#also the other title could be “the birth of crowley”

[sygneth]

"The Fall of the Starmaker"

#I have been painting this for way too long #fuckin. rocks #anyway i was thinking whether i want to name this “the fall” or “the death” because y'know #the angel you knew is not me #but i decided to stick to the original idea #also the other title could be “the birth of crowley” #also i'm a very big fan of the concept that angels' wings burn during the fall and then grow back black #yall seem to like renaissance-like paintings don't ya? #i hope you will like this one #good omens #good omens fanart #fanart #good omens crowley #crowley #anthony j crowley #the starmaker #ineffable husbands #my art #snek blorbo

[yxstxrdrxxm]

SYNOPSIS: Faes and humankind are never meant to be together, but Coviello has plans to prove that wrong.

TW/S: Yandere behavior, non-canon to original Coviello, variant of twst! Coviello (huge inspo to Malleus from twst!), stalking, somno but not the sexual kind??, major character death/s (debatable but if you squint, you can see it), huge reference to the original cover of Once Upon a Dream by Lana Del Rey, delusional mindset, lol they're pulling some sleeping beauty shit here.

NOTE: Coviello is not from me, its from Meirin (@zhongrin/@meimeimeirin)! Also, this was something that hit me so hard after hearing the cover of once upon a dream... And drawing Coviello as Malleus did not help my delusions.

As a dragon fae, Coviello is no stranger to the waking of death.

They have attested this by seeing how humans can only live for so long, be it by decades... Or a few years, if they were unlucky. Some were even unfortunate to have their lives snuffed before they were given the chance to live.

To them, they were birthed from an egg, and although they had the temper worse than of a common fae, their family took care of them. At least... To the best of their abilities.

As they grew up, their eyes have witnessed tragedies. Some fell on their kind, while others fell on themselves.

It was when they achieved their signature spell: one that is so tied to the song that they heard their mother sing. However, there was a catch to that spell.

That is... Coviello must know the person's name, for this spell needs it as a payment of it's own.

If it doesn't... Well, they didn't need to remember. They knew what the payment was in return of the lack of name. Who's to say they didn't experienced it themselves?

And so, they lived on. They've watched as times change, but they remained the same. If anything, they were quite displeased with how things seem to happen so quickly.

There was nothing to catch their eye. Nothing that could make them slow down, to admire, aside from the sweets they get or from admiring the simple scenery... Or even with their animal companion.

That is, until they met you.

Housewarden of Ramshackle and Crowley's little helper.

You were the light of their life, something that made them stop to look twice.

And you two met at a time where they thought it was impossible, which was Night Raven College.

At the time, it was a simple nightly stroll for Coviello. They were out to see the abandoned ruins of Ramshackle, to simply get away from the chaos of Diasomnia. And in such a time, they had simply thought they would get a sliver of peace.

However, they were displeased to see that they weren't... And it was because of you.

Still, they held their tongue and became cordial. In their mind, you were simply there to be like them: to escape from whatever dorm you were stuck in, or to get your bearings over something else before heading back to rest.

However, they were gravely mistaken. They realized that, no, you weren't doing that... And you were an insomniac.

That, and you LIVED in that abandoned, dilapidated of a dorm.

Coviello had to reel in the urge to ask you to repeat yourself. That was a shock they never expected, and they were one to have witnessed the horrors of it all.

And yet, from the look in your eyes, you weren't kidding. And you were even more bold to ask them of their name.

In the folklore and basic knowledge of faes, one mus not tell them your real name. This was so to limit the possibility of them taking some form of ownership, a title of their claim on you.

However, Coviello what they didn't expect was for you to willingly give up your name, and even give them a nickname of your own.

You called them 'Vii'. A playful iteriation of their name, but they had no heart to correct you.

You were a peculiar being, but maybe... It was better you stay oblivious.

For their sake.

That day, Coviello was not the same as others had noticed.

If anything, it would seem as though they changed. The once feared leader of Diasomnia had their heart softened over someone that no one knew, but those who did were left confused.

Who knew that one human could make them feel like this? And yet, they did.

Every time Coviello was with you, you made it clear that it was simply to be with them as a friend. You weren't going to restrict Coviello for what they should or shouldn't do, and you were there to support them.

You made the fae feel human. Someone who was worth hearing out for.

And for them, they got addicted.

However, it wasn't long till they have witnessed your struggles. You were still human, so it was clear that you had your own issues, too.

One was how people took advantage of your kindness.

You have your heart on your sleeve far too many times, and Coviello had to witness that happen. It was almost like you never learned how it feels to be used, and when you did... You were hurt.

They hated it. They hated seeing just how miserable you are sometimes. And they hated how you seem to act like your misery was not a big deal.

Still, you trudged on, just like a soldier is to the sight of a war.

As for Coviello, they stayed... Waiting.

Waiting for your walls to crumble.

What they lacked back then was patience, but oh, Coviello had enough time in the world to remain patient. They knew in themselves that the time will come that you'll admit defeat.

And each time that things happened, the burden was placed on you. Each time you try to justify it wasn't your fault, people never believed you.

You were a magicless human. You don't deserve to have a voice, they told you.

And each time, you swore to yourself that you felt someone was on you. Someone who kept watching you from a distance, far from your untrained eyes.

Coviello truly didn't mean to scare you, but they were curious. They wanted to see if you were able to understand the predicament you were under, and how each one of them would let you take the blame.

They were all cowards. You and Coviello knew that. But did you believe them?

No. No, you didn't.

And to see them resort to it after all the warning they gave you was... Disappointing. But maybe it was worth for the beauty that they've seen.

That in some way, you were stubborn to prove their words wrong.

However, Coviello has seen it. Each time that you went through it, they could see how difficult it is to remain the same perception.

Which leads them to now, with cradling your body in their arms after they had the entirety of Night Raven College under their control. Under their power, slumbering as peacefully as they can.

"... But if I know you, I know what you'll do," they whispered by your ear, pulling your body closer to them. "You'll love me at once, the way you did..."

"Once Upon a Dream."

And just like that, your body went limp, your rushed breaths becoming quiet. Coviello could only imagine what pleasant dreams you have under their spell as flowers bloomed, traversing to cover your eyes to keep them 'closed'.

Once Upon a Dream— a signature spell only they can wield, which renders whoever hears those words in a deep slumber. And the worst part?

All they need is a name of the recipient for it to work.

@.throw-letter-away | do not republish or repost my works anywhere | 2023

#💌 ;; message delivery #💌 ;; from: coviello #💌 ;; post: ocs #💌 ;; to: gen. neutral reader #yandere x you #yandere drabble #yandere writing #yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere imagines #yandere insert #yandere text

[floareadeaur]

Ferid and his reincarnated elder brother - Character analysis

Ferid's same expression when his brother appears, Crowley's same physical position as his past reincarnation.

Reverse Contexts : In his previous life, Crowley as Ferid's older brother seeks him out in order to draw his younger brother into a political and military alliance.

In Crowley's present life, he, as the younger (vampire) brother of Ferid is called for a military plan.

In Crowley's past life, as Ferid's older brother, he was the one in authority. Ferid asks him if he has to call him "majesty" now.

In the present life, Ferid is the one in a position of authority over Crowley and Crowley calls him directly by his honorific title.

Am I also saying that their whole story is the other's destiny reversed in a way?

In Crowley's previous life, he is the eldest brother, and Ferid lives as the second in line, as his shadow. And the older brother wants to draw Ferid into a forced alliance where he would be under his control.

In Crowley's present life, Ferid drags him into a forced alliance as his younger (vampire) brother and makes him live as his shadow, never giving him answers.

Ferid remembers about how he killed his older brother in his past life before killing Crowley.

Ferid here calls out to Heaven, speaking to his brother's soul tells him that he hopes he has not reincarnated yet.

" I hope you haven't gotten reborn yet."

In the novels about Crowley, it is specified how Ferid waited for Crowley for 150 years and "felt" his birth. But it is not specified why he could felt his birth.

The chapter about them, where Crowley is killed exactly like his previous version (Ferid's older brother was decapitated, what Ferid does to Crowley destroys his nervous system, the vampire equivalent of decapitation. If he did not do that, Crowley, as a vampire, would not have died beheaded like a human) is called "Reincarnation Rondo".

Ferid says after killing Crowley that he is number 440.

Ferid asks his older brother, as a human, after killing him, "Who are you again?"

The older brother's name is not mentioned in the flashback because it is not important. He was reincarnated 439 times as Ferid's brother. The 440th reincarnation is Crowley.

Even Crowley's destiny as a human is a combination of his previous destiny as Ferid's older brother (he is as tall, muscular, same facial expression, similar gestures, very popular, loved by people) and Ferid's destiny as his younger brother (Crowley has his own psychic deception, he is the youngest of his family, just like Ferid was with him)

The conclusion is that Crowley ended up in Ferid's place in his last life: the youngest son of his family, with a psychic deception, dragged into an alliance with an older vampire brother who made him live as his shadow.

Ferid lived as a human as the youngest son, with deep psychic disappointment, as the shadow of his older brother who wanted to drag him into an alliance where Ferid would be controllable.

Even the fact that Ferid's background was scheduled to be released in 2017 as a light novel, as a sequel to the one about Crowley's life, is an explanation.

The logic was to present Crowley's miserable life and then why his life was the way it was.

It was payment for his ignorance in his past life as Ferid's older brother.

If he was not happy that his younger brother saw no point in living, wanting only the power of the throne, Ferid would not kill him, run away from home, meet Rígr, become a vampire, and would not turned Crowley (the reincarnation of his older brother) into a vampire, destroying his life.

It is a lesson: Do not ignore your younger siblings for power. The wheel of life turns.

What Crowley experienced was a payment, and I think that if things did not go that way, the tensions between him and Ferid as brothers would never be resolved. Ferid would have been always condemned to reincarnate as his shadow.

Maybe that is why Crowley dies so at peace now, compared to his previous life. In both he is killed by Ferid, his younger brother, but now he understood more, he learned about what it is like to be the younger brother, to suffer and live in the shadow of an older brother. His soul has evolved.

Ferid always told him that they were "brothers". It was all literary.

Their story as brothers is a masterpiece.

#ferid bathory #crowley eusford #chapter 134 #ferid bathory chapter 134 #crowley eusford chapter 134 #owari no seraph #seraph of the end #owari no seraph chapter 134 #seraph of the end chapter 134 #ons #sote

[hakureiryuu]

part 1

episode 2, and I just noticed the episode titles that call the flashback b plots minisodes. what's that about?

not-quite-a-liveblog ahoy!

crowley looks so effing weird in this outfit?? maybe it's the glasses, they're so anachronistic, almost steampunk.

I actually thought he was talking about isaac or something here lol

birds flying away after crowley firebombs the goats lmao

saying that eve was the first human birth implies that she is adam's daughter???? which I guess makes about as much sense as a single breeding pair populating the planet, we all know how much inbreeding that would take.

(side note: I remember this Flood adaptation movie that had emma watson in it. noah wanted to kill off all the humans and just let the animals survive. he said while watson was pregnant that if her twin kids were boys, they could live and humans would just die out. but if they were girls who could grow up to be mothers, he would kill them. and I'm like, implying that their father/grandfather/uncles would be the ones impregnating them? nevermind the incest, what about the age gap??? but anyway)

ofc when gabriel claimed to be an expert in human birth I immediately thought of mary, but that hasn't happened yet. I mean it makes sense that this idiot would think eve counts, but couldn't he at least make it to cain??

there's something to be said about this story and elspeth's story connecting virtue with economic status. aziraphale appears to think about that when it's pointed out, but takes entirely the wrong lesson from it, as we see with elspeth later.

"but no one would ever find them- actually that's a great idea" it reads as aziraphale not wanting to deal with gabe's bullshit rather than agreeing with it, as though he hasn't done variations of the same thing for years. I still laughed tho XD

oh hey, "every day" was gonna be the original opening song for the first season! what a cute reference that will likely have little to no further relevance!

this was the point where I was like "why the hell is crowley just hanging out in that same alleyway all the time? wait a goddamn minute, did shax take his apartment?!"

it's so cute how maggie takes aziraphale's social cluelessness in stride.

the jukebox at the resurrectionist is just like the bently turning cds into queen, what a cute reference that will likely have little to no further relevance!

trumpets sound, archangels approach.

saraquel miraclling a ramp lmao

gabriel's attempts at flyswatting never work!!!!!!

I'm assuming all those newspaper clipping say "every day" etc? for some reason? someone correct me if I'm wrong, I would really love to know.

also why is he DRAWING gabriel? later he just needed it to show someone, but why not take a picture? I'm sure you have an ancient camera where you have to hide under a blanket lying around somewhere.

shooing motion miracle at the pub, hahaha

I was a good deal sus of this plan to ship nina and maggie when nina already has a partner, but that was before I realized lindsay is a piece of shit. still, it's not like they know that either! ineffable homewreckers, they are.

everyone's talked about how crowley's first thought re: romance is taking shelter from the rain 😊

but my asexual brain is somehow always teetering over the gutter, so when he said "get them wet" I blinked a bit XDD

JANE AUSTIN WHO???!?

"you think you know someone..." "she had balls!" "what?"

actually it wasn't a what, it was a well. as in "well that's not relevant to my point" like, sir, did you know this already? in what context??

meanwhile back in job's era they're having a bit of a tense discussion. this is explicitly after the flood so it makes sense that aziraphale absolutely does not believe that crowley wants to kill some kids. I wonder why lying is such a big theme in this episode? I haven't been able to really boil it down yet.

aziraphale's smug grin really breaks the tension though XDD

jemimah is adorable. the others are the product of rich parents.

these two are playing chicken with children's lives, but hey, it's about the trust 😌

"can I be a blue one?" I love her

aziraphale discovering food is so deliberately gross, why this?

so many complicated feelings from both of them about god actually talking to someone.

god's pronouns are she/they, approved.

crowley says see you in hell but the next day when sitis is about to flip god off he says actually let's walk this all back pfffft

"reach into his robes... no, higher."

when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they share a very special hug...

aziraphale stating flat out with no equivocation that gabriel was awful is such a huge step forward for him 😊

(while pausing to write this I noticed that john hamm is credited simply as jim, love that for him)

this is the 2nd time aziraphale has insisted "our" in the face of crowley's "my" I'm sobbing

good omens inside good omens, gomensception

aziraphale really took that "see you in hell" seriously though huh.

the gentle, simple way he says "I don't think you'd like it" hurts me and heals me.

"you're not like me because you're a demon, you're like me because you don't want to toe the party line." y'know lining up their meetings - the wall of eden, the ark, and now this - must paint a very interesting picture of aziraphale for crowley. we always thought that crowley fell for this angel nigh immediately and spent the rest of time orbiting him. now I think aziraphale fell into crowley's orbit, and crowley gradually learned more and more contradictory (and therefore interesting) things about him. like the shelter of the wing, it's all reversed in this season.

#good omens #good omens season 2

[draftingteacups]

lol i was watching batman 1966 and how about some headcanons of ruggie x soni? lol they give me catwoman x batman vibes, like soni is like batman while ruggie is like catwoman

TUMBLR WHY YOU DELETE MY WORDS REEE- SCREAM

As with all What-If and Romantic What-If asks, this is written for fun and not canon to TEBF. It's been a hot minute since I've seen anything from the superhero universe, so this is what I can conjure up in five minutes, a Google search, and a hazy memory of cat puns.

Soni x Ruggie: Batman and Catwoman

Soni being Batman is hilarious to me, mostly because imagining her with Bruce Wayne's Playboy persona is just out of character (unless you count Endless Halloween Night, in which case that kinda fits)

There's also the whole wealth aspect/class dynamic that would play nicely into their whole relationship that mimics Batman and Catwoman

Cause Soni's a Grand Duchess (born of the common people) and Ruggie's from the slums, which makes Soni being the Batman in this situation a lot more funny to me

A lot of the romance between Batman and Catwoman is with the mystery and the What-If quality behind the masks, leading to a romance with tension

Soni 🤝 Ruggie bond over their shared annoyance at having to deal with their bosses, Crowley and Leona respectively

I think that's how they really bond because Ruggie just sees Soni running around NRC like no tomorrow and that similarity + hatred of the higher classes feels very similar to his own

Whether Ruggie finds out about her title of Grand Duchess, it really depends on the situation because Soni's hesitant to say anything about it

If Ruggie finds this out in a moment where everything's bad and terrible, then oh boy

Trust is tested at that moment

Ruggie does understand the complex nature of her being Grand Duchess, but he also questions the whole wealth, status, and duties that come with it that could help out other people

Soni tells him, "Corruption's a serious problem in my region. It's horrible because everyone needs help and the only ones capable of giving it are terrible people with egos the size of the moon."

Granted, Soni's done the whole workaround with the laws in place and has dealt with the backwards logic of noble laws + Pokemon Battles with a handful of intimidation.

We know how that turns out for her: actually decent results and a somewhat functioning society (?) after Team Flare, but nobility hates her, anti-fans hate her, and society as a whole is mixed about her in various ways from outright wanting her to get out of power to liking Soni for actually doing something in that hellish situation

Ruggie's hit with the realization that Soni does care about people and has power, but is ignored because of her commoner birth and the rules put in place

It makes him hate those snooty nobles even more

Because they're busy people and making money, Ruggie and Soni have picnic dates or hangout dates where they sample foods from their hometowns

They are subtle about their relationship, although it does show at times when Soni randomly pets Ruggie's ears and Ruggie makes Soni smile via Laugh With Me

Ruggie gets first dibs on the malasadas and has never been happier to eat what is slowly being recognized as top-tier food goods in the world

Hopefully, I fulfilled the ask, but I forgot how much fun it is to write Romantic What-Ifs (^人^)

I kinda wanna go back to my first ones or even write up new ones with the currently published chapters, but I don't know if people want to read that or not

#romantic what ifs #soni monet #ruggie bucchi

[foodieforthoughts]

Sand and Stars - Prologue

Series Summary: After the water pump being blown up, the insurgents in Baqubah are taking a hold of the food supply to the village. Camp Warhorse is in dire need of reinforcements. It has been eight months of submitting countless requests when the High Command commissions Sergeant Olivia Ross to take her group of men and women and help Captain Syverson and his team to restore a semblance of normalcy. But with the war raging, does it get two hearts closer too?

Pairing: Captain Syverson x OFC x OMC

Word Count: 1925

Warnings: 18+, Mentions of war, military technicalities, smut in future chapters

A/N: This (x) has finally taken birth. I am very excited about this fic, it is literally the only thing I can focus on right now. A big thanks to @thelastsock​ for beta-ing this. Sending her lot of love and good health, always. Please don’t come down on me if I have gotten any of the army-related things wrong, because this is a work of fiction.

Title: Prologue

Olivia Ross was everything but a heavy sleeper. She slept like a feral cat ready to jump at even the slightest bit of disturbance. And that is why she was wide awake at 3 a.m.

The sound of Alex’s snores, deep and rumbling, echoed from beside her. A strong arm was draped tightly over her torso-his bull’s head tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve. Olivia looked to her side and sighed.

She hated sneaking out of his room the next day. The walk of shame she could take-her squad mates were already bored by the gossip of yesteryears-but the imminent questioning that Alex would barrage her with later, was what broke her.

Carefully, Olivia moved his arm from over her body and slid out from the bunk bed they were sharing. She watched as Alex turned to the other side and a moment later, continued snoring; oblivious to the loss of bodily warmth from besides him.

Grabbing her discarded clothes piled on the floor and hurriedly pulling them on, Olivia grabbed her dog tags from the table. Her eyes also fell on the other chain lying on the metal desk; a Saint Christopher Medal in a silver chain which Alex had gotten for her the last time he had flown home. Reluctantly, she grabbed the chain and wore it with her dog tags and swiftly snuck out of the Captain’s room.

As soon as Olivia was out in the corridors of the Baghdad base camp, the sweet noise of military men going about their duties graced her ears. She looked around as she made her way towards the ladies quarters; some of the men were loading up their Humvees for a patrol around the city, a few of them out for their morning run and then there were others like her who were hurrying away to reach their beds.

Closing the door to her quarters, Olivia was met with two sets of narrowed eyes looking at her. “Busy night there, Sergeant Ross?” The smugness in their voices, nothing new but annoying nonetheless, made Olivia roll her eyes.

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be sleeping?” She laid on her bed-her legs dangling from the ends-feeling relaxed more than she was when sleeping next to Alex.

A loud bang on the hard metal door interrupted them. A young private recruit peaked inside, her cheeks going red as she came face to face with her seniors.

Raising her head from her bed, Olivia looked at the blushing Private edging around the door. “What is it, Private?”

“Uhm…”

“You need to speak faster, sister. No one’s going to be waiting that long for you to finish your sentences.” Sergeant Sloan, a blond beauty with Victoria’s Secret model’s look, said from her bunk on the other side of the room.

“I was told to get Sergeant Ross to Lieutenant Crowley.”

Olivia nodded at the soldier and she hurried out, closing the door behind her. “What does Crowley want?”

“Hopefully, he sends us somewhere. I’m tired of looking at the same old shaved heads around here.” Corporal Sierra said from her corner of the room. Both the ladies laughed at their joke, Sloan snorting while laughing and Sierra basking in her comedic skills. Olivia smiled looking at her fellow bunk mates, loving their laughter ringing in the dilapidated and make-shift room.

After taming her wild bed hair into a braid and pulling on a fresh set of clothes to meet the lieutenant, Olivia made her way towards the central meeting hub. Lieutenant Crowley was a balding man in his late fifties, irritating beyond belief and the epitome of a male chauvinist. Olivia looked at him while he shuffled through his folders and pulled out one to hand over to her.

“You need to go to Baqubah.” His nasally voice ordered, his height an inch shorter than hers.

“Sir?” Olivia looked down at the brown manila folder in her hand. Camp Warhorse was written below the bold printed letters of Baqubah.

“They had a water problem which was not fixed and now the militants have been targeting the food supply trucks entering the city.” He pulled out another folder from underneath the table, handing it to her with a grunt. “They need air support, but Command wants us to only send one. You can take the Little Bird and two Humvees with any twelve members for your unit. I’m making you responsible for the mission.”

“What are we to do there? Can’t we just drop food rather than driving it in-?” Olivia opened the first folder to find a letter of co-ordinates and sitreps from the Captain stationed at the camp.

“They have asked for help. You’ll meet with the Captain there and gauge the situation personally. Is that clear, Sergeant?”

When anyone pulls rank on the other, it usually means the conversation is over. So, Olivia with her two manila folders, nodded at Lieutenant Crowley and turned to walk away. “Sergeant, you leave in two hours.”

Perfect. She turned to nod at the Lieutenant who had already sat down to get back to his work.

Olivia made her way back towards the quarters from the hub. The base camp looked more alive now that almost everyone was awake. Loud music blared from the speakers with shirtless men playing basketball or getting their daily workout in. Olivia opened the folder and took the first paper in her hand; it was a sitrep from eight months ago from Captain Syverson about the blast at the water pump they were supposedly fixing. She went through the report, noticing Sergeant Harper’s name whom she personally knew from a previous mission.

Lost in her task at hand, Olivia missed the man coming her way and bumped into him, her steps faltering behind with the impact. When she looked up, the unmistaken glare of two narrowed blue-green eyes met her own. She let out a sigh even before he could speak another word.

“Captain Cooper,” She greeted the man whom she had only left a couple of hours ago. “Good morning.”

“You snuck out, again.” The harshness in his voice made Olivia remember why she despised this particular exchange of words in the morning. Alex, unlike the state she had left him in, was now dressed in his army pants and the beige army t-shirt with his hair groomed to the nines. Never a day did Alex show up with disheveled hair and unshaven, he was always the well-groomed kind of man that romance novels idealized about.

“Crowley wanted me for a briefing,” she showed him the folders, “We leave for Baqubah in under two hours. Going to be delivery guys for them.”

Alex scrunched his eyebrows as his attention from last night’s shenanigans were drawn to the mission at hand. He took the folders from her and shifted through the papers. “Baqubah? Wasn’t there an unsuccessful mission already?”

The change in his tone, from the attention seeking friend to a decorated military man, made Olivia realize why she had fallen for him in the first place. It was that very dedication to his work, the life choice that he had made, that had made her pursue him like an eagle does it’s prey.

Too bad the eagle realized it wasn’t really hungry.

“Liv?” Alex asked, the long lashes lining his eyes fluttering as he looked at her.

“Yeah, but there’s an insurgence of militants and food supply shortage.” He handed the folders back to her, crossing his arms over his chest. The sleeve of his t-shirt stretched over his muscles, revealing the tattoos on either side of his arms. A single vein stretched over each of his bulging biceps, taunting her with the memories of her tracing it with her fingertips.

Olivia shook her head, choosing to look behind Alex and spotting her unit coming her way. “I need to go. I haven’t even told my people.” She started to walk away when Alex held her wrist. She looked at him wide-eyed and frantically looked around to see if anyone was looking at them. This was the first time Alex was being so forthcoming about their twisted relationship out in the open.

“Were you going to at least say goodbye?”

Olivia froze hearing the pain in his voice. She did not wish to discuss whatever was going on between them. In a deep corner of her mind, she was secretly happy that she was being sent away from the base camp. It meant she could think about a way to gently let Alex know that they were done.

“Alex,” the use of his informal name, always made him smile. Olivia used it to her advantage on more than one occasion. “We need to head out. I need to brief them. Please can we do this later?”

She wanted to wait for his answer but when her eyes darted to the makeshift clock hanging on the wall, that the men had put together one night after getting drunk on local liquor, showed she had over an hour and half to roll out; Olivia mouthed a ‘sorry’ and walked away. She hated when she left Alex standing like that, alone and dejected. She was the cause of this shit-show, but she had no idea how to end it.

“Groundhog, this is echo 1-1, we are set to fly out the nest. Over.” Sergeant Gary Schmidt, Olivia's most trusted co-pilot, said into the communications line. They had gathered a group of twelve soldiers, including Olivia’s bunk mates Sloan and Sierra and were now ready to leave for Camp Warhorse. The blades of their chopper, the beautiful and reliable MH-6 Little Bird, whirred by cutting the dry air of Baghdad.

“This is Groundhog to Echo 1-1. You are cleared for flight. Over.”

Olivia looked to her right at Schmidt and gave a thumbs up. “Echo 1-1 is flying out. Welcome on board, people.” She said into her comms, controlling the stick and feeling the skids lift off from the ground.

In an unplanned glance towards the tarmac, Olivia caught sight of Alex standing a few feet away with his face impassive; lips pursed tight and eyes covered with shades, the last thing Olivia saw before they flew off from the Baghdad Base Camp.

“What a dump of desert and sand, Red.” Schmidt said into the comms to her, making her smile being referenced by her nickname and distracting her from the unsettling feeling she had by looking at Alex. Her command officer had jokingly compared her hair to fire after one heated argument she had with a fellow soldier and called her ‘Red’, making the name become a core part of her identity. “Baqubah better be forgiving.” Schmidt continued as they turned towards the road leading up to the destroyed city.

An hour into the flight and their comms came alive. “This is Warhorse to Echo 1-1.” Olivia looked at her co-pilot and nodded her head to take over the communications. In the distance, over the expanse of the dry desert, the heat was coming down hard on them, making little beads of sweat form on the underside of their helmets.

“Echo 1-1, receiving, over.”

“Echo 1-1, this is Captain Syverson,” the previous emotionless voice was replaced by a strongly accented one. Olivia was borderline impressed by Syverson's command in his voice. She looked at Schmidt at the same time he did-they always referred to each other as ‘twins’ because their minds were almost always in sync. “The tarmac is ready for your landing. Welcome to Warhorse.”

Chapter One>

✨Series Masterlist✨

Tagging: @wanderlustkitkat @michelehansel @stephartrave @yuhsophie @hennerslionhat @henrythickcavill @eldarwen333 @peakygroupie @klaine-92 @thelastsock @indigosaurus @oddsnendsfanfics @viking-raider @cavillliketravel @geralt-of-baevia @achaoticaugust @dancingwendigo @littlefreya @luclittlepond @mansaaay @agniavateira @inlovewithhisblueeyes @henryobsessed @henryfanfics101 @poucinette1333 @ohmygoodie @oolicity @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @asyverson @demivampirew @cavills-cavalry @raspberrydreamclouds @fuckoffbard @the-soot-sprite @hell1129-blog @inthenameofcavill @heartfelt-pen @shyinadarkplace @mary-ann84 @sciapod @toomanyfandomsshreya @madbaddic7ed @mariestark @feralrunaway @infinite-shite @killjoy-assbutt-1112 @summersong69​ @its--fandom--darling​ @awhitewolfandhisvibraniumshield

#captain syverson #captain syverson fanfic #captain syverson x ofc #captain syverson smut #henry cavill #chris evans #henry cavill fanfic #sand and stars series

[petrichoravellichor]

Title: A New Kind of Life

Wordcount: ~10k

Rating: T

Summary: What if, when Sam and Dean break into the Empty, Cas isn’t the only one they save? A post-15x19 fix-it fic in which Crowley gets a second shot at the redemption (and family) he deserves.

(Read on Ao3)

********************

Chapter 3 (of 5) (Ch. 1, Ch. 2., Chs. 4 & 5)

"When I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I didn't know this was going to happen. Not really. I mean, I might not have told you the entire truth. But I never lied. I never lied, Dean. That's important. It's fundamental. But...there is one story about Cain that I might have...forgotten to tell you. Apparently, he, too, was willing to accept death, rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the blade. He died. Except, as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go. You can understand why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation? It wasn't until you summoned me...no, it wasn't truly until you left that cheese burger uneaten...that I began to let myself believe. Maybe miracles do come true. Listen to me, Dean Winchester: what you're feeling right now—it's not death. It's life—a new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. And let's go take a howl at that moon."

—Crowley to Dean, 09x23 "Do You Believe in Miracles?"

**********

The following evening, there’s a knock on his door. “Crowley? Hey, you in there?”

Crowley looks up from his book. He hasn’t spoken to Dean since that day in the war room, when they’d all returned from the Empty. From a tactical standpoint, it’s been very easy: all Crowley’s had to do is keep largely to his room during the day and save visits to any common spaces for the late night hours. This is the first time in a good long while Dean’s made it a point to seek him out alone, and it’s that more than anything that makes Crowley decide he actually wants to hear what Dean has to say.

Still, no point in making it easy on the bastard. “That depends,” Crowley calls back, aiming for nonchalance. “What have you brought me?”

“Ha ha. Open up, asshole,” says Dean, but the epithet contains about as much malice as the bitch he occasionally lobs at Sam. “We, uh. We need to talk.”

Crowley arches a brow; is it just him, or does Dean sound nervous? He sets his book aside and shifts to sit on the edge of his bed. “It’s open.”

Dean enters, and Crowley sees that he was right: Dean does indeed look nervous, perhaps even guilty. He nods sheepishly in Crowley’s direction as he closes the door behind him.

“Hey,” Dean says, smiling slightly, and the gesture stirs a painful kind of longing in Crowley’s gut. Looking at Dean has always felt to Crowley like reaching for something without knowing what it is he’s grasping at or why, the way a weed arches without thinking towards the sun. It’s maddening in a way Crowley doesn’t have words for, because he knows, in the way he supposes a weed does, that the light isn’t there for his benefit; experience has shown him that much.

And yet, for as much hurt and anger Crowley’s felt because of Dean, he’s also realized that he just...can’t find it in himself to hate Dean, not in any way that lasts. They’ve been through too much together, and maybe none of it mattered to Dean, but it matters to Crowley. He wishes it didn’t, but it does; it always has. And he can no more deny that than he can the sun.

But he can’t very well say all that to Dean, so he pushes his thoughts aside and schools his features into a neutral expression. “Hello, Dean,” he says evenly, rising to stand with his hands in his pockets. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “You, uh. You settling in okay?”

Crowley snorts. “Surely you can do better than that. Go on, let’s have it.” He takes a step towards Dean and flashes a smirk. “I promise I won’t bite unless you ask me to.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well...That’s kinda what I came to talk to you about.” He gestures at the desk next to the bed. “Mind if I have a seat?”

Crowley shrugs. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.” Dean walks over to the desk and turns to lean against it, not quite sitting but also not quite standing. Crowley stands next to the bed, waiting.

Eventually, Dean clears his throat. “So, uh. Cas said the two of you talked—”

He expects his words to get a rise out of Dean, to throw him off kilter so their conversation is easier to manage.

“Oh for the love of—Is that what this is about?” Crowley grumbles; just how much of their conversation had Castiel felt the need to share? “Allow me to save you some time, then. You and your long-suffering Angel of Thursday have my blessings, for what they’re worth. Slow clap, mazel tov, etcetera, etcetera. If you like, I could even pull a few strings, see if I can get you Hell as a venue for the wedding.” He smiles darkly, adding, “Although based on recent events, your influence there probably exceeds my own.”

Instead, Dean just raises a brow and says mildly, “So you and Rowena still aren’t talkin’, huh?”

Dean chuckles. “Nah, just figured I’d let you finish first.”

Still aren’t—?! “Really?” Crowley sputters angrily. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Ever the gentleman,” Crowley sneers.

“I try.”

“You really think I didn’t miss you when you were gone?”

“Well, try to get to the bloody point!”

And whatever barb Crowley was about to hurl dies on his tongue. He opens his mouth, then closes it, shifting awkwardly under Dean’s level stare. Eventually Dean sighs; he pushes up off the desk and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress next to him. Crowley sits down without a word.

“Listen,” Dean says, once Crowley is settled, “I don’t know how much Sam told you, but you weren’t the only one we lost that night. Cas died, Lucifer made off with our mom, Kelly didn’t survive the birth, and Jack bolted after I took a shot at him. Which...yeah, in hindsight, I’m not proud of, but that’s where I was at the time.” Dean looks down at his hands. “It wasn’t good. If Sam hadn’t stepped up and been a dad, things with Jack woulda turned out different, and not in a good way. If it’d been up to me, if I’d known how...I probably woulda killed the kid.”

Dean snorts softly. “Yeah, maybe, only you were too busy offing yourself to keep Lucifer locked over in Apocalypse World. Man, you don’t even know how huge that was, do you?” Dean looks up at him then, earnest. “You think everything would be the way it is now if Lucifer had gotten his hands on the kid before we’d figured things out?”

Crowley swallows. He tries to think what he would have done if his and Dean’s places had been reversed, if Dean had died that day instead of him, and comes to only one possible conclusion. “To be perfectly honest,” he says, quietly, “I’d have done the same.”

Crowley can only stare back, stunned. He’d sacrificed himself to thwart Lucifer; that his death had also made it possible for Jack to grow up in the Winchesters’ charge, free of Lucifer’s poisonous early influence, and thereby helped shape who Jack was, who God was...It’s honestly never occurred to him until now.

A protective sort of rage boils up in Crowley on Dean’s behalf. Sam hadn’t gone into all the gory details during his explanation, but Crowley knows enough. “Michael.”

“Anyway,” Dean continues, when Crowley says nothing, “then Jack brought Cas back, which we didn’t even know was possible. Thought maybe it was just a fluke, but we didn’t have time to really think about it because we had to go get our mom back, and then there was all the crap with Lucifer, so we had to deal with that, and then...” Dean trails off, his jaw tight.

Dean inhales steadily, nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that. And then...after…” He sighs. “Jack lost his soul and killed Mom, and I damn near killed him, and then everything with Chuck...Man, it was just non-stop. Then we finally beat Chuck, and with Jack all souped up, we had a way into the Empty, and hell yeah, we were gonna get Cas out, but the plan was always to look for you, too. Oh come on, don’t look at me like that,” Dean says, frowning at Crowley’s shell-shocked expression. “You’re a royal pain in the ass, and there’ve been plenty of times I wanted to stab you in the face, but you think that means I don’t give a damn what happens to you? Like it or not, man, you’re family, and we don’t leave family behind, not when we can help it.”

Crowley studies Dean carefully, looking for the lie...and not finding it. Then, that means...Is he really...?

“Family,” murmurs Crowley, experimentally. “You know, I’ve never had much luck with that word.”

Dean gives him a sad sort of smile. “Yeah, me neither. Not the one I was born to, anyway, 'cept for Sam. The one me and him made, though…” His smile turns genuine. “That one’s pretty damn awesome.”

They sit in silence, neither speaking for several moments; then—

Crowley clears his throat. “Can I ask you something, Dean?”

“Shoot.”

“That first day, after you brought me back, Sam said I should talk to Mother, said she has...regrets.”

Dean regards him thoughtfully. “You thinkin’ about giving her another chance?”

“I honestly don't know what I’m thinking,” Crowley admits. “There’s a lot of bad blood there: hers, mine, both of ours. When I saw her here, in this room, she said she’d missed me, that she loved me, and...”

Crowley feels his throat tighten, and he doesn’t know how to say the rest: that for all he hates himself for it, for all the times it’s blown up in his face, for all the horrible things Rowena has done to him—

“You don’t know if you should believe her,” Dean finishes quietly, “but you want to.”

Crowley sighs. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not,” Dean says firmly. “It’s not stupid to want to be loved, not by family: that’s kinda how it’s supposed to be. The stupid part is that it doesn’t always go that way, and then we gotta deal with the fallout.” Dean hesitates, then adds, “And...and sometimes that means we think we don’t deserve love when we do, and other times, it’s people sayin’ they deserve our love when they don’t.”

Crowley mulls that over. “Does she deserve it, do you think?”

“From you?” Dean shakes his head. “Man, that ain’t for me to say.”

Bollocks, thinks Crowley, barely managing to suppress a groan of frustration; if only there were a way to know which decision was the right one ahead of time...“How did you decide?" he asks after a moment. "With your father, I mean.”

Dean looks taken aback, and Crowley thinks perhaps he shouldn’t have asked; but before he can change the topic, Dean sucks in a breath and says, “Look, my father was an obsessed bastard. He left me and Sam alone for weeks on end, and when he was around, he was more of a drill sergeant than a dad. Some of the shit he pulled...” One of Dean’s hands closes into a fist. “It’s not the kind of stuff you just...forgive.”

Then Dean lets out a slow breath, and the fist relaxes. “Thing is, though, a lot of the crap he put us through, raisin’ us the way he did...He was tryin’ to protect what was left of his family, and...and I get that, you know? I’ve done a lot of really messed up shit for the same reason, for family. Doesn’t mean I forgive him, it’s just...complicated.” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “Like, really freaking complicated. Honestly, I’m still kinda trying to figure it out. But, yeah...all that to say, I don’t know if Rowena deserves your love or whatever else you wanna give her. She’s done a lot for me and Sam, helped us save our mom and Jack, and then her whole swan dive into Hell and all that, but when it comes to the two of you...That’s something you gotta decide for yourself.”

Crowley studies his hands. His left palm still bears thin scars from that day in the war room, when Sam had told him Rowena had changed and Crowley had gripped his fist tightly enough to draw blood. He still isn’t sure he believes his mother is actually capable of being anything other than what he's always known her as. Maybe she isn't, and if that’s the case, then she doesn’t deserve his love. Crowley can live with that; he has his entire life. If Sam was right, though, if his mother has changed...that’s something Crowley needs to see to believe.

And there it is, Crowley realizes: he needs to see her.

“I think,” he says, after a moment, “that I’ll meet with her and hear what she has to say, and if I don’t like it, I’ll tell her to bugger off, this time for good.”

Dean gives a hum of approval. “Sounds fair to me." He claps Crowley on the knee and stands. "Okay, then, I’m gonna go hit the hay. Lemme know if me or Sam can help with the Rowena thing, okay? You don’t gotta deal with her on your own.”

“I will,” Crowley says; then, as Dean’s about to leave, “and Dean?”

Dean looks back, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

And Crowley once again feels something stirring in his gut, but this time, it isn’t longing, but gratitude, gratitude that he has Dean in his life and gratitude that, at the end of the day, everything they’ve been through together, the good and the bad, it matters to Dean, too, and that's important. It's fundamental.

“Thank you,” Crowley says, and means it. “For everything.”

For a moment, Dean regards him in silence; then he smiles. “Yeah. You too.”

He slips out of the room and leaves Crowley alone with his thoughts, which are...actually rather optimistic. For the first time in a long time, Crowley feels alive. It’s a new kind of life, one with family, one where he matters, and Crowley doesn’t know for certain what it’s going to bring, but he knows he wants to see it, experience it, eyes wide open.

#crowley #spn crowley #fergus macleod #crowley macleod #dean winchester #spn #supernatural #spn fic #spn fix-it fic #a new kind of life #my writing #i was going to wait till tomorrow to post this but i've realized that i lack self-control when it comes to multi-chapter fics #meh

[tragicies]

[  supernatural .   joseph  morgan .   three  hundred   &   fifty  -  six .   cis  male .  ]        bright  light  fading  away  𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐘   has  found  themselves  in  a  new  unrecognized  land .     the  last  thing  he / him  remembers  before  they  were  taken  was   𝚂𝙰𝙲𝚁𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙷𝙸𝙼𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵  𝚃𝙾  𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚂𝙴  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚁𝙸𝙵𝚃  𝚃𝙾  𝙰𝙿𝙲𝙾𝙻𝚈𝙿𝚂𝙴  𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙻𝙳 .    they  say  back  in  those  times  they  were  known  to  be  + CUNNING ,  however ,  also have  their  moments  when  they  could  be  - SELFISH  and  was  always  best  recognized  by  𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒚  𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒔  𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒏  𝒊𝒏  𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅  𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓  𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏  𝒊𝒏𝒌 ,  𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅  𝒂𝒍𝒍  𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌  𝒔𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒔  𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉  𝒓𝒆𝒅  𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 ,  𝒂  𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚  𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒏  𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏  𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈  𝒂𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒅  𝒐𝒏  𝒕𝒉𝒆  𝒔𝒆𝒂𝒕  𝒐𝒇  𝒂  𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒕  𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒆 .

𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐂𝐊  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒  .

full name :    fergus  roderick  macleod   crowley .  aliases :   king  of  hell .   king  of  the  crossroads . age :   three  hundred   &   fifty - six   (  currently  appears  to  be  around  early  40s  ) . gender & pronouns :  cis  male .  he / him . sexual & romantic orientation :    pansexual / panromantic . species :   demon  (  previously  human  ) . identifying  marks :    when  he  shows  them ,  he  has  solid  red  demon  eyes .

𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 .

so  once  again .   linking  the  wiki .

TW :   child  neglect .  child abuse .  alcoholism .   suicide .

before  he  was  king  of  hell  or  even  the  crossroads  or  even  before  he  was  a  demon  at  all ,   crowley  was  fergus  roderick  macleod .   the  son  to  rowena  macleod ,  born  in  1661  in  scotland .   

from  the  very  day  fergus  was  born  he  felt  no  love  from  his  mother .   she  refused  to  hold  him ,  hating  him  for  his  very  existence  as  his  father ,  a  rich  man  who  had  claimed  to  love  rowena ,  ended  up  abandoning  them  both .   as  to  not  feel  the  weakness  of  love  again ,  rowena  refused  to  love  even  her  own  son .

rowena  neglected   &   abused  fergus  terribly  as  a  child ,  even  trying  to  sell  him  on  at  least  one  occasion ,  but  he  did  manage  to  pick  up  some  tricks  of  witchcraft  from  her  before  she  eventually  abandoned  him  to  a  work  house .   after  that ,  fergus  wouldn’t  see  his  mother  again  for  around  three  hundred  years .

bitter  from  his  childhood ,  fergus  grew  up  a  rather  cruel   &   uncaring  man .   he  eventually  had  a  son ,  gavin  macleod ,  who  he  mistreated   &   abused  much  like  his  mother  did  him .    he  never  loved  his  son ,  most  likely  feeling  rather  incapable  of  showing  as  he’d  never  been  showed  it .

around  the  age  of  fifty ,  fergus  made  a  deal  with  a  crossroads  demon  for  nothing  more  than  a  few  extra  inches  below  the  belt  but  that  deal  would  change  everything  for  him .

after  ten  years ,  fergus’  deal  was  up   &   hell  hounds  came  for  him .   his  soul  was  sent  to  hell  &  his  time  there  eventually  warped  him  into  a  demon .   hating  his  birth  name ,  as  a  demon  he  changed  his  name  to  crowley .

crowley  quickly  worked  up  ranks  in  hell .   he  was ,  if  anything ,  very  clever   &   ambitious .    he  eventually  found  himself  as  right  hand  to  the  demon  lilith ,  lucifer’s  first  demon  who  held  all  almost  all  demon  deals ,   &   with  the  title  of  “king  of  the  crossroads” .   after  lilith’s  death ,  crowley  took  full  charge  of  all  crossroads  deals   &   demons .

however ,  lilith’s  death  also  released  lucifer   &   started  the  apocalypse   &   crowley  had  no  care  for  that .  he  enjoyed  deals   &   didn’t  want  to  see  the  world  end .   therefore ,  he  aligned  himself  with  the  winchesters   &   was  a  rather  shady  informant   &   help  to  them  while  they  tried  to  defeat  lucifer .   he  returned  the  lost  colt  to  them   &   also  pointed  them  in  the  right  direction  for  one  of  the  four  horsemen .

however ,  he  also  gladly  allowed  bobby  singer  to  sell  his  soul  to  him ,  which  the  winchesters  didn’t  appreciate .

after  lucifer  was  caged  again ,  the  rule  for  hell  once  again  went  up in  the  air .   crowley  went  inform  the  demon  ramiel ,  a  prince  of  hell  next  in  line  for  the  throne ,  he  was  to  take  over  but  ramiel  told  crowley  that  not  he  nor  the  other  princes  were  interested  in  running  hell  like  their  brother  azazel  had  been .   instead ,  ramiel  offered  the  job  to  crowley  who  took  it  giving  him  a  promotion  from  king  of  the  crossroads  to  king  of  hell .

crowley ,  for  many  years  after ,  became  a  very  on  again  off  again  ally / enemy  to  the  winchesters .    he  often  played  to  their  side  but  kept  a  motive  of  his  own .

he  helped  them  battle  angels ,  demons ,  witches  ( including  his  own  mother ) ,   &   more  all  while  tiring  of  his  job  as  king  of  the  rotten .

hell  was  taxing   &   no  one  is  as  difficult  to  rule   &   please  as  demons .   he  grew  to  hate  his  job  as  king  but ,  with  no  where  else  to  go  without  damning  himself ,  he  stayed .   if  he  left  he’d  be  hunted  down   &   he  was  going  on  his  own  terms  if  at  all .

in  the  end ,  crowley  sacrificed  himself ,  giving  his  life  as  the  final  ingredient  in  a  spell ,  in  an  attempt  to  seal  lucifer  away  in  an  alternate  apocalyptic  universe .

TL;DR   :    was  a  son  of  a  witch  who  became  a  demon  after  selling  his  soul   &   he  eventually  became  ruler  of  the  crossroads  then  ruler  of  hell  itself .    he  was  an  on  again  off  again  ally / enemy  to  the  winchesters  until  ultimately  sacrificing  himself  for  them  in  an  effort  to  seal  lucifer  away .

𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 .

THEE  king  of  hell .   i  know  he  hates  his  job  but  that’s  what  makes  it  hell ,  right ?    has  been  called  “the  undisputed  ruler  of  hell”   &   was  one  of  the  most  successful   rules .

his  MOTEHR  has  taken  over  rule  of  hell  at  the  moment  though   &   he’s  about  to  be  extremely  not  happy  about  how  she  runs  things .

are  the  ways  she  runs  things  bad  or  does  he  just  hate  to  agree  with  her   &   get  along  with  her  in  anyway ?    the  world  may  never  know .

sadly ,  mark  sheppard  has  little  to  no  resources  so  i  HAVE  had  to  make  a  fc  change  for  crowley .   i  never  want  to  discredit  mark  though  he  is  THEE  crowley  but !   i  am  going  to  say  that  while  crowley  made  it  here ,  his  vessel  did  not .   this  is  a  new  vessel .   he  likes  it  well  enough  but  he  favored  his  old  one  for  sure .

is  a  piece  of  shit  but ,  yes ,  there  ARE  ways  to  get  him  to  like  you .   he  wont  admit  it  when  he  does  but  he  has  his  collection  of  favorites !    he  can  be  soft  on  some  people .

IS  capable  of  love .   craves  it  even !    he  just  won’t  fully  admit  it  but  especially  since  almost  being  purified  by  sam ,  he  does  crave  affection  in  many  ways .

i  will  add  more  ....       later   :))

#zerthea.intro #crowley: intro

[myinconnelly1]

Throwing Pebbles- Reintroductions (24)

Masterlist / Previous

Word Count: 911

Warnings: none

Square Filled: Medieval Au Ship: Sam x OFC Rating : Explicit for series Created for @spnaubingo​.

“Milady,”  Lisa’s voice broke through Julie’s sleep and she sat up.  “King Michael has summoned you for an official ceremony.”  Lisa looked concerned as she hand brushed the creases out of the fine dress that Julie did not own.  “The Cardinal had this delivered to you.  I think he might have known what was going on.  He bothers me.”

“Me too,”  Julie said, letting the lady’s maid do her job and wash and primp her for court.  “I shall talk with the king about your wedding to Dean and try to have the arranged for as soon as possible,”  Julie smiled kindly at Lisa and let her pin her hair up and let the curls fall regally.

“Lady Julie, Sir Singer is here to see you,”  Cole said from the other side of her closed door.

“Come in, Cole.  I am decent,”  Her bodyguard entered the room.  

“He would not say what he wanted without your presence,”  Cole said suspiciously.

“Between your paranoia and that old man’s grumpiness, the two of you would rot the legs off tables before coming to an agreement,”  Lisa mused under her breathe.

“Have him come in.  Lisa is still doing my makeup,”  Julie said with a schooled expression.

“Sir Robert,”  Cole announced as Bobby entered her apartment.

“Lady Julie, I have come with information and to offer to escort you to court.  I know for a fact that the King is preparing to increase your title.  I also have it on good authority that it comes with the permission of King Oskar.  I am certain that the King is not intending to marry you,”  Bobby dropped the information like it was a heavy sack.  Lisa’s shoulders loosened visibly at the revelation that the king was not going to try to marry her lady.  Bobby stopped talking and took Julie’s new look.  “Where did you get that dress?”

“Cardinal Crowley had it sent over this morning, with the request the Lady Julie wear it to her official ceremony today,”  Lisa’s voice seemed to drip with venom and hatred as she recalled her encounter this morning.

“That means that the Cardinal knew about your father’s death,”  Bobby said.  His tone of voice confirmed to Julie that it was as dangerous as it sounded.

“I will gladly accept your arm, Bobby.  Do you know where the Winchester’s are?”  Julie asked.  She had enough schooling to not ask for Sam by name.

“They had something they were discussing.  But their presence will be expected at court,”  Bobby said.

“Milady,”  Cole handed Julie a small blade.  “Your father wanted me to give this to you after he died.  He didn’t say why,”  Cole said.  

“Thank you, Cole,”  Julie responded taking the sheathed blade and waiting for Lisa to finish fussing over her hair.

“Sir Robert, I am ready,”  Julie announced as Lisa held a coat and stood behind her.  Cole took a position at the door ready to open it for them as Bobby extended his arm for her.

“Lady Julie Thompson and escort, Sir Robert Singer,”  The herald called as she entered the room.  Julie’s procession walked into the throne room, where the King and his lords stood in formal garb.  The court Secretary stood next to Michael with a parchment that he unfurled and began to read from when she stopped and knelt in front of the king.

“His Majesty King Oskar grants to the Lady Julie Thompson, by proxy of Domain Sovereign King Michael, the title of Countess.  This deed confers the land and purse owed to this position to Lady Julie, in her own right, and her children.”  

Michael came and stood in front of Julie, helping her to her feet before putting a small crown of position on her head.  He walked around her and took the cape from Lisa before draping it over Julie’s shoulders and went back to his thrown.  The Secretary handed her the deed, before taking his position again.

“I shall grant you a single boon, on the behalf of your king,”  Michael said grandly.

“Thank you, King Michael.  I have come to ask that your majesty agrees to the marriage of Sir Dean Winchester and my this lady of high birth, Lisa Brayden.”  Julie said as Lisa stepped up next to her to curtsy.

“I shall grant this favor for you, Countess,”  Michael eyed her thoughtfully, as Julie curtsied and her procession left the great hall.

“Lady Julie,” Garth rushed up to her once they were away from most prying eyes and bowed awkwardly.  “Cardinal Crowley sent men to your apartment when you were gone.  I don’t know what he took but nothing he does ever has a good ending.”

“Thank you, Garth,” Julie said before she saw Cole depart the group with a sour look on his face.

“What could he have been looking for?”  Bobby asked Julie seriously.

“I’m not sure. Perhaps he was looking at proof of something.  Our arrangement with the people we met might have put him in a delicate position.  He might try and return the favor,” Julie said referring to the vampires they had felt with.

“If you can think of anything that might make you vulnerable to an attack you just tell me immediately.  Your request for Dean and Lisa’s marriage has you currently unattached.”  Bobby said, patting her hand.

“Speaking of, where are the Winchester brothers?”  Julie asked looking around briefly.

“I’m sure it was important,”  Lisa assured her from behind.

@waywardbaby @destielhoneybee @snffbeebee @deangirl7695 @spnbaby-67 @maddiepants @ladywinchester1967 @woodworthti666 @miraclesoflove @tumbler-tidbits @emilyshurley @akshi8278 @mannls @wendibird @bobasheebaby @theoneandonlymelol @chelsea072498 @donnaintx @justsomedreaming @supernaturalenchanted @kalesrebellion @prettydeaneyes @emoryhemsworth @laphirablack @dontshootmespence​ @its-a-spn-thing @vicmc624 @idreamofplaid @deanmonandnegansbitch​ @winchesterxfamilybusiness​ @kickingitwithkirk​ @waywardsistershy​

#supernatural #soulmates #soulmate au #reincarnation #reincarnation au #fantasy au #medieval au #sam x ofc #sam winchester #knight!sam #knight!Dean #Dean winchester #hunter!ofc #noble!ofc #countess!ofc #lady's maid!Lisa #Lisa Brayden #dean x lisa #dean x ofc (kinda) #mutual pining #slow burn #political intrigue #au!michael #king!au!michael #crowley #cardinal!crowley #cole trenton #bodyguard!cole #garth fitzgerald iv #squire!garth

[morganas-pendragons]

Saudade (Longing For The Lost) | R.M.

This fic might be the hardest thing I’ve ever written. Rowena was a character who stuck with me pretty much from the moment she was introduced, and after watching her die in All Along The Watchtower, this one was absolutely traumatizing enough to the point where it’d been 6 days and I’m still crying when I see gifs. 

SO FOREWARNING, THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR 15x03 AND IS NOT A HAPPY FIC. IT IS SAD. IT IS DEPRESSING. It is also told from the perspective of Rowena’s female best friend, and the prompt I was given by @victoriasagittariablack​ was Rejection. 

Prompts for Rowena and Castiel are OPEN. Tagging @marril96​ @royalrowena​ @rowenaswife​ and please tag anyone else who would read this. I’m rather proud of it. 

In loving memory of Rowena Macleod, who is currently sitting on Hell’s Throne because I am in that much denial and I really don't believe this is the end of her. She’s too important. 

There are some words that are untranslatable in other languages. One of those words felt appropriate for the title of this story I’m about to tell you. In Portuguese, it is called Saudade - or, simply put, longing for the lost. 

When the world keeps taking what you have to give, it’s normal to want what you no longer have anymore. And for you, that thing you no longer had was a person, and her name was Rowena Macleod. 

Rowena came crashing into your lives about five years previously as a threat to the Winchester brothers - Sam and Dean - and the angel, Castiel. She’d gone on a killing spree that ultimately had ended up with her in Hell where her long forgotten son Crowley had been King for what felt like an eternity at that point. Cue familial conflict, right? 

You were a powerful hunter. A good one, at that. When a powerful hunter meets an equally powerful witch, one of them should be afraid of the other, right? You could speak Latin incantations as well as she could, even with the centuries of age difference, but your aptitude for magic was nothing compared to hers. But out of all the qualities to compare the two of you, there was one you had that she didn’t. 

An ability to see people for who they were. 

When you looked at Rowena, you didn’t see a witch on a path of revenge. You saw a woman abandoned by the one who claimed to love her, left to die on her birthing bed, cast out by her peers for accusations of performing witchcraft, and a mother who had abandoned her son to die at the mere age of 8. You saw years worth of rage and guilt and shame. You saw what the Winchester brothers didn’t, and that was why they let her live. 

They captured you in Hell, left you in a cell so you couldn’t tell the brothers that Lucifer was inhabiting Castiel. That was the first time you saw her die. Crowley never forgot the sound of such a piercing scream echoing within the depths of his palace. Sure, hell had enough tormented souls, but no soul knows torment like a soul who knows loss as an old friend. 

  “You are literally the only person on this planet who makes my mother act like a decent human being.” Crowley muttered as he fumbled with the key he’d snatched from Lucifer that unlocked your cell door. “And Lucifer only kept you down here so you don’t rat him out to the Winchesters.” Your eyes widened as the King of Hell stepped away only to gesture to the front doors of the throne room. “Do me a favor, and kick him hard where the sun doesn’t shine.”   

“For Rowena?” 

He nodded solemnly. “For Mother.” 

You and Crowley had an understanding from that point forward when it came to the topic of Rowena. She should’ve been afraid of you because you were a hunter, you should’ve loathed her because she defied every instinct your upbringing had given you. She should’ve been dead the moment you met. It’s what Dean would’ve done. 

But your heart often ruled over your head when it came to your best friend, and so the two of you began seeing each other as the other wanted to be seen. Human. Broken. The one’s who lost and lost and lost some more.. but gained something when they found each other. 

Which was how you found yourself screaming at the top of your lungs from inside a little crypt in a cemetery during the end of the world. 

This plan was supposed to be easy. Castiel and Belphegor would go to Hell for Lilith’s Crook, Dean would stay outside to throw Rowena’s hex bag into the rupture, Sam and Rowena would remain within the crypt to perform the spell while you guarded it in case something caught the rest of you off guard. 

  “What about me?” 

She smiled at you from across the crypt while rifling through her bag for the ingredients. “I need my best protector on the outside of the Crypt in case anything catches us off guard outside.” Rowena replied. “Doing what you do best, Y/N. Protecting the ones you love.” 

Did she not realize that also included her? 

You had just barely managed to open the doors to the crypt when Rowena caught sight of you in the midst of tearing into her shoulder with one of the knives that had been laying around. Sam whipped around at the sound of the doors opening, brow furrowed when he realized that something stood between you and him. 

  “Sam! Sam, you have to-” You slammed your hands against what you’d both thought was thin air but instead happened to be some type of magical barrier. Your heart dropped. She was trying to keep you out. 

No no no. 

  “Rowena?” Sam questioned as Rowena dug through her shoulder and removed what looked to be a miniaturized hex bag. “What is this barrier between Y/N and us? And why is it up?” 

Green eyes slowly lifted until they caught sight of you. Your jacket discarded, hair wildly framing your face as it had been pulled out with the wind outside, eyes wide and desperate as you kept trying to get her attention but to no avail. Nothing was gonna stop her now. Not even you. 

  “There’s only one way this ends now.” She held the item between her fingers. “My last resurrection satchel. I won’t need this where I’m going.” 

At that point, you were panicking. Dean was still outside probably wondering what had happened in Hell, Castiel and Belphegor were still gone, and now here you stood facing your worst fear, again. She’d already been taken from you twice. Sam wasn’t going to kill her, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to her, to you. Not with all you’d lost. 

  “What do you mean where you’re going?!” Sam exclaimed. 

  “Hell is closing, the walls are falling-” 

He shook his head vigorously. No. It wasn’t going to come to that. He wouldn’t let it. Not after the way she’d made him feel, not after he’d finally found that one person who understood the darker part of himself he never let anyone else saw. She was the only one who could empathize with that besides you. His best girl behind that barrier, and the woman he’d come to care deeply for mere feet in front of him. 

  “There has to be another way.” 

Her hands gripped the knife tighter and drew it closer to her abdomen. She was testing him, goading him into driving that vile thing into her so they’d fulfill the prophecy Billie had spoken so long ago. 

  “I put that barrier up because I knew once Y/N figured out what I was intending to do that she would fight like hell to stop me. That’s always been my favorite quality about her.” Both of them looked to the barrier where you had yet to move away from, hands pressed against it and eyes wide with a fear Sam knew all too well. “Her loyalty. Now, though, she can’t hear us Sam. We can’t hear her. It has to be this way.” 

  “If you’re going to.. to do this.. shouldn’t you let her say goodbye?” He kept trying to ignore the tears blurring his vision and his sight of her. “After all the two of you have done for each other, Rowena.. this isn’t how she should remember your last day together. Split apart like this. It’s not... it’s not right.” 

While Sam had a point, Rowena believed that distancing herself from you even in a physical sense would make this final death so much easier. She didn’t want you to mourn her, to spend your nights trembling in fear of remembering the day she’d died before your eyes again when you slept, she didn’t want you to grieve. She wanted you to live, to move on, to find someone better then her. 

  “I can’t.” 

That was her rejection. The first time she’d ever rejected you would also be the last time. Rejecting your closure, rejecting your goodbye, rejecting you no matter how much her heart told her otherwise. 

Sam couldn’t look at you then. After all you’d been through and all you’d done to help Rowena become a person that she could be proud of, the last thing you deserved was to watch one of your best friends kill the other. It would either make you or break you. 

He imagined the latter. 

 “I don’t care about anything enough to take my own life. Not you, not Y/N, not your brother, not even the world.” You liar. You care more about her then anyone else. You taught her how to protect herself when conventional weapons wouldn’t work, you taught her how to trust people and how to learn to love people again. She taught you the very same things. You made each other better. “I believe in prophecy, I believe in magic. I’m here and you’re here and everything we need to end this right now is in our hands!” 

She was mere feet in front of you. You were on the upper portion of the stair case, and Rowena was only four steps in front of you. If the magical barrier intending to keep you out hadn’t been in your way, you would’ve very easily been able to reach out, grab her dress, and pull her right into your arms. But when your best friend was a centuries old witch, nothing was ever that easy. 

  “You turned this ancient, angry witch into someone worthy of redemption, Y/N.” She took your hands in her own and smiled that very, very rare smile that you committed to memory because it was beautiful. She always was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that stars are when they fall. “I’ll never be able to thank you for that.” 

Your heart lurched as she and Sam fought over the knife poised over her abdomen. You knew it then in your heart of hearts that this was the last time you’d see your best friend, your girl, the one person who you’d sacrificed everything for.. and she was about to die without letting you tell her goodbye. 

  “I know this in my bones. It has to be this way.” 

Sam cannot do this. Not with you right behind her, on your knees, eyes screwed tightly shut and tears falling down your cheeks and into the dirt on the staircase. 

  “Do it! Kill me Samuel!” 

He hesitated. Rowena saw his eyes flicker from the knife back to behind her where you knelt, practically screaming at the top of your lungs that one of them would hear you and that this would all stop. 

  “I know we’ve gotten quite fond of each other, haven’t we?” Her grip on his shoulder tightened as she feigned a smile. Sam resisted the urge to spew the bile rising in his throat because how could she smile when he was forcing himself to kill her? How could she smile when she was leaving you behind? “Y/N saw it too. She always did have an eye to see the things about me I couldn’t see myself. But will you let the world die, let your brother die, let Y/N die.. just so I can live?” 

You’re both crying at that point. You just want to wake up, wake up, wake up-

  “No.” 

Before he can shove that knife into Rowena, she stood on her tiptoes and whispered something in his ear as Sam wrapped his arm around her waist and slid the blade into the soft flesh of your abdomen. Rowena was thankful that barrier was sound proof on both ends, because if she’d had to hear your scream she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to go through with this. 

Your throat was hoarse. Your fingers were trembling, and you wanted to punch something, anything, until you bled as much as she was in that moment she drove the knife deeper to ensure it had worked. 

  “If you ever need me, Rowena.. If you ever need me, I’ll come running. Say the word and I’ll be there.” 

She can’t need you. Not right now, and not ever again. She can’t need you because she’s about to throw herself into the deepest pit of Hell, she’s about to make your greatest fear come alive and lose you forever. She can’t need you. She can’t. 

Everything goes in slow motion after that. Rowena whispered a Latin incantation to release the barrier and Sam surged forward to wrap you tightly enough in his embrace that you couldn’t go after her, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t stop trying. You had to fight for her. Why was nobody fighting for her?!

Castiel saw you first, then Dean did. Both men watched as you went limp in Sams embrace and turned yourself away from Rowena so you didn’t have to watch her kill herself. 

Rowena looked back over her shoulder to gaze at the tiny family she’d been brought into when the two of you had met. She took one last look at Sam, then at you, and said, “Goodbye boys. Goodbye Y/N.” 

When you opened your eyes again, she and the rupture were gone. Defeat sank into your bones like an overwhelming weight, and you turned far enough into Sam’s chest that you could cry without being seen. He sat himself down on the grass and buried his face in your hair, and the two of you mourned together. 

Rowena and her damned sacrificial side, Rowena and her stupidly large heart, Rowena and her want to save everyone.. All of it. You were so angry that she’d just gone and done the one thing you’d never anticipated she’d do and wouldn’t allow you a goodbye. 

  “Castiel,” You called out to the angel who drew nearer at the sound of your voice. “Knock me out.” 

  “Y/N-” 

All three men winced at the ferocity of your scream, “DO IT! Knock me out! Anything is better then this!” Your body went limp as you tilted your head up to gaze at the angel. “I just want it to be over.”

  “Want what to be over?” 

  “This nightmare.” 

When the angel’s fingers touched your forehead, you thought you’d see darkness. You didn’t. You saw Rowena. You wanted to tell her everything was going to be okay. To assure her that she deserved a good ending, a happy ending, but you can’t. 

Because she’s gone, and you were still here. 

A tragedy really. 

***

The nightmare you wanted to be over wasn’t over. It was real. 

Two weeks passed. Two very bleak, angry, sad weeks passed before you forced the boys to let you make an empty grave outside the Bunker. You’d called someone in Lebanon who made stones and had a very simple one delivered right to the door which you put in front of the neat grave that took you three hours to dig. 

Rowena Macleod. 

Selfless. Beloved. Redeemed. 

Castiel had left the same day that Rowena had died. You hadn’t heard from the angel since, but you hoped he was getting the care he deserved. You weren’t entirely sure what was going on between the two of them, but you knew enough to know that Cas did not deserve what Dean had been putting him through since Jack had killed Mary. You’d spent so much of your time grieving with Sam in the safety of his bedroom that you hadn’t paid much attention to the older Winchester. He hadn’t loved Rowena like you and Sam had. 

  “I know you have a lot to say.” Sam turned away from the grave and wiped beneath his eyes. It was the most defeated you’d seen him look probably the entire time you’d known him, and your heart broke that he’d had to endure this to begin with when he’d just realized he loved her. “I’ve said what I need. I’ll leave you to yours.” 

You were alone. 

Everything felt colder now. Rowena was dead, Ketch was dead, Jack was dead. Castiel was gone, of where you had no idea. Dean was about ready to drink himself into an alcoholic coma and if it wasn’t for you, you’d imagined Sam would be in a similar situation. Your precious little family was destroyed, and you didn’t even have the closure you needed to mourn Rowena properly. You hated her for that. 

But your relationship with her was why you now stood over this grave. 

  “I’m not entirely sure what to say here, Ro. I know I watched you throw yourself into that pit, and really.. now that I’ve had time to think about it, it’s the one death you had that was on your own terms. You did what you did to save the world, and for that I am beyond proud of you.” You buried yourself deeper into your coat and tucked your hands into the pockets. “But I’m so angry at you for rejecting the one thing I needed to be able to mourn you properly. I know our time together was short, but you were the best friend I’ve never had because we both knew loss as an old friend. I clung to you just a little too much, and that’s why this is so much harder because you were all I had besides the boys. And now I’m alone.” Bitter laughter broke past your lips. “Sam and Dean are alone. We’re all alone. Some part of me doesn’t quite feel like you’re actually gone. Maybe it’s my rational side, maybe it's the fact that I’m in denial. I don’t know.” 

You reached into your coat and pulled out two thin silver frames. The one in your left hand was one of Fergus she’d kept with her for years. The one in your right hand was the last picture you’d taken on a random day after her altercation with Death, when you’d driven her and yourself god knew how many miles away from the Bunker for a girl’s day. Of all things. Best part of that was how much you’d both loved it. 

  “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay. You fought the good fight. You did your part. I think my life was better honestly because you were such a crucial part of it. You learned how to open up to people again, how to love again, and it made you a better person. You’re a hero to me, to Sam, to Castiel. We love you.” You laid both photos down on either side of the gravestone. “If it’s time for you to go, it’s okay. Be peaceful.” 

*** 

There stands four graves in a little clearing outside a bunker in Lebanon, Kansas. Three of them are full, and one of them is empty. Castiel and Jack Kline stand vigil over their fallen, rulers of Heaven, the last of the Heavenly Host. 

  “Cas, do you know what that saying is on Y/N’s stone?” He pointed to the stone directly beside Rowenas. Castiel paused and allowed his eyes to read the world several times. He’d heard you say it a lot after she’d died. After losing almost everyone and everything that mattered to you, you’d been resigned to death when it’d finally come for you. Dean and Sam had tried to get through to you, but when you’re going up against God.. no one comes through that alive. Not even the Winchesters. You’d accepted death with open arms. You’d surrendered to it. “Saudade-” 

  “I think she said it meant longing for the lost.” He replied. Jack watched his father’s eyes soften as they read Dean’s gravestone. It was a daily ritual for him almost a year after three hunters, a fallen angel, a witch and a nephilim had saved the world. “Y/N spent a lot of time doing that.” 

On a throne made of gilded gold in Hell, Rowena Macleod ruled. She kept a picture of a girl’s day so long ago tucked away in her gown, and a tattoo of a word she’d never learned the meaning of etched into the skin on the inside of her forearm. 

Saudade: Longing for the Lost. 

She’d just never imagined that you would be the one who was lost. 

#Rowena Macleod #Rowena x Reader #Rowena Macleod x Reader #SPN imagines #SPN oneshots #SPN fanfiction #Supernatural fanfiction #Supernatural fanfic #Supernatural imagines #Supernatural oneshots #SPN 15x03 #The Rupture #I CRIED WRITING THIS YA'LL I HATE THIS SHOW

[no-te-lo-voy-a-dar]

Sibling Jealousy - Chapter 2

Fic’s Summary: Reader has known the Winchesters for a long time, almost two years before Cas entered their lives. After that, since Reader was the only one actually teaching the angel about humanity customs and stuff like that, properly, they developed a closer relationship, on the parent-kid way. But it was never verbally acknowledged. Now, with Lucifer’s child on the way, life stabs some sense and realizations onto Reader, but there’s no time for feelings in this house.

Author’s Note: This is mainly a fic with the purpose of developing a family relationship with the characters, of mutual support, and I don’t plan on adding romance for Reader, because that’s not my final goal.

Pairings(?): Castiel/Reader (Parental like), Jack Kline/Reader (Platonic/Sibling like), Dean and Sam Winchester/Reader (Platonic/Friends)

Warnings: Usual canon violence and conflicts, as well as injuries and blood mentions, emotional struggles such as feeling unloved, like an outcast, low self-esteem issues and if you think something else should be mentioned let me know.

<<Last Chapter — Next Chapter>>

Chapter’s Author’s Note: The first chapter (or prologue?) already has more than 20 notes and that’s more than I expected tbh. Within less than a day, @thewnchstrs added my fic to their September Fics Recommendation List, and I can’t be more flattered that even with just one part out, they decided to add me. Thank you so much.

Chapter Two: Such a Rush

Word Count: 1,327

For the next few months, you were sent the address where Cas was staying with Kelly, and you would send him some pictures and stuff “a normal kid” might use or want. You also got on the phone with both Kelly and Cas when the brothers left to do the FBI work and you stayed in the motel to do research or went for food.

Not a lot of words were exchanged, in your opinion, but hearing Castiel’s voice and encouraging words about The Men of Letters issue did relaxed you, and Kelly said it was a good thing for the baby to hear to his family’s voices.

Not sure how you felt about that yet.

Time passed, you found the microphone hidden in The Bunker, you were almost buried alive, then you and Sam went to raid the British Men of Letters base, using how stealthy and small you were as your bargain excuse as to why you should go (which did come in handy, thank you very much), went back to The Bunker to find Mary was on her right mind again and Ketch dead on the floor and then head all the way up north because the brothers had finally found where Cas and Kelly were AND you all learned Lucifer was out there walking on his old vessel.

You didn’t know if warn Cas or not, but with the Impala filled with the Winchester’s family you couldn’t, and praying to Cas might not be wise since angel radio could get hire wired. That’s not how it works, but yes, essentially. You could hear him tell you.

After hours on the road and Sam convincing Dean onto letting him drive for some of those because of his leg, you arrived at the small house you knew those two, three?, were staying in.

You hesitated into entering the house, looking up to see the windows’ lights on. Something didn’t feel right about this.

When you got in, Castiel seemed to already have talked to the Winchesters and Mary was making her way up the stairs to check on Kelly.

You went straight to him and hugged him, hoping he was getting the message on how much you missed him just from the strength of your hug. Apparently he did, because he was quick onto caressing your head and rubbing small circles on your back, all while you felt his grace heal the injuries you had earned on the raid against the British.

You stepped yourself away from him, and noticed Dean was no longer limping, meaning Castiel had already healed him.

“There’s something you need to see.”

—

After the tear on the time and space that led you to an alternative universe issue and Crowley joining you, a plan was made to trap Lucifer, and not much to your surprise, you were told to wait inside the house with both Kelly and Mary.

“So just you veterans can risk yourselves and have fun?” you really wanted to help, something about the whole situation made you uneasy.

“(Y/N) you know is not like that, but we can’t keep risking people into this, keep putting you on the fire line.” Sam tried to reason with you, his voice soft but nervous about whatever was about to happen, and you had to repress a snarky remark about how just living with them put you in said line by itself.

You sent Cas a look, but his eyes were sad and…a silent request was there, but you weren’t sure what was it. You didn’t like it.

Before they went outside and you upstairs, Castiel handed you an angel blade.

“Cas, you need this, as little protection against an archangel as it can give, you need it.” You tried pushing it back to him. “Besides, I already have my own from Ishim. The most recent one at least I mean.” talking about whom you had gotten an angel blade always seemed to be a sensitive topic.

“This one is not mine. I mean it is, but is a different one. I engraved some stuff in it, for extra protection. No demon can grab it and if any other angel besides the ones I allowed to touch it does, they are going to be slightly burned by it.” Now that you were looking at the blade, you could see enochian symbols written in the blade and handle. At the bottom of it, was an enochian symbol you became familiar with while doing research: Castiel’s angel symbol.

You looked at him and wanted to say something, but Dean was already calling for him.

He patted your head and signaled you to go upstairs. And so you did.

Births were always one of the things that made you more nervous about medical stuff, so much stuff could go wrong.

Kelly smiled at you when you got to the bedroom, and started rubbing at her belly while talking to it, to him.

“Look Jack, your sibling is here already. You are gonna be just fine.” The whole idea of Mrs. Kline wanting you to be some kind of guardian yet not exactly to Jack was kind of surreal.

You weren’t as young as Claire, yet you weren’t near your 40’s as Dean was, so they treating you like a kid always weirded you out, yet it made sense. You were closer to Claire’s age though.

You were bringing water to her lips as she kept having contractions and pushing, and suddenly, during one of her pushes, she whispered an ‘I love you’ before a bright light engulfed the room and you just felt energy soaring the entire house.

While you tried to rub the blindness from your eyes, you heard Mary leaving the room and going down the stairs.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Kelly wasn’t moving yet she was…clean. All the sweat and fluids that were covering her mere seconds ago were gone, and she looked peaceful. You arranged her laying form and covered her with the blankets, before starting to follow the shining foot marks on the floor.

They were directed towards what was supposed to be his room, if you took the giant paint on the wall with his name on it as a clue.

Everything was pitch black and when you looked at the floor and followed with your sight the path upwards, you saw golden shiny eyes looking at you.

Part of you was scared, well, more like on edge, and the other was confused, because you weren’t looking at a baby, nor a little kid.

“Hey Jack. That’s your name, you know?” you said as you reached half of the bedroom, as close as your instincts allowed you to go.

“…Father?” Now with your eyes a little more adjusted to the shadows, you were able of seeing how he hugged himself and titled his head a little. Heh, must be an angel thing.

“Uh, no, I’m not your father. My name’s (Y/N) (Y/L/N).” Without noticing, you were sitting on the floor.

“(Y/N)? Mom said (Y/N) would be my big sibling. Are you my big sibling?” oh boy…

You looked at him, and saw…not a trace of a threat, just pure curiosity and he seemed a little afraid.

“Yes Jack, I’m your big sibling. I’m, going to take care of you, as best as I can.” You saw him smile a little, but when you both heard foots inside the house, Jack went serious again, and you pulled your new gifted angel blade out and got on your feet.

It was Sam.

You wanted to relax a little, but you weren’t sure what he was about to do. He noticed, putting his gun away and his hands in the air, which led you to sheath your blade again.

“Father?” there was Jack again, asking the same thing he asked to you some minutes ago but this time addressed to Sam.

When was Castiel gonna show up?

#supernatural reader insert #jack kline x reader #castiel x reader #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #gender neutral reader #at least that's what i tried #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader #castiel x platonic!reader #jack kline x sibling!reader #castiel x child!reader #father!castiel x reader #??? #still not sure of that last tag but i can't think of anything else #my creations #my fics #supernatural #spn #sibling jealousy fic

[itsclydebitches]

Title: No Harm to the World

Summary: When Aziraphale's birthday comes around he expects a book from Anathema. Perhaps a bottle of wine. Or even some nice socks. He does not expect a series of ballroom lessons with London's rudest instructor.

Fandom: Good Omens

Words: 4,461

Warnings: None

Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley

Author’s Notes: "Let us read, and let us dance — these two amusements will never do any harm to the world" - Voltaire

Written for Cademon who doesn't actually know me, but managed to chuck out a prompt I just couldn't resist: "Dance instructor/student AU with slow burn and slow dancing and kissing and bonus points for smutty goodness." I'm bad at writing kisses, even worse at smut, and I don't think 4k counts as a slow burn... but it's an instructor/student AU! Woot woot let's count that as a win.

Where to Read it: AO3 or below the cut 

Anathema, he decided, was going to hell.

Certainly there was no other option for the poor girl. Sad, but true. What else could Aziraphale assume given the sin she’d committed?

“It’s not right,” he told the server, a young woman with pink hair and an expression bordering on awed. “You don’t just give someone that sort of gift. It’s not a gift at all! Gifts are books, my dear. Or an excellent bottle of wine. Perhaps a decent pair of socks if we’re getting intimate. But to foster off something with such requirements attached to it, particularly on someone who is and should be treated as a loved one... it doesn’t bear thinking about. I cannot possibly express my disappointment in her.”

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve been doing well so far.” The server pointed at Aziraphale’s empty plate. “You want another slice or what?”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you. Now see, cake. That is an excellent gift.”

“Uh huh.”

With those words of wisdom she left Aziraphale to his thoughts, his still growling stomach, and the letter he’d propped up against the salt and pepper shakers. Lesley had delivered it this morning, no doubt because Anathema was too craven to give it to him herself. At first Aziraphale had been rather touched by the gesture, sure that she was embracing his love of sophistication—not archaism, thank you—on the day of his birth, foregoing all that horrible, digital nonsense to send him a proper letter instead. How inspired! Ha. More fool him. What Aziraphale found was not the opera ticket he’d expected, or a monthly wine subscription, or even just a personal account of all that he meant to her...

No. Fifty years old and she got him dancing lessons. A month long, twice a week, fully paid for trap that Aziraphale either needed to suffer through or risk offense, to both her and the instructor. Someone who, Anathema had made quite clear, was already expecting him. Tonight. On his birthday. Had he mentioned that yet?

Outside of her instructions the rest of the so-called letter was a single line written in viscous, glittery pen:

You need to get out more ;)

Love,

Anathema

“Poppycock,” Aziraphale muttered. “Oh. Pardon my language.” His server gave a snort as she laid down the second slice of strawberry shortcake. She skipped off before he could start another rant, though Aziraphale was happy enough to continue glaring at his ‘gift.’

Get out more? What rubbish. Aziraphale certainly didn’t need to pepper his time with dance lessons, of all things. He lived a perfectly healthy, happy life and didn't need a woman half his age saying otherwise. Why were they friends again? He hardly knew.

Aziraphale stabbed his fork straight through the slice. Not even buttery cake and macerated strawberries could cheer him though. The letter remained in view, taunting him.

As did the knowledge that he was expected at this studio come 7:00pm sharp. He, Aziraphale, was meant to spend a full hour in an organization titled Dancing With the Devil.

It was with a sigh that he slipped whipped cream past his lips and raised his hand. “Miss! I do believe I’ll be needing a third slice.”

***

Six and a half hours later found Aziraphale outside an apartment complex, the top of which clearly housed the studio in question. If that absurd name didn’t give it away—displayed in red, looping letters against the old stonework—then the music thrumming all the way down to the sidewalk would have done the trick. Aziraphale might have thought the place a disreputable club if not for the fact that the music was Sinatra.

...Not entirely horrible then. Not quite.

“Though by no means a redemption either,” he muttered, waiting for the elevator. As he did, Aziraphale took a moment to examine himself in the reflective surface, rather pleased with his choice of outfit. He’d gone with a blue vest tonight, a periwinkle that matched his bow-tie perfectly, and brought a spot of color to the browns and beige he’d otherwise donned. He wasn’t entirely sure what one was meant to wear to a dancing lesson, but surely you couldn’t fault style? He looked quite spiffy, all things considered. Besides, Anathema’s horrid little note had specified ballroom lessons. Not the sort of thing that involved traipsing about on the ground or attempting anything as unnecessary as a jump. And if it did? Aziraphale would leave. Simple as that.

“Quite,” he told his reflection and stepped inside.

The music grew louder as Aziraphale ascended, until he could feel the vibrations through the soles of his shoes. When the elevator opened on dim lights and smiling people, he was momentarily taken aback.

Some day, when I'm awfully low

When the world is cold

I will feel a glow just thinking of you

And the way you look tonight

They must have just started this song because people were still coming together, men and women alike extending hands to partners, walking side-by-side to the outskirts of the room. To be entirely honest, most of those smiles seemed to stem from embarrassment. Aziraphale watched the couples—perhaps six of seven in total—fumble arms for a moment or come dangerously close to stepping on toes. A few individuals were so intensely focused on their feet he didn’t think they’d react if the whole studio came crashing down around their ears. None of it was very... good, per se. Aziraphale had seen just enough old films to know that the awkward gaits and simple steps he was witnessing weren’t much to write home about. But the attempts were charming in their own way and he was all too aware that it was more than he was able to do.

Suddenly, Aziraphale felt rather out of place.

The exception to stiff movements and lowered heads was the man who cut through the middle of the floor, the only one without a partner. He wore slacks, but short heels that appeared to be dance-specific; a collared shirt, but with red hair that fell down past his shoulders. Perhaps the most notable accessory though was a pair of dark glasses perched on his nose, entirely unnecessary in this lighting and thus looking rather absurd. No doubt he thought himself one of those cool men who could never pass the age of twenty-five. Aziraphale didn’t need any official introduction to know that he was the instructor though. The way he moved said it all.

Like liquid. Like grace incarnate. He put more hip action into walking than Aziraphale could ever manage in a Salsa and it was, to be frank, bordering on obscene.

The man was also heading his way.

“You must be Zira!” he called, loud enough to turn every head. Aziraphale shrunk, his hiding spot obliterated. “Beginner’s class? 7:00? You’re late. Can’t have that. First day here and you’re already slacking? You’d think a guy dressed like you would want to make a better first impression.” The man grinned.

Of all the—!

“It’s Aziraphale,” he hissed, the first and most important thing to tumble out of his mouth. “I don’t do that nickname nonsense. And I’m not late. I’m not slacking! I’m not—oh. Well I suppose I am here for the beginner’s class. But that’s the only thing you got right and one out of four is nothing to be proud of.”

He could feel the heat in his cheeks and the arrogant, downward turn to his mouth. Aziraphale had been told on more than one occassion that this was why he so rarely got customers (not that he particularly wanted them...) and why he had so few, close friends. Thus it was more than a bit surprising to find that his default state didn’t immediately get him chucked out of the class. What a pity. Rather, the man seemed to enjoy his ire. He continued grinning, quite manically, finally throwing out a hand with purple, painted nails.

“Name’s Anthony Crowley, but everyone here just calls me Crowley. I am about the nickname nonsense. Sort of, anyway. Let’s see...” Crowley’s fingers tapped the top of Aziraphale’s hand, sending a jolt all the way up through his arm. “I own this studio. Own the flats downstairs too. Guess that doesn’t make me much of a slacker, but I enjoy a good TV binge every now and then. And you’re right.”

“Right?” Aziraphale parroted.

“You’re not late. Fifteen minutes early, in fact. This lot,” he jerked his head at the dancers. “Have just been with me before. Know to leave time to warm up.”

Crowley finally released his hand and Aziraphale immediately plastered it against his thigh, trying and failing to be inconspicuous about wiping the sweat away. Crowley eyed the movement, lips twitching. “Well. You’re gonna be rubbish at this if one handshake gets you all nervous.”

Aziraphale gaped. “How rude!”

“Anathema said you’d be a handful.”

For a moment surprise warred with offense. The surprise won. “You know Anathema?” He’d been under the impression that this little ‘gift’ had no further strings attached. How foolish of him.

“Sure!” Crowley waved a hand. “We’re old girlfriends. She talks about you some. I’ve been telling her to get you in here for ages. Never said how you two know each other though.”

Aziraphale drew himself up. “Anathema is a frequent visitor to my shop. Over the years I’ve been able to procure a number of rare books for her. Our love of literature all but ensured that we would be fast friends.”

“Huh. Cool. I hit her with my car a few years back. Anyway, c’mon!”

Aziraphale was left, open-mouthed, grappling with the image of an Anathema three years ago with bruised face and a broken arm. Apparently Crowley wasn’t one for explanations though, as he was already striding back across the room, clearly expecting Aziraphale to follow. Obeying such a high-handed command was a horrible thought.

...standing there awkwardly was worse.

“Excuse me, pardon me, ah...no, no, go on as you were!” Despite their slow movements and few numbers, getting past the dancers was a surprisingly difficult task, those capable of dancing and looking up simultaneously casting him amused smiles. By the time Aziraphale reached Crowley—now standing beside a row of chairs on the outskirts of the room—he could feel the heat in his cheeks and the slight dampness beginning to consolidate beneath his shirt. Hardly his fault. It was so dreadfully hot in here.

Crowley eyed him up and down once more, that smirk too knowing for Aziraphale’s tastes. With a huff he straightened his bow-tie with one hand and thrust out the folder he’d been carrying with the other.

“I've done research,” he announced. “Quite extensive. Not to speak too highly of my own abilities, but it’s rather a talent of mine and one that I put a great deal of stock in. Thus, after much deliberation I have decided that if I am to learn any formal dance is should be the gavotte.”

Seconds ticked by. Aziraphale shook the folder in the air between them. Crowley failed to take it.

“I’ve done research,” he repeated, just in case that first part hadn’t been clear.

“You’ve really got no idea how this all works, do you?” Crowley asked. To Aziraphale’s great relief he finally took the gathered materials—

—only to toss it all right over his shoulder.

“How dare you!”

“Jeez, you’re a sensitive one. How dare you this, how rude that. We’ve got to loosen you up a bit first. Everyone, watch your floorcraft!”

The students behind them dutifully maneuvered around the now scattered collection of papers, a few giving audible laughs at the turn of events. Aizraphale felt that blush creeping down his neck and instinctively bent to gather them up.

Crowley intercepted, taking him into his arms.

He might have struggled. Perhaps he should have, the shock of someone touching him in such a manner without permission just the sort of thing Aziraphale normally would have riled against. But when Crowley dipped his glasses also slipped, and for a moment (a moment was all Crowley needed) Aziraphale was left breathless and rather easily swayed.

It was his eyes. They were...well, quite stunning. If he was entirely frank. A brown that appeared almost gold in the right light, but more distinctive were the pupils that bled downwards into his iris, creating a surprisingly oval shape. The effect was akin to a keyhole. Or, if one were being fanciful, something not quite human.

Crowley, of course, noticed him staring. His grin was slow. Like he had to pull it into being one muscle at a time. “Coloboma,” he said, the word sharp and quick. “I was lucky enough to get it in both eyes.” Crowley briefly removed his hand from Aziraphale’s to push the glasses more firmly onto his nose. Then they came back together, the movement almost unnoticed. Aziraphale was still peering closely.

“Is that why you wear those?” he asked. “Even inside? In this lighting?”

“Mm-hmm. Tends to freak people out. Sometimes. Enough times. Need to get used to it first.” Crowley’s head titled to the side, red curls falling between them. “Does it bother you?”

Aziraphale was aware that he owed this man precisely nothing. Certainly not honesty for the sake of honesty. And yet, he found it slipping out nonetheless. “Not at all, dear boy. In fact, I think your eyes are quite beautiful. Rather like a snake’s.”

As soon as the words hit the air Aziraphale stumbled, the compliment his mouth had seen fit to give suddenly catching up with his brain. Crowley went rigid too, though because of the “beautiful” or the “snake” part Aziraphale couldn’t be sure. Because a second later he murmured,

“People normally say 'cat.'” His voice was rough and rather...shaky?

“...Ah. Of Course. Logical.”

"Yeah."

Well. That had gone swimmingly! Yes, old boy, insult and act inappropriately with your instructor five minutes into the lesson. What a positively perfect way to begin a month-long course. Not that Aziraphale cared if Crowley decided to cut him. Not at all. Hadn’t wanted to be here in the first place.

Funny thing though, it was a lesson and not a bad one at that. All at once and without Aziraphale’s knowledge they'd fallen into their respective roles. While they’d been speaking, Crowley had taken the hand he’d snagged and the underside of Aziraphale’s shoulder blade, just sort of... steering them around the room. They weren’t doing any of the fancy footwork that the rest of the group was immersed in. Just a little shuffle there and back, like one might see during a slow dance at senior prom. Yet it was steady, and soothing, and all at once Aziraphale was hyper-aware of exactly how close they’d gotten. He tried to ignore the smell of Crowley’s cologne—delightfully spicy. He’d have to ask his barber for something similar—and how soft his hand was, palm pressed to palm and fingers cupping fingers. His brief faux pas was quickly forgotten. When Crowley seemed content to simply sway and hum along to the music for some undetermined amount of time, Aziraphale finally cleared his throat.

“What, if I am ask, are we doing?”

Crowley blinked. “Dancing.”

“I would hardly term this dancing.”

“Well that’s because you’re the ignorant student and I’m the former Blackpool competitor.” He spoke right over the protest. “What’s the best kind of learning? The kind that doesn’t feel like learning. Duh. Look at you go. Walking backwards like a champ.” Crowley suddenly stopped, Aziraphale stopped too, and somehow his gaze seemed more shrewd, even behind the glasses. “Why?"

“Why? Why what?” Aziraphale tried valiantly to regain his balance.

“Why did you stop?”

“Because you stopped.”

“No, no, no, stupid answer. What bearing does me stopping have on you stopping? You could have just kept going, straight out the door! Anathema said you were smart. Where’s that now? One more time...” They started moving again, parallel to the line of chairs, and this time when Crowley stopped—

He hummed in the back of his throat, catching Aziraphale’s expression.

It was hard to explain though. The fact that he was literally connected to another person obviously played its part, but there was more to it than that, what Aziraphale suspected his teacher was trying to convey. Something about how the hand at his back had pressed suddenly, becoming a barrier he didn't want to push past. The hand in his had tightened, almost pulling in the opposite direction. Something else about the feeling of Crowley’s body so near to his, subconsciously picking up on the change in his weight...

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to articulate any of that though. What came out was a disgruntled noise that made Crowley laugh.

“Connection,” he said, clearly taking pity on him. “You know where and how far I want you to go because of how closely connected our bodies are. From here,” he shifted them to the right. “To there.” Back to the left. “The slightest touch, just a little, tiny press—” Aziraphale suddenly knew that he was to take a step backwards and when he did Crowley’s smile was magnificent. “It can accomplish a shit ton.”

Aziraphale snorted. “Is that a technical term? 'Shit ton'?”

“Oh yeah.” Crowley suddenly grew serious. “But if you don’t have that connection...” His arms went limp, his chest pulled back, and Aziraphale hadn’t the slightest clue where he was meant to go now. When Crowley suddenly stepped backward he was scrambling to catch up. “See? All falls apart. It’s about balance. Push and pull. Like you’re standing on the edge of a knife and the both of you have to maintain perfect position so that neither of you falls...You manage that and you can manage just about anything.”

"A relationship," Aziraphale said, his mouth once again running away with him. No reprimand came though. Just a quick squeeze of his hand that felt like praise.

Crowley had taken him in his arms again—what he referred to as the frame a few moments later—and with the careless delivery of someone commenting on the weather, told Aziraphale to step back, back again, and then side together, off to his right. No, not quite that fast. Yes, that’s better. A slow, a slow, quick-quick pattern. Again and again until Aziraphale realized, with no small amount of shock, that they were mimicking the other couples around the dance floor.

“See?” Crowley said. There was only a bit of smugness seeping into his voice. Already Aziraphale counted that as a win. “You’re a natural.”

He thought of long-ago gym classes and his brother Gabriel’s attempts to take him jogging. “You’d be the first to think so.”

“Or I’m just that good a teacher. Hmm. Might be leaning towards that one. But the fact that you can take two steps without panicking or tripping over your own feet is a major plus.” Crowley leaned in close, sharing a conspiratorial whisper. “Most of this lot still don’t know their right from their left.”

It should have been cruel coming from their instructor, but Aziraphale had the distinct sense that Crowley meant it in only the most loving way possible. A chuckle wound its way up his throat because yes, what just fifteen minutes before had seemed so out of reach now appeared... quite simple really. Whatever had he been worried about? Across the ballroom some poor chap was nearly trampling another—who astoundingly managed to keep a polite smile in place—while two women behind them were taking each step with an agonizing slowness that had thrown them off beat. Aziraphale had never considered himself to be terribly adventurous, never quick to embrace any change, but even that was a bit slow for this tastes.

With Crowley, the room spun at perfect speed.

“It’s all that stuffiness,” he was saying, oblivious to Aziraphale’s thoughts. “You’re all,” and Crowley drew his shoulders up to his ears, miming someone overly stiff with a pursed lips and squinty eyes. The display fell apart with a laugh at whatever expression Aziraphale pulled. “Nah, nah, it’s good. Gonna have a devil of a time with you in the Latin styles, but smooth? Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.”

“I like lemons,” Aziraphale commented, unsure how else to respond in the face of more unexpected praise.

“Please don’t tell me you just... eat them.”

“What? No! I mean lemonade. Or squeezed over veal with capers.”

“Okay good because I once knew this guy who’d just fucking peel them—”

So it went, with Crowley rambling on about, apparently, whatever popped into his head each moment, all while leading Aziraphale round and round the room with an ease that spoke of years of practice. He was far less graceful, stumbling now and again, but largely able to move and hold a conversation simultaneously, which was far more than Aziraphale would have assumed himself capable of, especially after such a short period of time. In fact, with Crowley’s arms a warm press and those absurd opinions filling his ears, it was all almost a bit... fun.

Damn it all. Anathema could never find out.

The song—another of Sinatra’s—finally drew to a close and with it the lights rose, shaking the group out of their daze. People put distance between their partners, thanking one another, laughing over perceived faults, and Aziraphale felt a pang when Crowley moved to do the same.

That is, until he ducked into a low bow, brushing a kiss against the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Thank you for the dance,” he said, tone overly formal, eyes alight with mischief. Aziraphale might have called him out on the contradiction if his thoughts were even in the vicinity of coherent.

Oh dear.

Crowley left. Or rather, rejoined the rest of his class. Which honestly felt to be much the same thing. Aziraphale had to tramp down on the absurd burst of jealousy that flared when Crowley briefly took another man into his arms, leading him through a slightly longer, more complicated step. Thankfully though that stint of madness was brief. With a self-conscious cough Aziraphale smoothed down his vest and joined the others in front of the mirrors. They were all lining up, seemingly expectant, and all at once Aziraphale was the odd man out again. Unsure of where to stand; overly dressed next to the others' jeans and t-shirts.

Then Crowley paced before the lineup and tilted his head just so, allowing the light to reflect through his glasses. Aziraphale could have sworn he dropped him a wink.

“Welcome! Excellent warm-up, all of you. Though I could have done without so many feet watchers.” A few titters flowed through the group. “Seriously, are your shoes really that interesting? Because if they are I want to know where you got ‘em. Drop me a brand name after class. All right, all right. Enough of that. Good to have you all back. Good to see some new faces too. This is Bronze One, Smooth Dancers for Beginners, and today we’ll be learning the Foxtrot... though I’ve already gotten the sense that you lot won’t be beginners for long.”

His gaze was definitely on Aziraphale and he burned for just a moment, caught. As Crowley began his lesson, Aziraphale straightened his bow-tie one more—just for luck—and vowed that such a complimentary statement would not be said in vain.

A minute later, as Crowley helped him partner up with a lovely young woman looking similarly unsure, Aziraphale quite forgot that he’d never wanted to be here in the first place.

***

July, one year later.

“Honestly, I don’t know what that girl is thinking! It’s an insult, my dear. Plain and simple. I hope as you grow you’ll develop better manners than my supposed friend has.”

“I’m thirty-five, sir.”

Aziraphale sat in the same café, at the same table, with the same waitress listening to him rant about the misuse of birthday presents. The only true changes were that he’d since learned her name was Amber and Amber now sported green hair instead of pink (with blue and orange somewhere between the two).

This was old hat by now. “Two slices of the key lime pie then?”

“Three.”

“Three?"

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. Amber only just caught it. “Relax, dear. I’m not quite as stressed as that.” The ‘Not yet’ was muttered into his water glass. “I’m merely expecting company.”

Which was the cue for the door across from them to open, Crowley sauntering in with sundress and hat, heels and $200 shades. Amber huffed out a laugh, allowing her hand to briefly clasp Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Three slices it is then,” and she wandered off.

Crowley took her place.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale scowled. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”

“Hey, if the shoe fits... speaking of,” Crowley slouched in his chair and stuck one long leg out from beneath the table, showing off his yellow, strappy heels. “You like?”

“Your continued obsession with footwear that now eats a hole in our joint bank account? Never.” But Aziraphale nevertheless eyed the new addition with admiration. “Can you dance in those?”

“Nah. Not enough traction. You’re due for a new pair though. Can’t go competing in those worn-out practice shoes.”

The mere thought of his first competition nearly undid Aziraphale’s appetite, but for now at least anger overrode the fear. “I was under the impression that Anathema was buying some for my birthday!”

Crowley blinked. “She’s not? It’s what she told me she was getting you.”

"Oh no, no, no. I received a package this morning that was most certainly not shoes..."

As Aziraphale leaned across the table, nearly upending water and silverware in his haste to share the news, Amber returned with three plates of pie and some complimentary mints. She arrived just in time to see Aziraphale whisper something into his partner’s ear that turned his cheeks roughly the same shade as his hair. The grin though... there was nothing self-conscious in that.

“That sly girl,” she heard, aiming to remain professional even in the face of Aziraphale’s angry huff. “Can’t say I’m surprised. When was the last time she gave you the present you were expecting?”

“I am this close to murdering her, Crowley.”

“Sure you are.” Amber’s last glimpse was of the two of them tucked together, sunlight streaming across the table, heads bent so close in conversation they nearly touched. Crowley took a bite of the pie as Aziraphale quite obviously watched his lips.

“I'm sure we'll figure out some use for her generosity." The sarcasm was apparent, even from across the room. As was Crowley's amusement.

"Besides, I’d say her last gift turned out just fine.”

Fin.

***

Important note: The most AU aspect of all this is that both of these bastards can actually dance

Less important note: You decide what Anathema got Aziraphale for his bday ;)

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale/crowley #air conditioning #dancing #good omens fic

[aion-rsa]

Warrior Nuns Through TV History

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

TV nunning is a broad church. Sometimes, it’s all gunfire, demon-dissolving punches and running through walls, as in Netflix’s latest comic book adaptation Warrior Nun. In that show, a mystical artifact gives a non-believing teen superpowers passed down the generations from holy sister to holy sister. Defeat the demons, protect the world, praise the Lord, and so on.

Other fictional TV nuns lead quieter, more cake-focused lives, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t also fighters. You might say that like superheroes, not all warrior nuns wear capes. You’d be wrong – nuns definitely wear capes. They’re called mantles and though roomy and practical, likely represent a significant time commitment with regard to ironing.

Warrior Nun‘s superpowered teen follows in the echoey footsteps of a whole conventful of fictional TV nuns remembered here – some good, some bad, some inordinately fond of biscuits, but all, in their own way, warriors.

Sister Mary Loquacious in Good Omens (2019)

Played by: Nina Sosanya

Allegiance: Satanic nuns of the Chattering Order of St Beryl

Warrior level: Novice

Weapon of choice: Infantilising baby talk of hoofikins and widdle demonic tails

Specialism: Biscuits with pink icing

Most likely to say: ‘Fancy me holding the Antichrist! Counting his little toesy-woesies!’

Getting into heaven? Absolutely not

Demon Crowley and angel Aziraphale may have been Good Omens’ major players, but Sister Mary Loquacious kicked off the whole mess by accidentally confusing the infant Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World and Lord of Darkness with the human child of a couple from the Oxfordshire village of Tadfield. Easily done.

Sister Agatha in Dracula (2020)

Played by: Dolly Wells

Allegiance: The Army of the Faithful, St Mary’s Convent of Budapest

Warrior level: Intellectually? Top Tier. She’s Dracula’s ‘every nightmare at once: an educated woman in a crucifix’

Weapon of choice: Wooden stakes and double-barrel wit

Specialism: Scientific rigour and one-liners

Most likely to say: ‘A house of God is it? Well that’s good, we could do with a man about the place, eh sister?’

Getting into heaven? Ja, if she cared to grace it with her presence.

Unfazed, brave, funny and intellectually curious, Dutch-born Agatha put both her faith and folklore to the test when she took on Count Dracula, meticulously gathering research on his powers and learning the rules of the beast to try to use them against him. A true scientist and quite a woman.

Sister Michael in Derry Girls (2018)

Played by: Siobhan McSweeney

Allegiance: Our Lady Immaculate College/Rawhide

Warrior level: Untested in battle but doubtless lethal

Weapon of choice: Apathy, withering sarcasm and eye-rolls

Specialism: Judo (on Fridays)

Most likely to say: ‘Sweet suffering Jehovah’

Getting into heaven? I wouldn’t be the one to stop her.

You won’t find an ounce of sentiment beneath this wimple, Sister Michael’s dry disdain for the pupils at Our Lady Immaculate is expressed only through cutting remarks and declarations of boredom. Not a fan of priests, the French, love songs or… most things, she’s an authority figure for the Derry Girls. Every so often though, like when she turned a blind eye to Erin and co. distributing their banned lesbianism-focused edition of the school magazine, she’ll surprise you.

Sister Jane Ingalls in Orange is the New Black (2013)

Played by: Beth Fowler

Allegiance: Catholicism

Warrior level: Basically nil as she’s a committed pacifist, though she does punch Gloria in the mouth at one point for PR

Weapon of choice: Civil disobedience and the Good Book

Specialism: Activism

Most likely to say: ‘I was afraid nunning was going to be boring!’

Getting into heaven? Sure

As a young novice in the 1960s, Ingalls fell in with the bad nuns and got a taste for non-violent activism. A bunch of protests and a memoir later (full points for the title: Nun Shall Pass), and the church didn’t want anything to do with her, neglecting to cover her legal fees after she handcuffed herself to a nuclear facility, landing her in Litchfield.

Sister Harriet in Hunters (2019)

Played by: Kate Mulvany

Allegiance: Anti-Nazi, Pro-Quip

Warrior level: Top level. A highly capable operative.

Weapon of choice: Gun, blowtorch, you name it

Specialism: Threats of extreme violence delivered in the voice of a Downton Abbey marchioness.

Most likely to say: ‘I will set you aflame, child’

Getting into heaven? There’s some intrigue as to her real deal but she certainly seems to be on the right side of history.

This MI6 agent/Nazi-hunting nun from Amazon Prime’s Hunters is something of a Scary Poppins. She does an excellent line in death threats and action-movie quips. She’s deadly, has a shady backstory, speaks in a cut-glass English accent and is fond of biscuits. In other words: our kind of nun.

Matron Casp in Doctor Who ‘New Earth’ (2006)

Played by: Doña Croll

Allegiance: Sisters of Plenitude

Warrior level: Merciless eugenicist

Weapon of choice: Cat claws and science

Specialism: Incinerating conscious and begging-for-help human cloning experiments without a spark of fellow-feeling.

Most likely to say: ‘Who needs arms when we have claws’

Getting into heaven? Nah. Space prison more like.

The Sisters of Plenitude, healers on New Earth, may have called their work ‘the tender application of science’ but ‘the incredibly painful application of bastard cruelty’ better sums up their human cloning farm. This order takes a lifelong vow to help and mend, but clearly not to do no harm. And their hospital doesn’t even have a shop.

Abbess Hild in The Last Kingdom (2015-)

Played by: Eva Birthistle

Allegiance: Uhtred of Bebbanburg/the Lord

Warrior level: Advanced (but retired)

Weapon of choice: Dagger

Specialism: Throwing buckets of cold water on a sleeping Uhtred and sawing through the necks of dead Danes

Most likely to say: ‘I have killed, and I will kill again I’m sure, but hopefully not today’

Getting into heaven? Big yes.

Hild’s journey in The Last Kingdom took her from nun to warrior and back again. Rescued from attack by Uhtred, Leofric and Yseult, she swore to become a fighter and more-than earned the title. Eventually, her vocation called her back to the church, where she now remains as the Abbess with whom you don’t mess.

Sister Jude in American Horror Story: Asylum

Played by: Jessica Lange

Allegiance: Catholicism and the teachings of Monseigneur Timothy Howard

Warrior level: Complicated

Weapon of choice: Forced commitment to an insane asylum,

Specialism: Guilt

Most likely to say: ‘All monsters are human’

Getting into heaven? Bad things happened under her watch but she does try to atone

The head of Briarcliff, an institution for the criminally insane, Sister Jude is a complex character with a complicated trajectory. She mistreats, but is also also gravely mistreated.

Sister Monica Joan in Call the Midwife (2012-)

Played by: Judy Parfitt

Allegiance: Raymond Nonnatus, patron saint of childbirth

Warrior level: Yoda

Weapon of choice: Forceps and fey literary quotation

Specialism: Sniffing out and emptying hidden cake tins

Most likely to say: ‘My first responsibility is to ensure the consumption of this cake’

Getting into heaven? Hundo P

AKA the best Call The Midwife nun, and an OG resident of Nonnatus House ever since the BBC One series began. Owing to her advanced years and developing dementia, Sister Monica Joan is now retired from midwifery, but in her prime there wasn’t a birth canal in Poplar that hadn’t welcomed her up to the elbow. She’s highly educated and extremely well-read with an instinctive love of beauty, poetry, cake and Doctor Who, which makes her the patron saint of all our hearts.

Sister Sybil in Camelot (2011)

Played by: Sinéad Cusack

Allegiance: Shady but ultimately loyal to Morgan

Warrior level: Witch

Weapon of choice: Dark magicks

Specialism: Child sacrifice?

Getting into heaven? Nah.

When Uther Pendragon banished his daughter Morgan in Chris Chibnall’s 2011 Camelot, she was raised in a nunnery by a sister who was no stranger to the dark arts. When Morgan (played by Eva Green) returned to claim her birthright, Sister Sybil was the one whispering poison in her ear and teaching her how to channel her powers.

Sister Bertrille in The Flying Nun (1967)

Played by: Sally Field

Allegiance: El Convento San Tanco in San Juan

Warrior level: Negligible

Weapon of choice: Not so much a weapon, but her flight-enabling cornette was the big thing.

Specialism: As the title suggests, flight

Most likely to say: ‘When lift plus thrust is greater than load plus drag, anything can fly.’

Getting into heaven? Si señor.

A creation of Tere Ríos’ book The Fifteenth Pelican, Sister Bertrille was the fresh-faced nun-next-door whose cornette combined with the Puerto Rico coastal winds allowed her to fly in the 1960s TV series. According to Sally Field’s excellent memoir In Pieces, the whole experience was more drag than take-off.

Miss Clavel in Madeline (1988-2001)

Voiced by: Judith Orban & various

Allegiance: An old house in Paris/the Catholic church

Warrior level: more sentry than prize fighter

Weapon of choice: Education! (Read: day trips to the circus)

Specialism: Waking up in the middle of the night with a nagging sense that something’s off kilter with her young schoolgirl charges, then singing a song about it.

Most likely to say: ‘Vite, vite mes petits’

Getting into heaven? Mais oui

The headteacher at Madeline’s Parisian boarding school in the Ludwig Bemelmans’ books and their various TV and film adaptations, Miss Clavel is a kindly sort. She gives her young boarding school pupils warm moral instruction and generally manages to extract Madeline from the mouth of whatever tiger she’s crawled inside that week. Not ferocious, as warriors go, but kind and dependable.

Septa Unella in Game of Thrones (2015)

Played by: Hannah Waddingham

Allegiance: The Faith of the Seven

Warrior level: High Bastard

Weapon of choice: Wooden spoon and ignominy

Specialism: Torture and bell-ringing.  

Most likely to say: ‘Confess!’  

Getting into heaven? Not in one piece she won’t after what Cersei did to her

The Geneva Convention didn’t reach the Seven Kingdoms. If it had, then the supposedly holy Septa Unella wouldn’t have beaten Cersei Lannister with a water ladle and made her drink from the floor like a dog before parading her naked to jeering crowds around the city. Not a nun to mess with, unless you’re a Lannister.

Also-Nuns

Sister Assumpta in Father Ted (1995)

Sister Boniface in Father Brown (2013)

(Briefly) Olive in Pushing Daisies (2007)

Mother Superior in Avatar: The Last Airbender (2005)

Kassia the Byzantine nun in Vikings (2019)

Warrior Nun is available to stream now on Netflix.

The post Warrior Nuns Through TV History appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

[charmingpplincardigans]

Here are some things that I love:

Crowley

This Kiki Smith sculpture that I spent A LOT of time staring at while it was at the MFA in Boston

Crowley and Aziraphale’s combined post-Apocalypse love language being a desire to meet each other in the middle of their respective becomings and still having to work out all the kinks in that. 

There is no purpose to this and I don’t even know if it’s worth putting on AO3, but here, for people who also like it when angels and demons discuss art. 

. . . 

They hadn't properly been to a museum together in a couple of years. Of all the places the two of them met up during the anti-christ years, museums had been Crowley’s favorite. As spaces they were just so...human. Not that there were many places you could go on the planet to escape humanity if you wanted to, but museums tended to be one of those places of unguarded emotion. It was enough to make a demon reconsider his place in the world, which he supposed was the point. 

Crowley had been to a few opening nights at galleries without Aziraphale, but those pit stops hadn't been about Art so much as they'd been about the stark distinction between the solace art can bring to a soul and the greed, avarice, and lust that usually floated around circles of artists. Easy temptations as those things went. 

Strictly speaking, whenever Crowley met Aziraphale at a gallery before the Apocalyse That Wasn't, that had not been about Art either, but distracting Aziraphale and coaxing him into a contemplative mood about the nature of humanity as represented in chaotic drip and splatter paintings or calm, staid blocks of color was an even easier temptation than the ones he pulled on the artists. Probably because he knew Aziraphale so very well and was well-versed in his opinion on wine and canapes to be had at quaint little bars inside museums. The angel's opinion was, almost unwaveringly, strongly in favor.

This time it was about the art. Outwardly and ostensibly, anyway. Inwardly it was also about the itch that had been working its way down Crowley's back like the universe’s slowest drop of infernal sweat for the last month or so. Once a being became used to looking over their shoulder they would be doing it for the rest of their life. Just because the thing they expected to find there had stopped looking at them did not mean the being could just accept they were free and move on with their lives sans hunted and haunted feeling. Crowley and Aziraphale had effectively scared off Heaven and Hell for the time being, but that didn't mean they'd scared them off forever, and there were ever so many seconds between now and forever when Crowley's growing paranoia might prove itself well-founded. 

(Update, now on AO3 after all, if you prefer to read there.)

Because of this, staying in one place became harder and harder every day. He had not yet successfully convinced Aziraphale to truly get out of dodge, though he’d floated many tempting destinations: the cusp of the aurora borealis, a dynamic volcano range on Venus, Iceland. The angel resisted every invitation. He claimed he needed to do inventory on the newly restored bookshop, which quickly turned into what might be a several year long effort to re-read everything in it and check Adam's handiwork for discrepancies. But even with this undertaking Crowley had successfully gotten him out of the shop a few times. 

Usually that happened when Crowley became so tired of sitting in patches of sun and pretending to be interested in Foucault that he threatened to go somewhere else on his own and Aziraphale, who had been reluctant to let the demon out of his sight since they'd been returned to Earth more or less unharmed, promptly closed up the shop and offered to come with him. Crowley was still working out how he felt about this development, but for now he more or less approved. 

They didn't have to hide anything anymore, which meant he didn't have to hide how important their shared history was to him and how much genuine pleasure he got from luring Aziraphale out on small adventures. Which was how they now found themselves in an art museum looking at a sculpture titled Lilith and comparing it to their memory of the real thing. 

"She looks hungry," Aziraphale said. "Did that girl ever look so hungry to you? Do you remember?"

He had his head tilted back to look up at where the life sized sculpture was mounted above them on the wall. His left hand rested in the front pocket of his overcoat, but his right arm hung at his side, pinky just barely brushing against the back of Crowley's hand, a gentle reminder that they were both still there. 

"They were all made hungry at first, weren't they? For each other and for the horizon? Insurance, I’d say."

Crowley had his right arm crossed behind his back, holding the elbow of his left close to his side. It was to keep himself in check. As much as Aziraphale did not like to take his eyes of Crowley in this shiny new world, Crowley did not like to take his hands off Aziraphale. 

They were both fighting millennia of incompatible conditioning in their own ways. Some days it resulted in time spent pressed together and getting so wrapped up in each other's bodies they forgot to speak. Some days it resulted in arguments neither of them knew how not to have. It was all very different from the bickering and careless touching that had come before. The weight of their changing relationship was heavily yoked across Crowley's shoulders, but it was a weight he welcomed.

"To make sure the hard work was appreciated, you mean?" Aziraphale asked.

"To make sure everything got kicked off. You don't think They had us make all of that just to let Their creation be contained to one small walled in oasis in the desert? Come on, angel. You know better than that."

Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Why shouldn't I believe She wanted them to be happy, to revel in the beauty gifted them?"

"Angel," Crowley said.

It was half admonishment and half question. After everything, finally, Aziraphale had to know that the Almighty's intentions weren't universally good for those in Their charge. The two of them were proof of that. Or, at the very least, they were proof that just because machinations had been put into place, that didn't mean they were worthy of being seen through. Or that the beings doing the overseeing wouldn't twist them to their own ends when left to their own, bloodthirsty druthers. 

He turned his head to look at Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale's blue eyes were staring steadily into the blue eyes of the sculpture. It really was very lifelike, with its clear, piercing eyes and the smoked, charred appearance of the bent and crouching body. One hand ground itself to the wall and one hand ended at the wrist as if it was meant to be disappearing into the boundary between them. 

Myths circulated among some of the humans that Lilith had somehow straddled realms, that she conquered angels and birthed demons. Of course, no demons had been born of another body. All of them, to Crowley's knowledge, had been born of only the fault lines that ran through their own cracked shells. Crowley, who had many faults, had also once been charred all black and shadowed with the red of his wounds.

“The very making of them was a promise,” Aziraphale insisted. 

“To who?” Crowley asked, incredulous. “There wasn’t anything to it. Here, have some green things and some new creatures and some teeth. Gnaw your way through the world, you’ll figure it out.”

“That was faith,” Aziraphale said. “And faith is perhaps the most important thing a being can have.” 

He looked at Crowley with a fierceness in his eyes that reminded Crowley of kneeling on a tarmac and wondering, for just a second, what part of him was going to end up with a flaming sword in it. He still felt a little guilty for that fear, for being afraid of Aziraphale of all beings, but in his defense, a lot of acutely predicted unpredictable things had happened up to that point and he had quite lost his grip on the way things were supposed to be.

“Don’t know from faith,” Crowley grumbled. “The only thing I believe in is you.”

Aziraphale’s gaze softened considerably. “There was good to be found in Heaven when we were building,” he said. “Surely you remember that. And if there ever was good I think there still must be.” 

“Good and altruism are not the same thing,” Crowley said. “Good can mean anything, depending.” They both knew that to be true. It was in fact the truth The Arrangement was predicated on. 

"I'm just having a hard time of it, my dear," Aziraphale whispered. "I feel so...alone without all the rest of them, even after everything. Cut out, something has been cut out of me and while it is still hurting, it doesn't help when you gloat."

"I wasn't– " Crowley started, but he bit himself off. 

Of course he was, though he hadn't meant to be. Not that his intention mattered when it was his utter certainty in the fallibility of Heaven that rubbed Aziraphale raw. 

Crowley had tried for thousands of years to get Aziraphale to believe that they themselves were all they really had, and now they were. In theory he had won, but in practice they had both lost a lot. And while Crowley had never believed in Hell—because by its very nature Hell did not give demons things to believe in so much as it gave them a shared enemy in Heaven—Aziraphale had believed in Heaven. Wholly. With every part of himself. 

Aziraphale was a creature of love so purposeful that he believed all angels were creatures of love, and that love was meant to be their purpose. Even when confronted with proof of the contrary, he never stopped believing his brethren could be better. Crowley was positive that Gabriel, for instance, would not be able to pick love out of a lineup if it offered itself up with an explanation, a prayer, and a perfectly tailored pair of trousers. Aziraphale, in contrast, didn't know how to let love go. He loved when it was a celebration and he loved when it was a wake. Aziraphale loved Crowley, against all odds, or maybe because of them. Maybe because of how odd the pair of them were, because they'd lived so long in each other's pockets it couldn't be helped. 

Crowley loved Aziraphale because, well, the list was very long, but one of the bullets was definitely the way he was currently standing in a public art museum, eyes misting under the pressure of their new lives catching up to him. The new absences in both of them were heavy, but they were free to feel that heaviness, and wasn’t that something. 

They could, perhaps in time, come to fill those absences with each other, but it would have to be done carefully, deliberately, and with the knowledge that it was impossible to make another being your whole world. It was also unfair. At the very least you needed to take up some of that space yourself. Just to give your beloved a place to come home to. 

Crowley released his grip on his own elbow. He bumped Aziraphale's hand with his to warn him that there was movement incoming. Then he reached out, wrapped an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder, and pulled him close so that he could press a quick kiss to his forehead before letting Aziraphale tuck his face into Crowley's black, padded shoulder. 

"I don't mean to gloat," he said. "But I won't lie to you either."

"No," Aziraphale said, voice muffled in Crowley's jacket collar. "I don't want you to. You never have have you?"

"Not when it mattered," Crowley said. 

Aziraphale wiped at his eyes with a quick, small movement that Crowley pretended not to see. 

"Do you remember what happened to her?” he asked. “I'm afraid I never made it a point to check up."

"Just as well. I'm sure she'd had enough of angels there by the time she'd been replaced. But yeah, she did alright. She survived for a time."

"They're all so very good at that," Aziraphale said. "They look fragile, but they're all so very resilient."

"So are we," Crowley said. "It's hard to tell sometimes whose image any of us were really made in."

Aziraphale reached across Crowley and grabbed a hold of his free hand. He squeezed it tight before loosening back into a more relaxed grip. They stood like that for another fifteen or so minutes while Aziraphale composed himself. He let out a few shaky breaths that Crowley would never mention, tilted his head up to kiss Crowley's cheek, and then pulled away.

The sudden emptiness at his side reminded Crowley that they likely weren't alone, but when he turned to survey their surroundings none of the handful of museum goers were paying them any mind. 

"Where to now, angel?" Crowley said. 

Aziraphale pulled the map from his pocket and studied it. “Oh look, he said, as he pointed to a purple square. “They have some Monets.” 

Crowley sighed. “Fine. But I did tell him, I said Claude, if I see another water lily for the rest of my life it will be too soon.” 

Aziraphale folded the map and slid it back into his pocket. “And what did he say to that?”

“That’s quite the point,” Crowley said, mimicking a French accent. “And then he went into that cathedral because he knew I couldn’t follow. The bastard.” 

“Ah, Rouen,” Aziraphale said. “Well, you can’t argue with an impending sense of mortality anyway.” He stepped away from Crowley to move on to the next gallery. 

Crowley took one last look at the frozen Lilith and then followed. “I’ll have you know I can argue with anything. Those were some nice sunsets though. He captured that alright.” 

“Mmm, I remember Mesopotamia, right before the clouds rolled in. A sunset always could still that forked tongue of yours.” 

“I’ll sssstill my tongue on you.”

Aziraphale laughed. The sound of it startled both Crowley and the humans near them. “Oh yes, I’m sure,” he said. “But let’s save that for later.”

Crowley trailed after Aziraphale and thought that, of all the promises available in the world, the promise of a later was his absolute favorite.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #art museum fun times #kiki smith #lilith #god i love that sculpture #i miss it something awful

[littleredphantom]

Don’t have a title but based on this prompt by @yvmeji​

It’s also a kid fic, they have a daughter woops. Just kinda happened I don’t know. It is not good, far from my best work, totally didn’t end up as good as I imagined it, but I wrote it and felt I should share it. Good luck anyone who reads this.

Dr. Crowley spoke nothing of his personal life. The closest he’s come to speaking of it was when he mentioned his sister once. Dr. Fell, however, spoke about his loving husband, daughter, and overall life at any chance he could. Neither of their students would ever guess that Dr. Azira Fell’s precious husband Anthony was one Dr. A.J Crowley. Not like it was a secret, but the way the English professor described his dear Anthony was not like anything anyone would describe Dr. Crowley. 

One day in Dr. Fell’s class, he was off on a little story about a trip he took with his husband and daughter to Rome, the daughter in question, Alice Ann Crowley-Fell, was in the back of the class, her head down in embarrassment as her Father spoke of how she almost got her Dad arrested. “Anthony and Ali are very competitive, so when she dared him to do it, he almost couldn’t say no. Luckily I was there to convince him not to climb on the statue.” He looked pointedly at his daughter. “Yeah well I won so he still owes me ten bucks.” She said, lifting her head. The class laughed as the bell rang, everyone getting up and collecting their things. She was in both her parents’ classes, but people only knew her as Dr. Fell’s daughter. Her Dad tried his very best not to let people know he taught at the same college as his husband, or that he taught his own daughter. The only ones that knew that were the Deans, himself, and of course the two in question. Students had no idea. Nobody would even know Alice’s last name had Crowley in it unless they checked her file, or birth certificate, or were in school with her pre-college. Nobody has done any of that. 

So when the bell rang, and class was beginning to leave, Alice rushed down and hugged her Father, he kissed her head. “See you at dinner.” He said, “Yeah, aren’t Adam, his friends, and the Device family coming?”

“Yes, of course. Make sure your Dad doesn’t have a hard day or else he’ll be in a mood tonight, alright?”

“I’ll sure try.” Alice chuckled. After this class was the free period. She went out onto the campus park and sat at a picnic table, reading a book. 5 minutes and 10 pages into the book, someone came over to her. “Hey, uh, Alice Fell?” She looked up and marked her spot. “Yes?” She pushed a piece of her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear. “Uh, I just saw something and… I thought you’d want to know.” He looked concerned and leaned in to whisper. “Your dad was with Dr. Crowley.” Alice lifted her eyebrows. “Uh huh, and?”

“They were sorta… All over each other, yknow? Like…” He kissed the air. Alice held back a chuckle. People really had no idea. That’s when she decided to let this rumor come out. “Oh really? How do I know you’re not trying to mess with me? My father and dad have been together since childhood.” She said, not letting him know Dr. Crowley was her dad, but also not saying he wasn’t. The man, she now recognized to be a classmate named David, tilted his head. “You… You don’t suppose they have, like, an open relationship, do you? Or that Dr. Fell is just…” Alice burst out laughing. “An open relationship? Please, Dad is far too jealous to allow that.” David looked sad. Alice pretended to be sad and pouted. She shook her head slowly as David rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. She knew that David will spread this, and it’ll be a fun game for her. 

As soon as she walked into her Dad’s astronomy class, she was immediately pulled to the middle of the class, being asked questions about her parents. Specifically of Dr. Fell. Does he act suspicious at home? Does he avoid Anthony? Are they distant? Do you think Dr. Crowley is evil? She just vaguely answered questions, silently cursing that her Dad wasn’t in the room yet, ‘Damn it dad, stop making out with papa and get to class please.’ Once he finally made an appearance, he took quick notice of the crowd around his daughter. “Right, everyone, seats please, class is about to start.” He received a large number of glares from students in full belief that he’d broken Dr. Fell’s textbook definition of a perfect family. He hummed skeptically, adjusting his sunglasses, beginning class. 

At the end, Alice waited for everyone to dismiss, some peers took notice and went over to encourage her to rip his face off. She just nodded at them and they left. Once alone in the room with her Dad, she shut the door and looked at him. “Dad, you will not believe what I found out today.”

“Oh?” He said, sipping the tea on his desk, removing his sunglasses. “What’s that?”

“Don’t get mad until I finish my statement.” She said, he leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Alright…?”

“Apparently, Father is cheating on you.” She paused, watching her dad’s face contort in weird ways. “Yeah, he’s cheating on you… With you?” Crowley laughed, “Excuse me?”

“A student saw you two kissing and didn’t connect dots, came up to me scared for my family, asking all sorts of questions. That’s what the whole group around me was about earlier, and the glares, I’m sure you noticed. They think you’re a homewrecker.” She leaned on her dad’s desk. “Well, let’s just let them think that, aye? Seems a fun little rumor to let them have. Might end up embarrassing your father along the way, that seems a fun thing to see.”

“Respect for you will be lost.”

“Ah, only until the truth is revealed.”

“Yeah alright. I won’t confirm or deny you being my dad, and will avoid the topic of your relationship altogether, let people assume what they will.” She shrugged. Crowley nodded. And so the games began. 

The next day, when Azira was off on another cute story between he and Anthony, the class just frowned, most in pity for the two, thinking Crowley to have seduced this poor man, others were glaring at Dr. Fell, how dare he tell such stories when he’s done so much wrong to poor Anthony? Meanwhile, Alice, in the back, glanced around, catching sad looks from peers and frowning back at them. The bell rang and everyone started rushing out, whispering to eachother about the hottest rumor. She skipped down to her father. “Hey, papa. Spend free period with me?” “Of course, Alice. Say, my dear, do you know what’s got everyone down?” He asked, gently placing his hands on her shoulders, studying her face. She shook her head innocently and turned so she locked arms with her father, leading him out of the classroom, knowing well her dad was coming soon. They stood out in the hall, surrounded by students who continuously eyed the two. The second Crowley entered the building, word got about quickly, and once he was in sight of Azira and Alice, the hall erupted in whispers. Alice made eye contact with her father, giving a small, unnoticeable nod. He adjusted his sunglasses in reply. She turned to her father. “Hey, papa, I’ll be right back. Stay here.” He nodded as his daughter moved away and hid behind a group of students. “Alice, did you see Dr. Crowley? What do you think he’ll do? He wouldn’t possibly make any move with you- and all of us- around would he?” Alice shrugged at the girl next to her. She watched her parents carefully as Crowley approached Azira. “Aye, Fell.” He said. Azira tilted his head. “Hello, my dear.” He said, smiling lovingly. Crowley did his best not to drop his cool and melt. He glanced around and placed an elbow on his husband’s shoulder, leaning on him. Azira chuckled and they began talking quietly. Nobody in the hallway could make out their conversation, but everyone was unsettled. Alice smirked and soon walked up to them. “Papa,” She looked to her dad. “And Dr. Crowley.” He nodded at her, moving away from his husband, Azira slightly confused but smiled at his daughter. Crowley looked at Azira, “See you about, then.” Azira nodded, “Of course, dear.” And he left. Alice glanced at the students watching Crowley’s ‘suspicious’, and very much planned, retreat. She smiled and her eyes glowed as she looked up at her father. “Hey, let’s go get some ice cream while we still have time, yeah?” Dr. Fell nodded and let himself be led out onto campus by his daughter. “Alice, do tell me why everyone was looking at your dad like that?” “No clue, papa. Maybe they saw his cool eyes and can’t handle them.” “Oh, dear, don’t joke about that you know he’s self conscious about his eyes.” “Never knew why, they’re awesome. I wish my eyes looked like his.” “They’re quite beautiful, but he’s always been made fun of for them. He’s certainly glad you didn’t get them. He’s often complained to me about how yellow eyes AND snake slit pupils are a curse upon him.” Alice rolled her eyes, the perfect and very same icy blue as her father’s. “I hate to think the only thing I got from dad is his hair color, and even then only a little tint of it. I love you, papa, I do, but I sorta wish I looked like an equal balance of you two.”

“Oh you certainly got his evil smirk and facial expressions. You don’t need to look like him, you simply act like him. You’ve mostly taken his personality. That is a perfect balance. My looks, his behaviour.” She chuckled. “Yeah, you’re right.” He nodded, then ordered ice cream. Vanilla with chocolate chip for Alice and just normal chocolate for Azira. They walked around the school in idle conversation until they finished their snacks. “Dear, shouldn’t you be using this time to study?” “Oh I probably should, but I wanted to spend some time with you, papa. Plus, my next teacher loves me.” She winked. “Yes, alright, fine. As long as your grades are alright.” “Oh they’re perfect, you know that.” “Glad to know they’re not only good in my and your father’s classes.” Alice rolled her eyes. “Just because I have favorites doesn’t mean I won’t try.”

“I know, dear. Go on, we’ll both be late if we don’t go now. And just because your dad is often tardy doesn’t give you an excuse to be.” They hug and part ways. Alice walks up the stairs to the building where Dr. Crowley’s astronomy class is. She enters, finding herself to be the first one in for once. She sighs happily and sits toward the front at the far left, away from the door. People start filtering in, eyeing her expectantly before sitting down. The big gossip of the class, Mary Lightfeather, walks in and bolts to Alice, tossing her bag a row behind her. “Alice, oh dear, do you know?”

“… Mary, I may not, but if I don’t, I’m sure I wouldn’t like to. The gossip you get yourself involved in isn’t usually, well, interesting.” Mary tilts her head in a sort of nod saying “Yes, sure true” And then sits down leaning close. “But this involves you.”

“Ah… it’s that.” She frowned slightly, and Mary leaned back. “O-Oh.. you know…. I’m… I’m sorry.” She quickly got up and went to the row where she tossed her bag. Alice shook her head and took out her book, Coraline, and started reading. About 15 minutes later, her dad walked in, earning many glares. He held back a smirk and Alice put her book away. This class, Crowley would call on Alice, who will not raise her hand, an abundance of times. And she will answer each question correctly, with a flare of sass in her tone. At the end, she swiftly placed a note on his desk. October 21st was her parents’ anniversary, and she decided it’d be a good idea for her dad to make a grand gesture for her father during the free period of that day. 

At home that night, Anthony and Azira discussed their days. Alice called Crowley and he went into the kitchen to take it. “Yes, my dearest, favourite, and only daughter?” “You got my note?” “Yeah. I think it’s a great idea. I’ll get a whole bouquet and chocolates and such.” 

“Perfect. Make as big a scene as you can.” “Of course. Can't believe you’re making me plan my anniversary a week early.” “Well usually you ‘wing it’ and that doesn’t go well, forcing papa to make plans.”

“He doesn’t complain.” “Yeah I know that’s just your dynamic. Anyways, good night, dad.” “Hold on let me give the phone to your father, say good night to him too.” Alice scoffed and shook her head. “Fine, sure.” Anthony handed the phone to Azira. “It’s the child.” “Oh, hello dear.” “Hi papa. Dad said I had to say good night to you, so.” Azira laughed. “Alright, good night, dear.” “Love you papa.” She hung up the phone and tossed it next to her. 

Days passed, the rumor grew, and glares and sad looks received. Questions asked, vaguely answered, and then the day finally came. October 21st. Alice was barely paying any attention to any classes all day, so when her father called on her to answer a question and received no response, even after calling a second time, he suddenly was in front of her. She came to and looked up at her father. “Uh… huh?” She questions, there were a few snickers as her blue orbs met his. He repeated the question as he made his way back to the board and she answered immediately. At the end of class she ran down to her father, nearly running into him. He caught her by her shoulders and laughed. “Alice, what’s got you going? You haven’t been paying attention the whole hour.”

“Papa, come with me, outside, hallway, please.” She said hurriedly. He chuckled and went with her as she tugged his sleeve, leaving the room. “My dear what has gotten into you?” He asked. She was looking around expectantly, her peers watching carefully. She smiled when she caught a glimpse of her dad’s fiery hair. Scoffs rang out. Everyone knew it was Dr. Fell’s anniversary, so everyone was even more annoyed at seeing Dr. Crowley in his building. With flowers, nonetheless. Azira covered his mouth as his eyes kept switching between his daughter and his husband. Anthony smiled as he made his way up. He was holding a bouquet of the very same flowers Azira had held when he walked down the aisle at their wedding. Alice held a wide grin back. He stopped and held the flowers out to his husband, who took them, eyes wide and watery. His voice broke as he said, “My dear,” Anthony shook his head. “No, Angel, my turn.” He said, smiling. The hall was silent. A few people realized, but were unsure. The rest were confused. “35 years today, married, been together even longer. And yet, what I used to think was impossible, I love you more now than I did when we met. Recognize the flowers?” He ducked his head a little and vaguely pointed at the bouquet in Azira’s hands. He nodded and wiped one of his eyes. “Same ones you had that day. The day we promised to be with each other for… well, life. Today.” He moved slightly closer, placing a hand on his husband’s cheek, thumb rubbing tears away. Alice rubbed her face, watching her parents happily. That’s when other people figured it out. A good number still had no clue. “A… Anthony, I-” He sighed and laughed, wiping the other half of his face. “Dear, we’re at work.”

“Thought the more public the better, Zira.” He chuckled, hand falling at his side. At the sound of Azira calling him Anthony, all dots were connected, and the hallway erupted in whispers until one brave soul came up to the three. “Dr. Fell, uh… you mean… Dr. Crowley is your husband?”

“You didn’t know? I only talk about him all of the time. And, haven’t you met Alice? She acts so much like him.”

“Talk about me, angel?”

“Oh, all the time. You haven’t mentioned me?”

“Papa, he doesn’t even address me.”

“Anthony!”

“Wha-”

“So your last name is just Dr. Fell’s?”

“No it’s Crowley-Fell. And his name,” She points to her dad, “Is Anthony James Crowley.”

“Ah… Dr. A.J Crowley…” The whole hall sighed. “Oh they really didn’t know.”

“Dad shows no signs of having a life in class so nobody had ideas.”

“Why were there so many glares at Anthony at times? And a few at me.”

“Ah a fun little joke. Somebody caught you two making out. And came to me about it, very concerned for you and me. Thought you may have been cheating or something.”

“You played along?”

“So did Dad.” She accused. “We-w- it was her idea.” Azira shook his head and pulled the two into a hug. “Happy anniversary, Anthony.” He kissed his husband’s cheek. “And now, your birthday is coming soon.” He kissed his daughter’s head. 

The next day pictures of Anthony and Azira appeared on Anthony’s desk, ranging from when they were kids, to teenagers, to their wedding. Then there was a small row of pictures of Alice, including a picture of the couple holding her as a baby. Her hair was the same fiery red as his.

#jax is writing #good omens #ineffable husbands #kid fic #good omens au #good omens fic #i'm honestly sorry i hate this #if you like it thank you but i promise i can write better

[arcanalogue]

Thelem-Ra and the Princesses of Power

Due to strictly enforced gender norms, I wasn’t allowed to be obsessed with the original She-Ra cartoon. I could play with a friend’s sister’s She-Ra toy, but I never dared ask for my own. 

That’s partly why Netflix’s remake She-Ra and the Princesses of Power means so much to me. Not only is it a version I can can openly discover and geek out over, but the characters’ wide range of age, gender expression and body type makes the fantasy realm of Etheria into a playground for the imagination -- one makes fans like me feel specifically included, even if it’s mainly aiming to entertain kids. 

Any storytelling that draws from mystical currents will end up echoing familiar tropes and ideas from our own world. Attempts to portray existing magickal practices accurately almost always disappoint, as they did in Netflix’s other “princess of power” story, The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (which is really entertaining nevertheless). 

Isn’t it funny how the stories which offer up a wealth of artistic inspiration for magic often prove more durable than those depicting “real-life” magic use? The more abstract the characters’ powers are, the more possibilities we see in exploring them ourselves, and the more permission we feel to make something truly our own.

In the new She-Ra’s case (and in similar shows, like Steven Universe), magic is married to technology in a way that kids watching today will intrinsically understand, aligning neatly with post-modern chaos magick traditions. 

In terms of old-school stuff, the Princesses’ magic is elemental in nature -- an expression of the soul of their homeworld, and a tool for regulating planetary harmony. The show departs from the classical elements of Earth, Air, Fire, Water, etc., which is fine, because their planet is not our planet, and its properties are still being revealed... to the characters, as well as to us. 

But let’s not overlook that the very idea of “Princesses of Power” is old-school, and has a deep footprint in the history of tarot -- particularly the one crafted by the Dark Lord himself, Aleister Crowley.

Before Crowley’s Thoth deck, the tarot’s court cards historically consisted of King, Queen, Knight, and Page -- a total sausage-fest, though Pamela Colman Smith brought out a wonderful androgyny in her illustration of the Pages (and in many of her deck’s other figures), which seems to even out the gender spectrum a bit, and is partly why the deck remains appealing to new users over a century later.

Conceived in the 1930s, Crowley’s court consists of a Knight, a Queen, a Prince, and a Princess. This “modern” twist must have seemed terribly progressive at the time, dethroning the King and elevating the court’s lowest ranking member (a page is just a humble servant of the royal court), consecrating that role as female.

You could write an entire book about the gender problems in Thelema (the religion founded by Crowley, which remains popular today). In fact, that book probably exists already, and contemporary Thelemites are continually exploring and re-examining the way our evolving social and scientific views of gender mesh with their religion’s core beliefs. 

For now, all that’s important is that Crowley took a humble servant and elevated her to a PRINCESS OF POWER. 

The four roles in the tarot’s court each correspond to a different classical element, the Page/Princess’s being Earth. And each of these four earthy figures is herself an expression of the classical elements: Fire of Earth (Wands), Water of Earth (Cups), Air of Earth (Swords), and Earth of Earth (Pentacles, or in Crowley’s case, Disks).

Exploring these cards in an earlier lesson, I wrote:

“The Page’s defining quality is not sex but immaturity, a word which inspires unnecessarily negative associations. Let’s not forget the raw potential we find in the young and/or untested, or the curiosity and vivacity they may bring to their work.  As such, each of the four Pages represents a latent untamed force for change.”

What I love about Lady Frieda Harris’s illustrations in the Thoth deck is that the Princesses are all portrayed as doing something. These images could be pulled from the opening credits of She-Ra. 

Think about that: she drew them as superheroes. The 1930s were the period when these kinds of heroes began to proliferate in comics, and Superman himself debuted in 1938 -- the same year Crowley and Harris began working on the Thoth deck. 

Like She-Ra’s heroines, our tarot Princesses owe all their strength (as well as their weakness) to their signature elements, though in Crowley’s world there is a clear elemental hierarchy, due to spiritual ideas imparted by Western esotericism. As such, the Princess of Disks (Earth of Earth) sits at the bottom of the totem pole. 

This kind of hierarchical thinking (and binary gender) is exactly what drives many people away from traditional forms of magick. I sympathize, and agree that we should never stop challenging these ideas. 

However, what really we see in the Thoth deck is a setup for an archetypal story in which the low are made high; in which Princesses serve as the catalyst for changes that transform reality itself. 

Just like Ace -- the lowest number in the minor arcana, but a symbol of tremendous power -- the Princess represents a place to build upward and outward from. Though she mirrors the queen in her gender, it’s the King/Knight she reflects in her agency and authority.

“The Princess is the throne of her Ace,” observes Thelemic teacher and author Lon Milo Duquette. In his book The Chicken Qabalah, he writes at length about the importance of Princesses: “They are positioned at the lowest end of our elemental universe, but they also embody the foundation of our universe.”

Awakening and exploring our Princess nature will gradually help us “escape the prison of matter” and “live in the bliss of the highest world.”

He even presents a diagram that shows how you can use the Princess and Ace-through-Ten cards to divide up the globe -- a handy tool for readings involving a geographical component.

In the Netflix show, Adora is offered a very similar view of her world by First-Ones avatar Light Hope, who reveals how the Princesses -- each an expression of their respective element -- are all interconnected as regulators of Etheria’s holistic balance. 

Of course, this is just an abstract diagram of Etheria’s actual geography. Entrapta’s model in the same scene shows that these centers of power are just as unevenly dispersed on Etheria as they are on our own planet.

Duquette’s book offers a qabalistic Creation myth based on these feudal archetypes, which may explain why royal figures still play such a prominent role in our storytelling. 

“The you that you think is you is not you,” he explains. “It is a dream you. In fact, the you that you think is you is a dreamer inside a dreamer inside a dreamer inside a dreamer. You are the King of the universe, who has fallen asleep and is dreaming he is the Queen, who has fallen asleep and is dreaming she is the Prince, who has fallen asleep and is dreaming he is a sleeping princess.”

In Duquette’s fairytale of Creation, the Prince and Princess are twins birthed by the Queen -- different in sex, but alike in power. HELLO PEOPLE, this is the exact premise of the original She-Ra cartoon. 

Within the new show, we see the struggle of a world straining to evolve in two opposing directions. 

The Fright Zone is a technocratic military junta which only managed to come into power via political exploitation, capturing the Black Garnet runestone from the family of Scorpia, Etheria’s last “slumbering” princess. 

One could compare the Fright Zone’s hierarchy to that of the classic Rider-Waite-Smith court cards, in which Hordak serves as King, Shadow Weaver as Lord, Force Captains are Knights, and all the the various wanna-be’s (including Adora and Catra in the first episode), servants, robots, and various scavengers remain in the Peasant class.

It’s not clear yet how the rest of Etheria is governed. It bucks this traditional structure, resulting in a lumpy sort of meritocracy in which those with the most magical power wield the most influence, but rulers are mainly tasked with maintaining harmony and protecting their subjects against external invasion. There’s evidence of a soldier class, but the “lowest” citizens we encounter are shown existing peacefully in (apparently) self-governing tribal cultures. They don’t serve the Princesses, they simply enjoy the freedom afforded to them by the Princesses’ rule. People live for love, for pleasure, for adventure, and/or the pursuit of intellectual aims. 

(The only exception seems to be Entrapta, the Silicon Valley tech-bro stand-in who presides over her own servant class of attendants and robots. And it’s worth mentioning that she’s also the only Princess whose power isn’t anchored to an elemental source.)

In this sense, Etheria is an impressive embodiment of Thoth deck court structure, populated by Queens, industrious “princes” like Bow and SeaHawk, and true Princesses -- “Every man and every woman is a star,” with plenty of room to accommodate those who present neither as fully male or female, those with magical powers and those without.

But if you’ve already read this far, let’s take this one step even further and look at how SHE-RA IS ALSO A KNIGHT. 

That’s right, you heard me: everything that Adora symbolizes as Princess, She-Ra articulates as a Knight. She even gets a horse! And a sword, and a shield! Note that Adora hasn’t really changed: she was a Knight in Hordak’s world also. She has simply relocated from one symbolic reality to another -- a more Thelemic one, in which Knights are kings. Thus, as She-Ra, she becomes Hordak’s symbolic equal. 

And note that Noelle Stevenson’s re-imagining of the series is entitled “She-Ra and the Princesses of Power,” as opposed to the original title “She-Ra: Princess of Power.” She is of their ilk, but different. As Perfuma might say: “She is the She-Ra.”

Symbolically, Adora contains all the elemental potential of a Princess who must still evolve and struggle to awaken. She-Ra, however, is the elemental Fire that awaits on the other side -- the King who dreams he is a Queen, who dreams she is a Prince, who dreams he is a Princess. We know from Light Hope that She-Ra’s lineage extends thousands of years. She is not a person, she’s a function -- and that function is to protect Etheria by transforming reality. 

In other words: Adora’s glorious transformation into She-Ra is a microcosm of Etheria’s transformation, which She-Ra herself was created to oversee. 

In this way, the series bears the greatest resemblance to Alan Moore’s tremendous graphic novel Promethea, which tells the story of an ordinary young woman named Sophie who discovers she’s the latest incarnation of a mythical “science heroine” -- who may or may not have been created to usher in the Apocalypse. And she is guided in this process by other Prometheas, who represent an interesting range of ethnicities, body types, and genders. 

Sophie’s exploration of her own newfound identity sends her on an odyssey that matches many beats in Adora’s. What are the limits of her new powers? How can she learn to transform at will? What dangers will this confer on her loved ones? Which parts of her belong to Sophie, and which to Promethea?

These are classic superhero problems, but Sophie’s quest is one that’s specifically designed to transform the reader as well: Moore has crafted a story that also serves as a primer for modern occult traditions, including tarot cards. 

While Moore looks beyond Thelema, the works of Aleister Crowley remain a key influence -- the horny old magician even appears as a recurring character, in a handful of cheeky cameo roles.

Like She-Ra, Promethea points to the golden thread of continuity linking the individual and the divine. That’s a birthright that even the humblest, most overlooked person shares with the rest of humanity, but our world’s prevailing powers do everything they can to conceal that truth. Our own senses play tricks on us as well, supporting a view of the world in which we remain small and powerless, in which our lives, our suffering, our deaths, mean nothing.

The artists mentioned in this post -- Smith, Crowley, Duquette, Harris, Moore, Stevenson -- might not agree on everything, but they share the same quest: to awaken all these slumbering princesses. That includes you, dear reader. Wake up, your kingdom needs you!

Our language has another word for this sacred process: animation. 

This is why you shouldn’t feel silly enjoying She-Ra or any other fantasy, at any age. This is why little girls shouldn’t be discouraged from play-acting as princesses (and neither should little boys). Society can only stand to improve from humans exploring their Princess powers. Many of these magical abilities will prove to be connected to life-saving (perhaps even civilization-saving) advantages further down the road. Magic is real, and we all stand to benefit from it.

“The clothes you're wearing, the room, the house, the city that you're in. Everything in it started out in the human imagination,” Moore writes in Promethea. “Your lives, your personalities, your whole world. All invented. All made up. All the wars, the romances. The masterpieces and the machines. And there's nothing here but a funny little twist of amino acids, playing a marvelous game of pretend.” 

For the honor of Grayskull, it’s time to conduct yourself accordingly. 

Have a tarot reading request or tarot-related question for Arcanalogue? Ask here. Tips accepted (but not required) via Venmo, @arcanalogue. Or support my Patreon? I’d love that.

#she ra #she ra netflix #thelema #aleister crowley #tarot #tarot cards #promethea #alan moore #she-ra