarl of “Come here” before a hard, demanding mouth seals itself over yours and hands attack your outfit. Seems the miracle was to make their clothing disappear.

“Get her naked,” Crowley growls; fabric tears and buttons pop and scatter under the frantic clawing of his hands.

“Do shut the hell up,” Aziraphale all but snarls back. The sturdy denim of your jeans makes a horrific noise as it’s ripped apart at the seams. You are helpless under the onslaught of their borderline deranged lust, blind in the darkness and more aroused then you’ve ever been. Neither of your lovers needs to breathe, but both of them are panting like dogs.

You asked for animalistic, and by God do they deliver. Crowley flips you over to prop you on all fours, then immediately and without warning plunges his cock in from behind. When you arch your back and cry out, he reaches around and fish-hooks his long fingers into your mouth. “Fuck yes,” he grunts, already setting a brutal pace with those lean, snapping hips. “Fucking take it.”

You’re shamefully wet—have been ever since the notification text he sent—and the noise between your bodies is a filthy slapslapslapslap in complete pitch blackness. You told them straight up that you wanted to be used, and Crowley is frantically fucking towards his own climax with no regard to yours. There’s a secondary slapping noise, slightly fainter, which you belatedly recognize as the sound of masturbation—Aziraphale is crouched over Crowley’s shoulder and wanking.

“Oh shit,” Crowley moans, “I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up. Ahh—we’re gonna come all over you—paint you with it, leave all your holes dripping…oh, fuck…!” He punches in a few more times and orgasms, shuddering and clutching at your hips.

“Out,” Aziraphale snarls. Both you and Crowley yelp as the angel rudely yanks him away you before crawling over your body and abruptly shoving his swollen shaft in. The slickness of Crowley’s come eases his penetration and he groans deep in his chest, then bends to wrap both arms around your waist, press his forehead against your spine and begins rutting hard, fast and shallow.

There’s a stir of movement, Crowley kneeling to hiss sibilant, filthy eroticism into your ear. “You like that? Yeah? You like being mounted and bred like an animal?” Your cunt clenches and Aziraphale makes a guttural sound, punching in with a series of snappy thrusts that deepen the arch of your back. “He’s gonna come inside you,” Crowley whispers. “You want all his come?”

“Nnnnh-hhhh,” you gasp in affirmation. “Want it—I want—oh God—“

“We know what you want, you filthy little thing.” Crowley lowers his mouth in the darkness and pinches those sharp white teeth over a nipple. “Angel,” he hisses, “really fill her up.”

Thanks to the fact that Aziraphale worked himself up while waiting for Crowley to finish, it doesn’t take long at all before he garbles out a broken whine and climaxes in a series of uneven thrusts. His forehead burns like a brand between your shoulder blades. Latent celestial energy suffuses the cramped space and you recognize that Aziraphale is fulfilling another one of your requests—he’s miraculously drawing out his own orgasm and quite literally pumping you full, warmth blossoming inside your lower belly until you feel the pressure of it. At last Aziraphale pulls out with a low hiss; without the plug of his cock, streams of come run down your thighs and gush from your abused hole to pool under you.

“Fucking heaven,” Crowley chokes quietly. Moments later you yelp as he replaces Aziraphale behind you and extends his tongue and then some more, greedily licking up the angel’s spend where it leaks out of you before pressing inside. The searching wriggle of the long, wet, dexterous muscle makes you see stars. Within moments you’re shoving back against Crowley’s face and moaning like you’re being paid for it.

Under Crowley’s wicked ministrations, you have your first orgasm of the scene. The demon seals his mouth to you, moaning and fondling himself as he tastes your essence mixed with Aziraphale’s. While you shiver in the throes of afterglow, he gently turns you over onto your back and runs cool, slender fingers over your heated flesh.

Aziraphale’s next turn is infinitely more gentle than his previous. Per another one of your requests, he’s enlarged his body to absolutely dwarf you, and slots his now massive cock between your thighs, wraps an arm around to hold them closed and uses them to get off. The slick rub of his shaft against your clit is the most perfect friction and he enables another orgasm with languid thrusts.

Heated kisses are pressed against your calves as you come. “That’s it,” Aziraphale whispers. “So good for me. You’re perfect, dove. I’m going to come too…” And he does, spilling warm over your belly and up your chest.

You don’t know how long it lasts as Aziraphale and Crowley take turns using you, over and over again, leaving no part of your body untouched. Sometimes they’re rough, sometimes gentle. Somewhere along the way you scream yourself hoarse and one of them spares a miracle to soothe your raw throat.

Towards the end both your lovers are so overworked they’re blurring the line between corporeal and ethereal. Aziraphale’s body glows from within, every vein and artery lit up with the ichor flowing through them, ozonic steam curling off his skin, his hair blindingly bright, eyes glowing electric blue. His wings have manifested and those snow-white feathers bristle and shiver under the waves of pleasure.

You can see Crowley too, in a caught-between form, with a sulfurous glow in his slitted eyes and glossy black scales creeping up the arch of his neck to scatter across his jaw like freckles. The tips of his ears, fingernails and canine teeth have tapered to points and sharp nubs of horns peek out of his crimson hair. A long, whiplike, scaly black tail sways gently behind him, the barb at its end resembling a harpoon.

At the end, with the taste of both of them heavy on your tongue, you raise your voice a final time in a sob: “Almond!” A gasp is wrenched out as your lovers immediately and simultaneously retreat from where they were fucking into you from the front and back. A snap floods the closet with light; one of them wraps you up in one the blankets you’ve been laying on, and you are carried swiftly into the master bathroom.

Aziraphale, who was carrying you, sits you on the edge of the bathtub and begins drawing a bath while Crowley miracles up a tall glass of water for you to drink. Once you’re hydrated, Aziraphale hurries to go fetch more snacks and Crowley lowers you into the steaming, lavender-scented bath. For the next half-hour you are pampered to no end—Crowley massages shampoo and conditioner into your hair and lathers soap over your body while Aziraphale feeds you bites of chocolate, cheese, crackers, melon and prosciutto between sips of water.

After your bath is done, you are wrapped up in the fluffiest towel and carried to bed. Your angel and demon snuggle in on either side and you fall asleep in what feels like moments; a deep, dreamless, refreshing slumber.

The next day, you hobble gingerly downstairs to join them for breakfast; Crowley’s grin is that of the cat that’s gotten the canary. “Feeling a little sore, are we?” he teases. You open your mouth to make a retort when Aziraphale reaches over and lightly pats the demon’s back and Crowley hisses sharply and straightens up with uncomfortable stiffness.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Crowley,” Aziraphale admonishes.

After breakfast, you order both your lovers up to the bedroom and command them to remove their shirts. A smug grin touches your lips as you observe the raised pink lines of scratches adorning both their backs. “Battle scars,” Crowley insists. “‘M proud of ‘em and I’m not healing ‘em.”

“Never said I wanted you to,” you reply. But you tell them to lay on their bellies on the bed and soothe the wounds you inflicted with a tube of cream and gentle fingers. They cared for you so well last night; this is the least you can do. They enjoy your touch with closed eyes and faint smiles.

And you think, as you watch them both go about their day with the secret of your love marking their flesh under their clothes, that the truest passion is primal.

#reblog #my angels #my mutuals #good omens #not mine

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angelspathway · 6 months

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Hello!

So I know I made one post and kinda disappeared.. sorry about that 😓

I’m coming back. I got a fic in the works for Spiderverse and I am going to start working on some good omens stuff. I just hope you all enjoy it because I have gotten into new fandoms. I left across the Spiderverse because it was toxic, but I will still write for it if someone requests it.

Working a lot and trying to get registered for college to get away from my family is what has been taking up my time. I was going to come back earlier, but I got really sick. I promise I am coming back, I just need some time and need to finish what I am working on. I am coming back, I didn’t give up🫡. I hope you guys are still here.

Love you guys ❤️

#across the spiderverse #miles morales #coming soon #return #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow

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angelspathway · 7 months

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Michael Sheen as Aziraphale [and one crowley] - Good Omens [S1]

#aziraphale #good omens #michael sheen

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angelspathway · 7 months

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AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Striptease

Aziraphale x Reader || Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Summary: Aziraphale wears entirely too many layers. You make it your mission to remedy the situation.

Tag List: @avocado-writing @darktealrat @jae-michael @wereallbrokenangels @dranna @flirtypidge @larsulrichshairline @live-logs-and-proper @detectiveapparatiagreen @rex-ray @catlynharper

It’s no secret that Aziraphale prides himself on his clothing. The same clothing he’s worn for over a hundred years; well-loved brown velvet worn bare at the button-holes and the bottom edges where he tugs as a nervous fidget. Tartan bowtie, accented by either his beige overcoat or soft white-gray housecoat depending on whether he’s planning on popping around outside or spending a cozy day inside.

You can’t stand it.

It’s summer in England, and there’s currently a heatwave drenching the entire island in muggy misery. You’ve been wearing shorts and tank tops for several weeks straight now, but the most Aziraphale seems willing to remove is his coat. You’ve never even seen so much as his bloody forearms. He always keeps the bookshop at a comfortable temperature, if not slightly on the cool side for the sake of the books.

Aziraphale is at his desk, researching some author who died five hundred years ago and looking terribly handsome in his suit. Your whole body throbs with restless wanting. “Zira, isn’t it hot outside?” you venture.

“Dreadfully,” he agrees amiably. “But it’s nice and cool in here, don’t you think?”

You hum agreement, privately feeling irritated because it’s true. Maybe if it got a little warmer…hmm. Rising, you casually stroll off to find the thermostat. Within minutes you locate it—one of the very few modern appliances in the shop, only because Crowley wouldn’t quit complaining about the cold in the winter months. Not wanting to waste more frivolous miracles, Aziraphale finally had central A/C installed.

The air conditioning is on. You turn it off and grab a book as to not seem suspicious before returning to Aziraphale’s side. It’s midafternoon and a rare sunny day in London, so the sunlight streaming in through the windows takes effect with surprising quickness. You notice dampness gathering at the angel’s temples, wetting the roots of his fluffy hair and glittering on his skin.

Your heart skips a beat when he shrugs off his housecoat and returns to his studies without a word. Fifteen minutes later, he shifts uncomfortably again and fingers at his collar, pulling it away from his neck to release some heat.

“Goodness, it is rather stuffy in here,” he says.

“You should try wearing short sleeves,” you suggest mildly, but the way your eyes track the gleam of sweat down his jawline is anything but.

Aziraphale scoffs. “Please. I endured several millennia before central air was invented and wore long sleeves the entire time.”

“Well, doesn’t seem terribly conducive with the style you have now, does it?”

Aziraphale scowls and stubbornly hunches over his book again, but his hands keep rising to peel his collar off of sticky skin until he finally huffs wordlessly and surrenders, unraveling his bow tie with a single deft tug and popping the top on his neat row of ivory buttons. A glimpse of flesh beneath makes your mouth water. Jesus, you feel like a repressed Victorian man swooning at the sight of an ankle.

“Oh, sod it,” Aziraphale mutters under his breath. Your fingers tighten on the cracked spine of your book. Off comes the waistcoat, draped over the back of the chair with his housecoat, and—yes yes yes!—his fingers fumble at the opposing wrists until a set of cufflinks is deposited in his pocket.

You squeeze your thighs together, staring so hard your eyes threaten to dry out. Aziraphale jostles, pulling your attention to the distracting stretch patterns of that baby-blue shirt around his broad shoulders and wide chest. The unbuttoned gap yawns slightly, allowing you a tantalizing glimpse of white-blond curls.

Come on come on come on.

It takes two minutes and seventeen seconds for Aziraphale to unwittingly complete the elaborate striptease you’ve created. For his final act, he rolls up the neatly starched cuffs of his shirt, then pulls the sleeves up to his elbow. Exposing the sinewy muscles and fine blond hair of his forearms feels like voyeurism; something next to nakedness. To your delight, there are even a few veins for you to track with your eyes while you imagine kissing your way up his wrist to take his thick fingers into your mouth.

Those fingers are currently tugging rapidly at the front of his sweat-darkened shirt, fanning himself. “It really is unreasonably warm in here,” the angel says exasperatedly. “I’m going to go check on the air-con unit.”

Fuck. Well, you can’t stall him without looking suspicious, so the gig is up. You enjoy the sight of his retreating figure complete with a sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his broad back and that incredible ass. The number of fantasies you’ve harbored about sinking your teeth into those plush cheeks will probably be the sole reason you go downwards instead of up when you die.

Five minutes later, you’re busy pretending to read (actually building a fantasy out of the scene you’ve just witnessed to get off on later tonight) when a pair of Oxfords steps into your line of sight. Your pupils slide up, up the woolen trouser legs, up the delightfully stripped down torso to a rather bemused-looking face.

“Why did you turn off the air conditioning?”

Your pulse stumbles and launches into a tap dance. “I—I didn’t,” you lie immediately. Those blue eyes narrow, and he steps closer. The scent of his cologne, warmed by the heat of his body, washes over you.

“I believe you tend to forget I’m a six-thousand year old angel,” he says dryly. “I’ve heard a few lies in my time. And that,” he adds, planting both hands on either side of you and leaning down, “was a terrible one.”

Your mouth is too dry to form words; your eyes flick damningly to the unbuttoned gap in his shirt with its thatch of pale chest hair. “Oh,” breathes Aziraphale. A smile lights up his face, but this one has a sharper edge than usual. It holds the same keenness as the flash of a knife blade, reflected in the sudden wondering intensity of his eyes. “Oh, you wicked little thing. You really are clever.” His hand rises to cup your jaw. “Did you really desire me so badly that you’d sabotage my shop just to see me remove a few layers of clothing?”

You swallow and your throat clicks. “Sorry,” you whisper.

Aziraphale’s hand works into your hair, the sensation of strong fingers kneading at your scalp making your eyes roll. “Well, we can’t have that,” he murmurs, pitched low and promising. “Let’s strike a deal—ask nicely for what you want and I’ll give it to you, and you agree not to mess about in here again. Basic manners, hmm?”

You’ve never been happier to agree to anything in your life.

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angelspathway · 8 months

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A BLACK GIRL RUNS THIS BLOG BITCH

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angelspathway · 9 months

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( Not my gif)

Unbelievable: 42! Miles Morales x black fem! reader

Summary: the boy of my dreams

Trope: chubby loser girl and popular quiet boy trope. Maybe the tiniest bit of hood Miles.

Warnings: slightly suggestive and short.

Note: this is a little taste. Just to see the reactions.

Who wants me? A chubby, bullied girl who only had her academics to show. I wasn't pretty and had been used by every guy I entered into a relationship with. I gave up my innocence to some guy I thought loved me and I regret it every day. I thought I would never find a guy that wanted me for me and not for an experience. So, when a certain popular boy started sitting with me at lunch, I thought nothing of it. No seats maybe cause no way Miles G. Morales would sit with me out of his own free will. He wasn't even eating lunch, just spread out a poster, a few books sitting on the curled edges as he sketched out some type of graffiti art. Probably an art project. His hair was neatly cut with his signature twin braids hanging on his shoulders, his rough hand moving along the board, pencil scratching and squeaking with each messy line. I was so interested in what he was doing that I had completely forgot about my e-book and was scrolling mindlessly.

Suddenly, his hand stopped moving and I look up, meeting his cold gaze. My stomach flipped, hands becoming sweaty the longer he stared me down. His look could make any girl fold, the slight head tilt, the natural pout on his beautifully plump lips-

"You checking me out?” I met his gaze. He was smirking at me, gaze full of cold amusement. I didn't know how to respond as he stood up, making me think I creeped him out. Instead, he pushed his stuff near me before grabbing his bookbag and walking around the lunch table, sitting by me. Whatever cologne he was wearing was definitely drawing me to him as soon as it invading my senses. My eyes were still wide as he dropped his bookbag near mines, warm hand brushing against my thigh. " What's your name, ma?” my eyes almost crossed at the name that he already assigned to me. No way this was happening.

"Uh um.. (Your name)" he nods, continuing his project. "I'm sorry... didn’t mean to bother you-“

"You ain't bothering me, ma'am... Just moved so this pretty girl can see what I am doing." he interrupted, his fingers trailing down my arm under the table, grabbing my sweaty hand with a firm grip. His hand felt like magic in mines. My heart quicken as I moved closer him, still thinking about his words. I discarded my phone, watching him continue to sketch out something. My head was spinning and I wasn't thinking, letting my chin rest against his broad shoulder. He said nothing, just moved his hand away from mines, snaking his arm around my waist, fingers playing with the fabric of my uniform skirt. The butterflies were swarming my stomach at this point.

To think that I had one class with Miles, he was quiet and was the smartest student in my class, now he was flirting with me. He pulled me flushed into his side, putting his pencil down and turning his head to face me. Once again, I was looking into his eyes. He leaned in and I let him, our lips brushing together. My heart was beating in my ears as he tilted his head, about to kiss me, to seal whatever this was to be official. To seal the deal.

The bell rings and he pulls away, grabbing my hand. He gives it a sort kiss, keeping eye contact with me. He let me go completely, gathering his stuff and leaving. I touch my lips.

That was unbelievable.

#prowler miles #miles morales #miles rambles #short fic #across the spiderverse #earth 42 miles x reader #miles g morales #test #angelspathway

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