I wanna talk about The Angel Who Would Be Crowley.
Because I had a certain set of expectations, which got thoroughly trashed in the first five minutes of S2, and my genuine response is, "Oh, fuck, yup. You're right. That's WAY better."
Looking around at GO fandom, I'm not alone in this. So let's talk about it.
Basically, a lot of people (myself included) believed that he was a high-ranking angel, and therefore as chilly and remote as every other powerful angel we'd seen at that point. We pictured Crowley-To-Be as long-haired, regal and imposing --and the fanart at the time reflected this. I'd link some if Tumblr didn't hate links.
Something like this:
We were collectively drawing on a few things --mostly, Crawly's appearance and general bearing in the Biblical scenes of S1--
--But also scattered hints of his importance, backed up by conspicuous absences in Heaven and a few profound displays of power. That's all better covered elsewhere, so I won't reiterate the arguments here. All I'm saying is: I think our headcanons were justified.
But it turns out he was this:
!!!
With his curly little--!!
And his neat white--!!
IT TURNS OUT, he was an angel who squeaked and squealed when he was happy; who flailed his arms around and made explosion noises with his mouth to explain nebulas; who preened when told his stars were pretty. Furfur, who knew him before the Fall, says:
"You used to jump on me back, little monkey in a waistcoat..."
(The use of a diminutive there, 'little'...oh, that fascinates me.)
In a pretty huge subversion of expectations, we're given these glimpses of an angel who was sweet, and joyful, and heart-meltingly silly.
In sum...an innocent.
(Perhaps innocent to a troubling degree.
We see how he troubles Aziraphale, during their first conversation. He starts looking around and behind them, checking to make sure that no one can HEAR the blithe and reckless things coming out of this angel's mouth. This angel who talks like he's never been reprimanded in his life; like it's never occurred to him that anyone would want to hurt him.
Before the Beginning, Aziraphale understood Heaven better than he did. The danger is plainly occurring to Aziraphale.)
So now, we the viewers are in on a cruel joke that Aziraphale has known all along, which is that this --THIS-- is the angel who--
*checks notes*
--did a million lightyear freestyle dive into a boiling pool of sulphur. For asking questions.
...Imagine you are Aziraphale, and everything inside you wants to believe Heaven are the Good Guys, and God is Good and Everything She does is capital-R Right...and now try to reconcile that. Keep trying. I don't think he ever totally managed it in 6000 years.
All this gets further complicated when we learn that, despite all of the above, we were still right. That sweet excitable babby up there?
He WAS a powerful and high-ranking angel.
That much is explicitly confirmed, with significant evidence that he could have been among the mightiest of archangels...
...Who apparently accosted his fellow angels for piggyback rides. And was remembered millennia later by those (now fallen) angels as something 'little.'
What does that tell us about who he was? Is?
Hell, Aziraphale has known to be wary of the archangels (and the judgements of Heaven in general) since before the Fall even happened. He chooses to believe they are Good; he can't fool himself into thinking they are Safe.
Yet he's absolutely certain that Crowley won't hurt Job's children. Enough to stand in a burning building and say to them, "I can't save you, but don't be afraid. I won't need to."
And what reason does he give?
("I know you."
"You do not know me."
"I know the angel you were.")
What does that tell us about who he was? Is?
("The angel you knew is not me."
But how is Aziraphale supposed to believe that, when he can see him all the time?)
tl;dr --yes, this is better. I love the tragedy of it.
'Innocence died screaming' and all that.
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Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼♀️
It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.
You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.
But the past two returns home have been… different.
Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.
“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.
After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.
He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?
So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.
The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.
Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.
He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.
“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.
“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.
You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.
Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.
“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.
“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.
“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”
“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”
For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”
“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.
“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”
“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”
“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.
None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.
“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”
You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.
Four times the love.
But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.
John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.
Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.
Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.
And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.
Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.
None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.
You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.
So you did the only thing you could.
You hung up.
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Hypocrite
Theodore Nott x Reader
Warnings: 18+ content (sex), swearing
Description: The reader is embarrassed by the hickies Theo left on her, but she's not one to speak.
Merlin, you were pissed. Or, maybe — maybe you were embarrassed. Afterall, there were purple and yellow bruises all over your breasts and along your collarbone and up the sides and back of your neck. Despite your best efforts, your makeup hadn’t covered them all, and the collar of your blouse kept smearing the foundation and exposing more of them to the entire student body. A student body who couldn’t stop talking about you.
“Trip down the stairs did you, Y/n?” Pansy teased.
“Our very own Slytherin slut,” Daphne laughed fondly.
“By the name of Salazar,” Blaise breathed heavily at the sight of them.
You could only sigh in frustration, your head in your palms, “Guys, stop, please. Everyone and their mothers are giving me shit about it, you don’t need to join in.”
You weren’t lying. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Snape had practically burnt a hole through your neck, and then, in Transfiguration, McGonagall had quietly asked if you needed to step out to touch up your makeup. The worst, however, was Potions with Slughorn. His opinion of you since the beginning of the year had been purely positive since your family were fairly wealthy and you achieved some of the highest grades in his class. When he saw the hickeys all over you, though, his bulbous nose had turned up in disgust and he made a most unpleasant grunt of disproval. You were sure you had made his blacklist.
“This warrants murder,” said Pansy.
“It does, doesn’t it?” You asked, “I am so fucking mad at him for this.”
Oh, but you could hardly speak.
You and Theo (your boyfriend and hickey-giver) both received invitations to a party that was held the night before, and despite knowing you had school the next day, you went. Once you were about ten drinks in, you were completed sloshed, and when you were completely sloshed, you got horny.
Though the crowd of party-goers stood between yourself and Theo, you could still see every part of him. He was just standing there, chatting with Blaise and Draco, a can of cheap beer held lazily in his right hand while his left was barely touching his hip. He was so, so hot. You bit your lip sexily then made your way over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, kissing the back of his white shirt, and leaving stains of red lipstick all over it.
“Hey, Y/n, baby,” he hummed, happy from all the drinks he’d downed in the three hours prior, “What’s up?”
“Teddyyy,” you mused and stared up at him as he looked over his shoulder at you, “I want sex.”
Blaise and Draco snickered and Theo shot them a glare. After that, you can imagine what happened. Lots of moaning, groaning, grunting, panting. Enough snogging to last you both a lifetime, but not really because there was no such thing as “enough snogging,” and love making that lasted well past the rise of the sun that peeked through the window to Theo’s dorm room and illuminated every gorgeous curve of your body.
While Theo was the kind of sexual partner to want to leave marks all over you — not because he was the jealous type, just the prideful type, he liked everyone to see that he’d won you — you were the kind of sexual partner who liked it rough. You liked to feel his dick more or less pounding against your womb, so close that it almost warranted a trip to Madame Pomfrey. You liked when he thrusted into you fast, but not sloppy, always obeying your comments of ‘faster, Theo’ and ‘honey, please, I need it faster.’ But he couldn’t obey too much, you were very particular about that. He had to make you feel good, but he still had to be in control. It was always best if he gave in to every third or fourth demand, so that you had to beg for it. But the best part about rough sex with Theo? Well, it was what made you such a hypocrite.
“Mate,” Draco gaped at Theo’s back in the locker rooms before quidditch practice, “Did you get into a fight with a werewolf or something?”
Theo frowned in confusion, “What are you talking about?”
Draco motioned for Theo to move into view of the mirror and when he got a good look at his reflection he joined in the gaping. Long, red lines ran down his back like the British army at the Battle of Balaclava. He had become a canvas and you had painted him with your claws. He ought to have them clipped, Merlin’s beard.
The scratches were mostly up and down (go figure), but there were are couple that ran horizontally which Theo couldn’t place the origin of. You had torn him apart, you freak.
And that’s when you stormed into the locker room. Pucey had squealed, that was the first sign that you had entered. The second was the smart-ass warning that escaped Draco’s mouth ( “Look what the cat dragged in… or maybe she herself is the cat,” he said.
“She is the cat’s mother,” you responded, annoyed, and kicked him in the shin.
“My point still stands,” he laughed painfully).
Your hands were covering your eyes so as to not expose yourself to the privates of the entire Slytherin Quidditch team, and Theo thought you looked like a total dork in the cutest way. A pout had settled on your lips to make up for the fact that your frown was also hidden behind your hands.
“Theodore Nott!” You huffed and the locker room broke out into a chorus of ‘ooh’s, “Shut up, all of you — Theodore, look at what you’ve done to my neck.”
“I can’t really see behind your hands, lovey,” said Theo and you swore you could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Use your imagination then, I’m sure you remember what you did to me last night — Oh, aren’t you all so mature,” you hissed as the boys erupted into laughter like little children.
You felt Theo’s hands settle on your hipbones as if they were arm rests. He pulled you in until your nose hit his chest and removed your hands from your face. So safe you were in his presence that you couldn’t see any of the other boys around you. With his big eyes that were more ocean-coloured than sky, he stared down at you, and flashed his brilliantly white grin.
“You aren’t much better, you know?” He said with a tone of question in his voice and continued to talk when he realised you didn’t know what he was talking about, “My back?”
He turned for you and upon seeing the mess you had evidently made on his back, you shut your mouth.
“Even?” Asked Theo.
“Even,” you nodded.
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the problem is that being single is seen as the consolidation prize, and not the natural neutral state of being-a-person. at the end of the movie or the book or the poetry, there is a person waiting for you at the altar, and they love you. if the play is a comedy, everyone gets married. the metaphor is about how you are not-whole. the metaphor is about how everyone is going to be happily-ever-after. the metaphor is that romantic love is the most important resource on the planet, not just all-love. all-love is not a thing, that is a disappointment. the treasure is not the friends we made along the way. the treasure is the girl you landed.
the metaphor is that you cannot be alone, that means you are broken. are you getting over someone? that is acceptable, you can be getting over someone, but not for long. you must be single because you would rather not be single. you must be single and looking to not-be-single. you must want to date, eventually.
friendship and community are never seen as being equal-to or even-better than romantic connection. that person is your one! you need to find them. you need to hunt through the sand particles until you can shift out some kind of gem. this is regardless to your own experience of the beach and the sun. you need to be somewhere with someone.
if you are taking this time alone to heal, that is so sad. everyone gives you this little pitying look. the understanding is that you are not actually happier than you were before you were single. it is seen as a sort of pity - oh, you are choosing yourself, making yourself the priority? - that isn't quite right. you must mean that you are making yourself ready for the right person. you are just laying the bed better this time. open up your heart. you'll find them, we promise!
what do you mean you're really-truly genuinely-very happy? you are probably misremembering what it was like to be in a relationship. and besides, once you meet your person, that time will look grey and bland and wasted. your person is the only way for you to see in color. so what if you have taken this time - for the first time in your entire life - to actually-for-real do the fucking work. you can be proud of yourself, sure. but the way we need to know that you got better is that you get a partner. you're healed enough for the next bad part!
people don't choose to be single, they just say they're choosing to be single - they actually mean "nobody wants to date me." it doesn't matter how many people you have gently rejected or how many times you've talked it over carefully in therapy. what matters is that you are single, and by all accounts - that means you are something worth our pity. your successes and life all seem pale in the sunlight. sure, you have done amazing things and finally found your way in life. what matters is that there wasn't a person in the room with you while you did it.
you want to tell them - that's the whole thing. i didn't know how to be alone in the room. i didn't know how to handle the silence. every moment was so sharp, and i kept choosing the wrong way to close the door. i have spent my entire life in the empty well, living in the ricochet of someone else's cruelty. for once i have built myself a ladder. for once everything i taste is all mine, every bite of sunshine and laughter. i have learned how to sleep out in the open with my memories. recently, they have started to purr.
your father rolls his eyes. listen. this isn't about you. i just want a grandchild in my future.
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