#i  guess..........

[bribloo]

i have not played library of ruina yet (THE COLORS WERE BOTHERING ME I FIXED THEM THE OTHER ONE NEVER EXISTED) uhhhh based off of this post :]

[transezual]

[iheartgru]

Guys do you like my Maxime Le Mal redesign? Be honest.

Please be aware, I only will be accepting constructive criticism.

[randlemartin]

david webster 🤝 me 🤝 dick winters

calling bull really big, just a really big guy. you need to know this.

[duskneko]

My sense of humor is so far gone to the point that anytime i hear someone say "What's this?" my imidiate thought is: owo, what's this?

[rowanthane]

@unfortunatescn​

He doesn’t call her on runs. Not short ones like this anyway. He never has, and that’s always been fine --- so Rowan’s not expecting it when late in the night her phone rings. Even more, her heart drops far into her stomach when an unknown number lights up her screen. A million worst case scenarios fly through her mind, starting with Andy in handcuffs again and ending with Lettie’s head caved in in the parking lot of some dingey motel parking lot. Her jaw clenches tightly when the voice on the other end of the phone tells her to get to the club house and to bring her med bag --- Andy’s been shot. They don’t tell her exactly how bad it is, and she’s barely even conscious of the fact that she’s moving, but the next thing she knows she’s pulling into the club house parking lot. Rhea meets her there, greeting her with a hand on her cheek and a promise of it’s gonna be fine, darlin’ that Rowan only barely manages to catch. Thankfully, Benny’s slept through the whole ordeal of leaving the house and Rhea is able to slip into the drivers eat of Rowan’s SUV and take him back to his grandma’s house where Rowan’s sure her mother in law is going to wait up anxiously for a phone call from someone with an update. 

The whole thing is like something out of her worst nightmare. Like someone reached into the darkest corners of her mind and picked through the thoughts that keep her up at night and pieced this night together just for her.  He’s sprawled across a pool table, blood seeping into the green felt and she’s shocked that her hands don’t shake while she works. He thrashes against her while she digs for the bullet and try as she fucking might, she can’t block the sound of his anguish out of her head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry” she apologizes over and over while actively fighting back the urge to vomit. Guilt settles in her stomach that she can’t do anything for him to help with the pain --- stealing from the hospital isn’t an option right now. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s taken something for the club, but right now? With the overdoses and the hospital three towns over having lost an entire months worth of Fentanyl? She can’t risk it. Instead someone shoves a rag in his mouth for something to bite down on, and Rowan snaps at a prospect to fucking hold him still so she can get this finished. Fuck, she wishes she could call Damian right now --- if there’s anyone in this world she’d trust with this, it’s him. But it isn’t an option and so she does what she’s always done--- she makes it work. Conflicting emotions hit her when he finally passes out --- it’s a relief to not have him screaming, to be able to dig the bullet out with ease now. But a voice in the back of her head reminds her that fixing his leg isn’t going to matter if he dies of fucking shock. 

They’re lucky. For once, they’re lucky. The bullet didn’t hit his femoral artery or the bone. It’s deep enough in there that she has to dig for it, but still shallow enough that once he’s still she’s able to get it out within a few minutes, dropping it onto the table beside them before she gets to work cleaning and packing the wound. After she’s more or less satisfied with that, she’s getting a few nearby prospects to move him into a vacant dorm room and manages to only snap at them to be fucking careful three times. She takes up residence on the side of the bed, sitting beside him and taking a minute to compose herself. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. It’s always fine, isn’t it? Not always --- in fact, in their lives it’s almost never fine. Still, it’s fine. She makes herself say it out loud twice before she can even start to think about relaxing and even then, she needs to do something with her hands so that she doesn’t chew her nails down to the skin with the anxiousness still swirling inside of her. That’s how she finds herself here, a warm washcloth in her hands as she works to gently wipe away the dried blood around his face. She frowns at the sight of the forming bruises around his throat, her own tightening as if she’s been strangled herself and she averts her eyes just as quickly, not wanting to fucking cry now of all times. Instead she focuses on a particularly stubborn bit of blood just under his hairline ---  hands coming to a standstill when his eyes flutter open. 

Relief hits her and she feels like she’s coming up for air after having been underwater for the last hour. Like she can finally take in a full breath. A rational voice in her mind tells her to sit back and give him room to breathe, not to overwhelm him right now but she can’t move. Can’t take her hand away from the side of his face because if she does she’s afraid he’s going to slip right between her fingers and be gone forever. “You with me, handsome?” she asks, watching as his eyes adjust to the light and slowly start to focus. Her voice is quiet and she hates that it’s shaking. Her jaw clicks when it clenches shut and she braces herself, like she’s waiting for the shoe to drop --- as if he’s going to go into convulsions or something, shock catching up with him. But it doesn’t, and when another minute passes she lets out a small breath, taking comfort in the fact that while he’s definitely seen better days, at least he’s alive. At least she’s not a fucking widow. She doesn’t have to spend the next week picking out a casket and flowers and thinking about the fact that her husband bled out on a fucking pool table in this shitty clubhouse. Somewhere in her mind a voice wonders if the floors got matching blood stains now, hers from June and his from tonight. She shakes it off. “Scared the hell out of me tonight.”

[crowily-archived]

i still gotta meta abt their fall but here’s some things that are relevant:

was the angel zadkiel before the fall, angel of benevolence & freedom

their fall from heaven at least indirectly is the result of the lack of freedom in heaven, creating soldiers out of saints

because they are no longer the angel zadkiel, the same thing is missing from hell. their angelic presence is a hole missing in the entire universe that makes it so that neither side can fully feel true freedom or true forgiveness.

they do not remember who they were before the fall, at best they remember vague memories, flashes of what their divinity was like, but they don’t know their previous name. this is due to their metamorphosis.

they do remember the actual act of falling, but have blocked it out in many cases due to the trauma and can only remember it in times of great stress or when triggered.

as an angel, they were created for their benevolence and freedom to watch over and protect children. as they fell before the human race could properly take off, they never got a chance to truly fulfill their potential- at least in a proper heavenly way.