im kind of putting all my time into @hysteriiae at the minute. lots of go muses there i think u will like it!!!

TELL ME WHAT I HAVE TO DO TO GET A LITTLE BIT OF GRACE! #hysteriiae is an indie, selective multimuse comprised of exclusively femme-aligned & nonbinary muses, hailing from such fandoms as good o.mens and our fl.ag means death. DNI IF NOT AN RP ACCOUNT!

" can't a gal just be curiousss? " when she reached him, he went on walking; that same slow, leisurely clip, predatory almost, knowing how she liked things. at the turn of the corner, two martini glasses appeared in his hands - bottomless cosmos*, he reasoned, were surely the demonic equivalent of a tax write-off. " that looked promising for a minute. shame he's anaemic. "

the man was no such thing, of course, but the lie went to his lips easily as breathing - easier, in fact, when he did not need to breathe, and did so only for the relative comfort of those around him. some discomfort was to be expected in most cases, although the countess often had the luxury of thinking she was the scariest thing in a given room. crowley did nothing in particular to disabuse her of the notion. they made a striking pair. sharks in the water or suchlike. if only the music weren't so dreadful - something with a thumping bass, that would be the ticket. something felt in the blood. crowley rolled his eyes behind dark glasses, woefully underprepared for how the genre would grow on him in the coming years. most things did, with time. he had an unfortunate habit of being really quite fond of a lot of the things humanity made, especially in the arenas of fashion and art.

* crowley had invented most oversweet cocktails. he took particular pride in the destructive power of a good long island iced tea.

a typical evening for the countess consists of plenty of booze and constant lovers -- or rather, snacks. tonight is no different, though the scene is new. the club had just opened a few nights prior, and while she'd scoped it out in that time, she's only just now allowing herself to fully enjoy the atmosphere and the people it has to offer. it's been rather enjoyable, truth be told, and she'd dressed to the nines to make sure she'd stand out among everyone else. then again, she always stands out and never goes unnoticed. people are drawn to her, to put it lightly.

while her senses are heightened, given her affliction, she hardly notices it when crowley approaches her and her newest plaything standing in the corner. the tall and handsome man has desperately been searching for her attention all evening, and now that he has it, elizabeth is ready to make him pay for it. why? why not. her bright red, two piece getup -- a flowy fabric acts as a skirt that's held together at her waist with a silver broach, her top cropped and haltered -- is being grabbed at by the man with her, their lips moving roughly and hungrily against one another's until -- that voice. she knows it well.

attention is turned to crowley immediately, the brunette pressing his lips against her throat now in attempts to continue what they've both started, she'll grin, face almost lighting up. very few can pull that reaction from the countess, but crowley seems to do it with ease each and every time. ❝ nothing yet, ❞ she chuckles, lips smeared red from her own lipstick as she pulls away from the man holding her, confusion coloring his features as she walks away and towards the other. ❝ what's it to you? ❞ rarely is crowley's presence announced to her beforehand, but it's always a treat.

i've only had susan for five minutes but if anything were to happen to her i would kill everyone in this room and then myself

michael as crowley appreciation post, because reasons 👀

CROWLEY, ON PRINCIPLE, DID NOT DO WELL IN BOOKSHOPS. he especially did not do well in bookshops when he and a certain angel were not on speaking terms, which was at the very least currently up for debate. he most especially did not do well in the bookshop of one man in particular, who liked to stock far too many copies of things like dante's inferno for what crowley could only assume was the irony of the thing. ( or maybe he didn't; maybe that was just something that happened to him, some cruel trick of asmodeus their master the father of lies, because apparently he had time for the minutiae where vespin @vchloras was concerned ... or had done for awhile there, anyway. ) this was a chore he hated, in summation. ripping his bentley across the eldritch vastness of the american southwest like he was one of the four horsepersons, only to deliver a brief that could have been done over the radio if only they'd committed one way or the other ... but who was he, besides the being that had committed the original offense when it came to asking things he shouldn't, to question how things were done? he did not speak: they'd been telling him he talked too much, to let his demonic presence speak for itself, and he wouldn't care to listen if it weren't this. asmodeus got weird about this, so crowley stood in the doorway silently and tried to affect hellish menace in the way he held his handbag, feeling rather like shax from processing. on the whole, it worked about halfway.

IT WAS AND WAS NOT HIS SCENE, THIS. crowley didn't like clubs - his particular brand of dark and brooding was best achieved alone in his flat, or his car, or, if circumstances were truly dire and needed a good hard screaming at, alone in his car on the m-25.

he had his hands on the railing of a truly shoddy balcony, staring mildly out at the writhing sea of bodies on the floor. he also bore rather a neutral-to-poor opinion of disco, being that there was almost always something more interesting to listen to when given the choice. ( crowley could always be counted on to support counterculture, but when the counterculture in question went against rock and roll, his definition of support broadened to go to the club on occasion and try not to think about how aziraphale had invited him to woodstock when he had been away on business. ) the high waisted pants, however, were every bit his speed - to say nothing of the sin, though that came standard with most things in los angeles. the place fairly teemed with it, pride and gluttony and lust. as crowley looked on, the part of him that was serpent coiled up in delight. ( it was and was not his scene. he'd learned long ago not to fight with himself over it. that way, naturally, lay madness. ) talking of madness, there she was across the balcony: the disco queen herself, resplendent in her royal regalia. snakeskin heels clicked against metal as he cut a leisurely path around. one might have wondered, as crowley certainly did: hadn't @butscrewmefirst suffered enough for one lifetime? well, of course not - not if you asked downstairs - but it wasn't even really about her. rather, it was about what she would do to the brunette in the corner, who was tall and lean and unbroken, for now.

" well well, " he said, and smiled with too-sharp teeth - for the setting, indeed just sharp enough. " evening, your majesty. what're you drinking? "

60's Ineffable Wives 💋

Bonus: Crowley without glasses⬇️

what if this was a discreet, lowkey starter call for crowley in the 60s-70s bc i have. so very fucking many thoughts? actually?

in october 1967, crowley made a series of deeply questionable decisions.

it really was an unknowably stupid thing to do, up and leaving like he did. they'd never cared to inform each other before, when one of them was going out of the country, but it was rather a different thing to disappear after that, after aziraphale handed him the keys to his own personal nuclear option and said he went too fast. of course, he wasn't thinking about that. he was thinking about the fact that halfway 'round the world, somewhere in texas (and oh, did he hate texas, but they had some good ideas, sometimes, didn't they...), a group of scientists and mathematicians and astronomers were working on putting a man on the moon. he could have gone to russia, if he'd felt like, but it was easier to explain america to the guys downstairs - easier by quite some way to foment with little more than a sinfully red swipe of lipstick and a couple little radical economic ideas. the universe he'd made (helped to make) was not, in fact, a great expanse of glorified set dressing. they were exploring it, or trying to, building impossible machines to get out into it and learn, and he wanted - needed - to be there, on the ground floor of the thing, even if this wasn't his to care about anymore by all rights. he could do both at once, couldn't he? hell need never know.

PERTINENT DETAILS:

crowley in this era (1967-1970, or thereabout) presents feminine and answers to she/her pronouns. his internal monologue remains the same.

he is, for all intents and purposes, a technologist at nasa. he's very good at it in the sense that the relevant technology does whatever he expects it to do. he knows more about astrophysics than it should be reasonable for any one person to know and yet somehow (we know how) flies relatively under the radar.

he devotes his free time to cultivating the presence of a walking red scare. this is not particularly difficult for him to do. it is in fact the easiest his work has ever been, especially when he passes wernher von braun in the halls every day. the unrest practically spreads itself.

what if this was a discreet, lowkey starter call for crowley in the 60s-70s bc i have. so very fucking many thoughts? actually?

do you guys ever think about how traumatic falling is. do you guys ever think about the sensation of having your immortal soul stripped of its light, cast out of the love and warmth and care that you've known since you were created. do you guys ever think about what it must feel like to have your wings, arguably the most sensitive part of your body, burn to black so that there will be no doubt - everyone, everywhere, will know exactly what's become of you.

🖤 Slipping Through 💔

Sometimes, when Crowley looks back at his memories of his Fall, he can remember how the last bits of his Grace slipped right through his fingers.

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something something crowley showing up at maggie's shop in the height of his post-season Depression with a list of records to buy* . shostakovich, of course, and brahms, and chopin for a lark. he hasn't bought new in a long time; he tends to leave records in his car in fits of forgetfulness and it becomes moot very quickly at that point, when all of them turn into queen. these, though, he won't forget - these he is going to take straight to his flat, where he will drink himself into a stupor and play them in what could loosely be called a bitter attempt at prayer. *he did not intend to pay for them and maggie did not intend to ask him to, but at the last second, he growled and upended his pockets of about fifty one pound coins that were by no means legal tender anymore, and also should not have fit on his person by any known laws of physics.

do you become unlovable again when the one person who made you feel loved, leaves? where does all the love go? do they take it with them? do you leave it at the door? do you throw it out? do you try and swallow it without cutting your tongue? what does one do? do you bleed it out? drink it out? what does one do when the only good love you’ve ever known has to go and you cannot chase it? how long does one mourn a love that breathes life into you, that heals you, fills you? is it a lifetime funeral event or a silent slow death with no ending? what does one do with all the love that is left behind? what do i do with all the love you taught me to feel 

wives! yippee

CRAWLY, BETTER-NAME-PENDING, looked out at the vast desert with some bemusement. it was swelteringly hot, baking like it had only dared to be twice so far, and cain stumbled his way through all that harsh heat to the east, looking every bit as pathetic as he probably deserved. this, of course, was not what bewildered crawly: he'd been there every step of the way, a sibilant voice in the young man's ear that asked well that's hardly fair, now is it? you put a right lot of work into that farm of yours, didn't you? ( it was a very good farm, actually. crawly, who was beginning to take a particular interest in the way things grew on this new earth, could say as much with some certainty. ) no: something else had plagued him for some time now. ever since their talk at the wall, in fact, some portion of his thoughts had been taken up by the fact that the angel of the eastern gate either had not seemed to remember him, or had otherwise elected not to let on. it followed, in a certain school of thought, but he couldn't help but feel scorned. of course, he supposed that was rather the point. [ you're an angel. i don't think you can do the wrong thing. ]

" wonder if she'll ever come up with another punishment, " he said, and cheated his head toward @holysent. " all this casting people out business's getting a bit stale, if you ask me. "