Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crowley had been meaning to be theatrical about his decline. He imagined black clothing, candlelight, a suitably tragic playlist — maybe something Morrissey-adjacent — and lots of flouncing across pavements. What he had, in the end, was a battered sofa, a half-empty whisky, and a phone that made more noise than a church choir with a caffeine problem.

He was scrolling because it was something to do. Scrolling because the room felt too big and he did not quite know how to fill all the space Aziraphale had left behind. Scrolling because a demon can only stare at the ceiling for so long before the ceiling stares back.

And the internet did not disappoint in the way it so often did: it served up a thousand reasons to be furious and two reasons to laugh. There was Gaza—news clips, faces, the blunt ache of human cruelty. There were kids in Manchester organizing food drives; there were videos from Palestine showing clever, tiny rebellions of kindness in the face of nonsense. There were long threads where people were arguing like it was 1938 and a very small subset of humanity was gleefully resuscitating ideas that ought to have been left in history’s dustbin. There were millionaires on camera explaining why they deserved their yachts. There were teenagers with shaky-phone proclamations and more heart than sense trying to make community fridges happen. There were, as always, idiots who inhaled privilege and exhaled monstrosity.

Crowley’s thumb flicked faster. Drunk-scrolling is a special kind of rage, where everything gets condensed into gifs and captions and the world becomes a very angry sandwich.

“Grrrr Aziraphale,” he slurred at the ceiling, because it was the ceiling’s fault Aziraphale had gone and done whatever celestial thing had kept him away for two whole years. “You left to ‘do something important’ and what did you do? Fill out paperwork? Attend grief seminars? File heavenly expense reports? Nothing lasts forever, Angel. Not even boring.”

He paused on a clip of some accountant in a glass tower, explaining in calm, soothing tones why people with no savings should maybe try harder. The caption underneath read: “Meritocracy, baby.” Crowley laughed, a short, barking sound that was half-cry.

“Fine,” he said to the phone, to the room, to the idea of Heaven itself. “If nothing lasts forever, well then, neither will this bullshit.!”

He set the bottle down with unnecessary force and squinted at his contacts list. He didn’t have many human contacts worth a damn. He had the rare and peculiar affection of a bookshop owner who left him with a copy of Paradise Lost and the tendency to fold paper flowers into his coats. He had nobody to call who would answer and not ask whether he’d considered therapy. But Crowley had other angles. He had whispers. He had connections that worked in strange ways. He had the ability to make ideas feel like tastes you could not ignore.

He leaned forward, low voice a conspiratorial hiss: “Right. Let’s rearrange morality. Phooey on banks. Phooey on billionaires. Phooey on people who hoard money like it’s a security blanket for their fragile egos. Let’s make a mess. A beautiful, beautiful mess.”

Crowley grinned, which made him look, for the briefest moment, ridiculous and terribly dangerous all at once. He poured himself a drink and started to plan with the kind of practical enthusiasm he usually reserved for buying new sunglasses. He would not arm-wrestle angels or burn churches; he would be subtler. He would convert resentment into code. He would create a network, not of chaos for chaos’s sake, but of redistribution so theatrical that even the tabloids would be able to cover it.

They took it seriously in fragments. A woman in Lagos who coded in the downtime between caring for her nephew and three service jobs offered to map offshore accounts. A graduate student in Berlin suggested a method to anonymise transfers so well a tax auditor would think they’d had a stroke. A bored white-hat coder from Chennai proposed a harmless-looking malware that simply rerouted interest payments to accounts with zero balance and wrote a cheerful memo in the transaction reference: “You got this, Queen.” The memos made everyone laugh, which helped, because jokes were never as dangerous as grief.

The first thing he did was curse very precisely at the right server he’d been eyeing for weeks. A little sizzle upstairs — not dramatic, no lightning, nothing Homeric — just a polite, sophisticated nudge to the universe’s infrastructure. A whisper later and an innocuous-looking comment thread had an IP address that belonged to someone very useful. A second whisper, and a teenage coder in São Paulo who did not know the meaning of “retirement fund” and had been doing small-time exploits for the thrill of it suddenly found a message in their DMs:

- You up for changing things? — A.J.

The teenager blinked at the message. A.J. wasn’t a handle they recognised, but the offer was intoxicating: no more petty hacks for crippling porn sites or corporate servers that sold data. This was—this was a blueprint. An idea given flesh.

The internet likes a good mystery. The moment the first transactions appeared, the world started buzzing. Was it a glitch? A government op? A billionaire’s eccentric divorce?

But those who got the DM, those who whispered yes in a late-night forum or dropped their email into the wrong darknet portal, knew better. They knew A.J.

🎬 Montage Begins (cue funky bassline à la Ocean’s Eleven) 🎶

Messages were sent. Invitations whispered. An anonymous callout spread in the corners of the web where the right kind of chaos congregated: darkcode forums, obscure crypto-chat rooms, a few radical activist circles, and a surprising number of disgruntled ex-bankers who had the skills and the conscience of a pawn shop owner.

Crowley set the rules: do no physical harm, target systems that hoarded wealth, leave notes that made people momentarily lose their minds but feel good. He insisted on spectacle. He insisted on surprise. He insisted on a kind of mischievous tenderness that was exquisitely his. “We’ll be like a very fashionable Robin Hood, except with cracking Wi-Fi and much better hair,” he told his recruits, and most of them, to their own surprise, agreed.

São Paulo: A 19-year-old coder, headphones blasting K-pop, notices a new invite in their encrypted chat: “You want in?” —A.J. Their computer glitches, the screen fills with snakes slithering across lines of code. They grin. “Hell yes.”

Lagos: A woman juggling her nephew on one hip while typing with one hand mutters, “This is insane,” as she maps an offshore account structure onto a whiteboard. The toddler claps every time she circles a new billionaire.

Berlin: A grad student spins in a desk chair, chain-smoking, explaining to nobody that what they’re doing is mathematically impossible. Still, the impossible code compiles.

CDMX: A street artist paints a serpent curling around a laptop on a crumbling wall. Next morning, everyone who passes whispers: “A.J. was here.”

Chennai: A former white-hat coder adds a flourish: every cleared account now has a 💋 emoji in the memo line. They cackle and send it to the group chat.

Cut to Crowley, sprawled on his sofa, sunglasses on indoors, narrating to himself like a bad heist movie voiceover:
“Step one: assemble the team. Step two: confuse the hell out of bankers. Step three: leave a lipstick mark they’ll never scrub off.”

In the encrypted group call:
Hacker1: “We should call ourselves Anonymous 2.0.”
Hacker2: “Too obvious.”
Hacker3: “Digital Liberation Front.”
Hacker4: “Ew. Sounds like an MLM.”
Hacker5: “What about The Serpent’s Kiss?”

Crowley, appearing only as a silhouette with glowing yellow eyes on their feed, leans forward: “Perfect. It’s stylish. It’s biblical. It’s bloody terrifying.”

They all nod.
Hacker3: “…did he just hiss while saying that?”
Crowley: “Nevermind… just use A.J.”
Hacker2: “Angelic Justice.”
Crowley: “Ngk! NO! Not… that…”
Hacker1: “Actually… A.J.has a nice ring to it …”
Hacker: “And people can assume it means whatever the hell they want it to mean”

It was all very dramatic and, if he was honest, somewhat reckless. But recklessness looked different on a demon who missed a certain bookshop owner.

Upstairs, Aziraphale’s phone never stopped buzzing. He had, as of late, acquired the habit of watching the human world in the small, furtive moments between meetings. He was not supposed to be watching the news for entertainment; his job had become a parade of solemn pronouncements and memos about the Second Coming—the bureaucracy of the divine had its own brand of monotony—but there he was, refreshing feeds because one simply had to know what one’s demon was up to.

The first clip he saw was a live shot of a bank’s trading floor, human faces frozen mid-lecture while reporters yelled about “unauthorised transfers.” The second was a shaky phone video of a woman in Guadalajara sobbing and laughing into the camera as she read a memo that said “Te lo mereces, reina.” The third was a kid doing a dance because their student loan had been wiped, caption: “#AJsavedme” — and suddenly, in no particular order, Aziraphale’s chest was tight and he had to blow on his coffee as if it had suddenly been set afire.

He knew the handwriting. He knew the frantic, theatrical energy of a demon who thought the best way to get someone’s attention was by causing a lil’ apocalyptic sparkle. He knew the particular aesthetic choices: cheeky memos, coy emojis slipped into transaction references, the fashionably anonymous branding. Only one demon would sign things with sass and sentiment in equal measure.

“Oh dear,” he said, more gently than he had any right to. “Crowley, what have you been doing?”

There were meetings. Officially, angels were perturbed. Unofficially, many angels were immeasurably delighted that their eternal paperwork now included tweets where old men in suits sobbed about unpaid taxes while their child’s lunch money was suddenly available. Michael used words like destabilising and unprecedented. Aziraphale used words like heart-stopping and awful, but… somehow heroic?

Of course there were memos to send. There were investigations to open. There were, also, afternoon tea appointments he could politely miss in favour of watching the demonic theatre happen in real time. Because he could, and he did.

On earth, Crowley watched his recruits work with the same giddy, guilty thrill you get from setting fire to bureaucratic edges and watching them fray. He refreshed an IRC channel and saw a map light up: transfers here, property titles flipping there, a sudden deluge of benevolence in places that had been dry for decades.

He took a sip of whisky and winked at his reflection in the black glass of his phone. For once, the room did not feel too big. It felt like he was making a new shape out of the hollow where the angel was.

“If you wanted paperwork, Angel,” he murmured to the ceiling, “you should have known I’d make headlines.”

Bankers in London freeze mid-presentation when every screen in the building blinks and fills with a single message:

“💋 —A.J.”

Panic spreads. Meanwhile, thousands of random humans wake up to find medical debts erased, mortgages paid, and cheeky notes like “Buy yourself a silly hat” or “Tell them Crowley sent you.”

Crowley downs his whisky, smirks at his phone, and mutters: “Chaos, Angel. Absolute chaos. How’s the paperwork going up there, eh?”

Aziraphale, watching from the scrying glass, drops his teacup when he sees Anthony J. Crowley literally signed across a Wall Street newsfeed. Angels are gasping, supervisors are panicking, and all Aziraphale can think is: “Oh heavens, he’s ridiculous. Magnificent, ridiculous, impossible creature.”

And somewhere up above a stack of memos trembled with a single, incomprehensible thing: pride.

Chapter Text

Now with visual reference for A.J.’s chaos aesthetic: imagine this image every time a billionaire cries. [link]

The TV blared. The phone scrolled. Crowley had them both running because he was nothing if not an efficient mess. Whisky in one hand, sunglasses slipping down his nose, he cackled as the two feeds blurred into one symphony of chaos.

______

📺 News Anchor (very serious voice):

“…unprecedented cyber-attacks have destabilized major financial institutions. Officials are scrambling to explain how trillions in debt were—”

____

📱 TikTok Overdub (sped up, chaotic music):

POV: Daddy A.J. pays off your mortgage and tells you to ‘slay’. [edit of a girl sobbing with her bank app open, overlaid with sparkly text and a bass-boosted track.]

______

📺 CNN Finance Bro:

“This A.J. figure has not demanded ransom, not issued threats. Instead—ah—he leaves notes. Things like… ‘You got this, Queen,’ and, er, a lipstick emoji. Frankly, it’s… unprofessional.”

_______

📱 TikTok Stitch: Finance bro frozen mid-sentence → teenager screams into camera: “A.J. SAID I DESERVE A SILLY HAT. AND I BOUGHT ONE.” [shows enormous glitter cowboy hat.]

______

📺 BBC Interview with Billionaire: “My yacht! My beautiful yacht! Gone!” [sobs into handkerchief.]

______

📱 TikTok Duet: Side-by-side with a broke college student sipping boba: “Cry harder, Jeff.”

_____

📱 TikTok (spooky synth remix):

[Screen recording of a bank transfer glitch → sudden serpent eyes in pixel art across the screen → then $0.00 debt.] Caption: A.J. sees you. 🐍👁

_____

Comments:

“is this real??”

“I don’t care if it’s Satan, they just paid my rent.”

“that’s not unsettling at ALL 😭”

_________

📺 News Anchor:

“Authorities confirm that hackers using the name A.J. have struck again, this time targeting medical debt across three countries. Officials describe the incidents as—quote—‘an affront to the stability of international markets.’”

_______

📱 TikTok Duet: Anchor: “An affront to the stability—”

User with messy bun, waving eviction notice: “Bestie, my cc is paid. Affront me harder.”

______

📱 TikTok (lo-fi meme): Split-screen: billionaire crying → pixel serpent eyes gif → dog dancing to hyperpop.

Caption: Mood when A.J. deletes your student loans.

______

📺 CNN Panel: “We still don’t know who—or what—is behind A.J. Some experts believe it’s not a person at all, but an AI.”

______

Crowley, watching from his sofa: “Hah! As if an algorithm could pull off this level of style.”

_____ 

📱 TikTok (fan edit): Montage of all the serpent-eye glitches so far, set to Billie Eilish “All the Good Girls Go to Hell.”

Caption: A.J. is watching. A.J. is with us.

_____

Crowley flicked between them, grinning like the devil he was.

“Look at this, Angel. Humans in hats, billionaires in tears. Absolute bloody chaos. I’m nailing this.”

He poured another glass and muttered, “And they think A.J. stands for Anonymous Justice.” He snorted into his drink. “If only they knew.”

Heaven 

Aziraphale’s crystal orb replayed the same clips, his office filled with a medley of anchors panicking and TikToks thirsting. He was meant to be drafting yet another response on the Second Coming, but instead he sat with both hands over his mouth, eyes suspiciously damp. “Anonymous Justice…” he whispered, and then laughed, just once, helplessly. “Oh, Crowley.”

______

To: Supreme Archangel™ Aziraphale

From: Metatron, et al.

Subject: Messiah Rollout — Q3 Action Items

Reminder: The Chosen One insists on dyeing their hair neon green again. Please advise if this can be spun as “symbolic” in press briefings.

Apostolic entourage has been described in human media as a “band.” Recommend clarifying whether this is literal.

Please review attached 87-page draft on acceptable miracle use during live performances.

Key messaging: Hope, Unity, Charity. Avoid terms such as Rebellion, Table-Flipping, Down With Capitalism, and Eat the Rich.

It is advised that you, as Supreme Archangel™, speak with The Chosen One personally to reinforce the implementation of these suggestions.

PS: Please ensure all interactions are conducted with appropriate gravitas. Smiling, chuckling, or patting are not considered suitable Supreme Archangel™ behaviors.

________

Aziraphale sighed and straightened his bowtie, trying to look severe for the angels outside his door. But when the billionaire sobbed about his yacht, he chuckled so loudly he nearly tipped over his chair.

Earth

Somewhere in Mayfair Crowley refreshed TikTok and saw the first fan edit:

His glowing yellow eyes cut to Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight). Caption: Daddy A.J. frees us again.

And he laughed.

Heaven

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose as another angel presents a report: “The humans are calling it… ‘The Eye Era,’ sir. They think it’s a collective. Anonymous with branding.”

Aziraphale, cheeks pink, mutters under his breath: “Branding. Of course he’d make chaos marketable.”

And in the background… whispers of the Second Coming are getting louder. Heaven frames them as The Messiah 2.0™, but humans are vibing differently.

Earth.

All over the world. It had started as a handful of coders. Now it was a bloody legion. A.J. wasn’t apologizing, and go back to archery practice.

______

A teen in Manila teaching on TikTok  a “How to A.J.” tutorial → caption: “Step 1: encrypt. Step 2: destabilize. Step 3: leave a sassy note.”

______

Trending audio: “You got this, Queen 🐍👁” auto-tuned into a club banger.

______

POV meme: “POV: You wake up debt free and your landlord is crying.”

______

News Meltdown Anchor: “The A.J. collective has grown to an estimated tens of thousands worldwide. Authorities describe it as… unprecedented financial warfare. The World Bank has called an emergency summit—”

______

Cut to footage of finance bros literally sweating through their Armani suits.

______

The original handful of hackers are still the backbone, running group chats, setting protocols. But now they have hundreds, thousands of new recruits.

São Paulo teen: “We’ve got accountants, ex-cops, nurses. Everyone wants in.”

Lagos coder: “It’s not just hacking anymore, it’s distribution networks. They’re literally hand-delivering food bought with hijacked hedge fund money.”

Berlin grad student: “We just rerouted an entire Swiss vault. Into a GoFundMe for clean water. With emojis.”

Crowley, lounging with whisky: “Robin bloody Hood who? We’re in the big leagues now'.

Banks shut down entire systems overnight. Stock exchanges suspend trading. Billionaires are seen weeping on live TV. The word “A.J.” becomes taboo in boardrooms—because the moment you say it aloud, something happens. (a server crashes, an account vanishes, a serpent-eye glitch slithers across a screen). Economists coin terms like “The Serpent Effect” and “Apocalypse of Finance.” People on TikTok call it “Daddy A.J. Season.”

Heaven/Hell

Angels are panicking. Demons are furious. Aziraphale sits quietly, adjusting his bowtie while scrolling through human newsfeeds. One report calls A.J. “the most effective redistribution of wealth in human history.” Another says “the apocalypse of capitalism has begun.” Aziraphale bites back a smile. “Well,” he thinks, “we always did say there’d be an apocalypse. Just not this one.”

Meanwhile in Earth Crowley sprawls across his sofa, phone buzzing nonstop, chaos blooming like fireworks. He watches a clip of a billionaire begging for mercy, then flips to a TikTok of a single mom dancing in her kitchen with a note pinned to the fridge: “Rent: Paid two years in advance by A.J.” Crowley grins, fangs just visible. “Chaos, Angel. Bloody, beautiful chaos. And you’re missing all the fun.”

Chapter Text

Livestream Excerpt:

A grainy feed from a rooftop in Ramallah. He strums a battered guitar, voice low and sharp as flint:

“They build walls, we build songs.

They hoard gold, we raise hands.

God’s kingdom is the one we make—

and it begins when no one’s hungry.”

Hundreds of Thousands watching. Comments flying:

“bro he’s literally Hozier but divine.”

“why is The Messiah hot ? 😭😭😭”

“he just said abolish billionaires??”

_____

📺 BBC Newsflash

“The so-called Messiah has gone viral yet again after a concert in Jerusalem. His lyrics, explicitly political, have sparked controversy among religious leaders…”

_____

📱 TikTok Stitch

Priest on TV: “His message is divisive—”

Queer teen with rainbow flag: “Divisive? He just fed 500 people with one livestream fundraiser, babes.”

Heaven’s PR memos describe him as “inspiring, wholesome, family-friendly.”

Aziraphale watches the livestream, hears the boy call billionaires parasites, and smiles so hard his tea spills. “Family-friendly, indeed.”

Meanwhile in Crowley's flat, he refreshes TikTok, seeing both serpent-eye edits and rooftop songs trending in the same feed. He snorts into his glass.

“Well, Angel. Looks like your shiny new Messiah’s got better hair than me, but I’ve got style. Let’s see which one the humans stan harder.”

📱 TikTok (fan edit):

Clip of him strumming guitar in a street protest, people singing along. Overlaid text: “Second Coming but make it ✨Palestinian Resistance✨”

Comments:

“he’s literally saving souls with a loop pedal 😭”

“why is Jesus hot again??”

“Yeshua!! Learn their name asshole!!”

“this man said free Palestine AND free healthcare.”

_____

📺 BBC Anchor:

“…authorities confirm the young activist, real name undisclosed, is under ‘divine protection.’ Some are already calling him the new Messiah—”

_____

📱 TikTok Duet:

Anchor: “new Messiah—”

User: “bestie he was already our Messiah when he raised 2 million for Gaza with a livestream, catch up.”

_____

🧵 Reddit thread — r/ThingsThatShouldWorryYou

Post title: Is A.J. actually an alien/Illuminati backdoor/quantum exploit?

*u/late_to_the_doomsday_party • 12.4k upvotes • 3.2k comments

OP: Okay hear me out. My cousin works IT at a hedge fund and they literally had servers blinking like a Christmas tree at 3am and then their ledgers “self-corrected” to $1. This smells like either (A) an advanced nation-state exploit, (B) aliens testing capitalism to see if it’s edible, or (C) someone found the main server for our universe and is cheating. Thoughts?

Top comments:  

↳u/quantum_cupcake (4.9k): Aliens is my vibe. They came for our landfills and stayed for our stock market. 👽📉

 ↳ u/thisismyopinion (3.1k): Not aliens. Nation-state op would come with a diplomatic leak. This was… artful. Whoever did it knew exactly how to meme the outrage. Performance politics, not warfare.

 ↳u/tinfoil_tailor (2.7k): Illuminati test-run. They always start small. Y’all seen the serpent-eye glitch? Classic sigil cropping.

 ↳ u/sysadmin_grim (2.5k): As someone who’s unironically patched eight servers this week: this looks like someone found a privilege escalation that affects financial ledgers. Not an alien. But if an alien did it, 10/10 good taste.

 ↳u/poetry_and_pies (1.2k): or it’s literally the internet doing its weirdo performance art thing where rich people cry on TV and we all clap.

⛓️‍💥 Reply chain gem:

 ↳ u/suspiciously_optimistic: can we all agree: even if it’s aliens or the illuminati — if they keep paying grandma’s rent — best timeline.

____

📱 TikTok Compilation: A.J. Chaos

Screen-record: a debt app refreshing → balances drop to $0 → serpent eyes flicker in green pixel art. Caption: “A.J. saw me. 🐍👁”

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🙉 Meme: Leonardo DiCaprio pointing gif → “Me when A.J. pays my rent and calls me queen.”

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📱 A crying med student: “I just checked my account. I have no loans anymore. I don’t even know who A.J. is, but I’d die for them.”

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🐦 Twitter: @nurse_amal — 21:37

Night shift: Mrs. Haddad woke up from her nap and checked her bills on her phone. She started shaking, then laughing, then crying, then hugging me like I’d personally invented money. “They paid it, habibi,” she said. I don’t know who “they” are. I just held her hand and told her I was glad. Also, someone LEFT a tray of baklava in the break room. If this is how the apocalypse tastes, I approve.

____

🧵Reddit thread — r/ConspiraTea

Post title: A.J. isn’t a hacker, they’re literally a patch note in the simulation.  

u/404notyourgod • 23.7k upvotes • 8.9k comments

OP: Listen. You ever notice how reality glitches right before something big? Like, Mandela effect, weird sky sounds, my toaster keeps rebooting when I say “late capitalism”? This week all my student debt vanished at 3:33am. Not paid off. Just… NULL. That’s not a hacker. That’s a system admin rolling back corrupted data. A.J. = the patch. Change my mind.

Top Comments:

 ↳ u/dumpster_divine (7.1k): nah bro that’s the Illuminati dropping their intern in the control room again.

 ↳ u/capitalism_suxx (6.8k): ok but why is the patch hot. like who gave the serpent eyes a fan edit??

 ↳ u/doomscroll_dad (4.2k): my 9yo said “if it’s a patch then billionaires were the bug.” brb crying.

 ↳ u/pentagonleaker420 (3.9k): I work DoD servers. If this is a patch, it’s elegant af. No state actor has this flair. Whoever A.J. is, they’re dunking on us with style.

 ↳ u/queercryptid (3.5k): look i don’t care if it’s god, aliens, or your grandma with python scripts — my loans are gone. long live daddy A.J. 🐍👁

⛓️‍💥 Reply:

u/archangel_real (−7 downvotes): Be warned. Heaven has protocols for this.

 ↳ u/memelord_69 (1.3k): lmao imagine roleplaying as an archangel on reddit in 2025. touch grass.

 ↳ u/conspiracy_latte (844): no but fr this comment gives me Gabriel vibes. someone screenshot it before it vanishes.

 ↳u/theoretical_bee (2.1k): Aliens wouldn’t care about debt forgiveness. Unless… capitalism was making Earth taste bad.

 ↳u/spreadsheet_simp (1.9k): call me when A.J. fixes rent prices.

 ↳ u/witchy_wi_fi (top award): if you think about it, A.J. and the Rooftop Messiah are like chaotic polycule energy but for economics and hope. one deletes debt, the other feeds the people. “choose your fighter” is WRONG. the fighters are on the same team.

____

📺 CNN Anchor

“The cyber-terrorist group known only as A.J. has struck again. Governments insist these… ‘gifts’ are destabilizing global markets.”

____

📱 TikTok Duet

Anchor: “destabilizing markets—”

User in pajamas sipping iced coffee: “good. stay destabilized, king.”

Crowley, sprawled on his sofa, sunglasses crooked, mutters: “See that, Angel? I’m bloody revolutionary. Bet your paperwork can’t do this.”

📱 TikTok (fan edit):

Clip of HIM strumming guitar in a street protest, people singing along. Overlaid text: “The New Messiah but make it ✨Palestinian Resistance✨”

Comments:

“he’s literally saving souls with a loop pedal 😭”

“why is he so hot ???”

“this man said free Palestine AND free healthcare.”

_____

📺 BBC Anchor:

“…authorities confirm the young activist, real name undisclosed, is under ‘divine protection.’ Some are already calling him the new Messiah—”

______

📱 TikTok Duet:

Anchor: “new Messiah—”

User: “bestie he was already our Messiah when he raised 2 million for Gaza with a livestream, catch up.

______

🌌 tumblr: user: radical-analogue — 4 hours ago — 18.2k notes

okay but hear me: this is literally 2012 supernatural AU energy if cas & dean decided to abolish capitalism instead of saving the world from demons. like imagine—A.J. is the aesthetic villain who pays your loans and the Messiah is the indie boy with a loop pedal who feeds people and also is unreasonably hot. the tumblr crossover i didn’t know i needed.

also can we talk about how fandom is doing the Lord’s work: streaming charities, mutual aid, and making billionaire sob compilations into video essays? if this is a holy war i will bring playlists, baked goods, and a crochet banner that says “redistribute with love.”

reblog if you want a zine. pitch me: A.J. x Messiah: A Practical Guide to Mutual Aid & Emotional Labor.

+(pinned comment) u/softrevolution: if anyone’s making merch, i will buy a tote that says “Bread & Wi-Fi”

______

📱 TikTok / Twitter Chaos: “A.J. vs. Messiah”

Fan edit 1: split screen → serpent eyes glitching over bank apps vs. the Messiah barefoot onstage, guitar in hand. Caption: “Choose your fighter.”

Comments:

“Daddy A.J. frees my debts.”

“Messiah frees my soul 😭.”

“Both? Polyamorous utopia pls.”

______

📱 Fan edit 2: Mashup of Take Me to Church with pixel serpent hisses in the beat. Caption: “A.J. x Messiah collab when???”

________

🐦 Twitter trending topics: #TeamAJ, #TeamMessiah, #SlayQueen, #MessiahSupremacy, #SerpentEyes.

______

🙉 Meme: Two Spider-Men pointing at each other → caption: “When both A.J. and the Messiah want to dismantle capitalism but with different aesthetics.”

_____

Crowley, watching news and scrolling from his sofa: 

“Bloody hell. They’re making fan edits. Of me. Versus Heaven’s golden boy.” He groans, tips his head back. 

“This is not the chaos I signed up for.”

______

📺 News Clip

Anchor: “Speculation mounts about whether these two global phenomena are connected: the mysterious hacker collective A.J., and the controversial Palestinian singer activists are calling “The Messiah””

______

🎮 Discord snippet — #messiah-stans (modlog)

#messiah-stans — 12,764 members

MOD: @mm_mod — toggled slowmode (15s)

USER: @hotforheaven — posted: ”SLAY QUEEN AUDIO CLIP” (3.2 MB)

BOT: AutoMod flagged emoji-spam — action: muted @spammyfan for 1h

USER: @peter-finance — pinned message: “Please. If you’re donating, use official links only. Scams are real.”

USER: @toasterpoet — posted GIF: two spider-men pointing captioned “#TeamAJ vs #TeamMessiah”

USER: @thomas-sec — posted: “We have a verified token. If you receive DMs claiming donor access, report immediately. Do NOT click links.”

USER: @memequeen420 — posted image: Crowley with a ladle (sparkle filter) — 27 reactions in 30s

MOD: @mm_mod — announcement: “Love the energy. Please no political doxxing. If you want to help, check #mutual-aid for vetted org links.”

USER: @sneakydev — DM to @mm_mod: “someone’s offering satellite time + hardware. Ticket looks legit — Peter wants verification.”

MOD: @mm_mod — DM reply: “Forward verification token to Peter. If he okays, we’ll post logistics. THANK U.”

BOT: New member joined via invite link: UpperRoom_Invite_2025 — welcome message: “Welcome! Coffee & chores schedule in #rotations.”

Earth.

It’s night. Rooftop again. The Messiah strums softly, pausing mid-song. His eyes glint toward the camera, voice steady:

“And to whoever you are—A.J.—

We see your serpent eyes in our accounts.

We see your chaos in our freedom.

Thank you.”

He sets down the guitar, leans closer to the mic, and grins:

“Slay, Queen.”

Crowley chokes. Literally chokes. Whisky sprays across his sofa.

“Bloody—he knows?! He bloody knows!!

He paces the flat, muttering: “This is… this is madness. This is… magnificent.” He collapses back onto the sofa, covering his face with both hands, laughing and swearing at once.

Heaven.

Aziraphale is watching the same livestream, cheeks pink, heart pounding. He whispers: “Oh, dearest, you’ve done it again. You’ve made the world fall in love with you.”

But whether he means Crowley, the Messiah, or both… even Aziraphale isn’t quite sure.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale descended carefully. He’d done this before—earthly visits, little chats, nudges of divine policy. But this was different. This was the Messiah, heaven’s golden project. The Second Coming wrapped in flesh and fury.

He found him on a rooftop, guitar slung across his back, sweat beading at his brow, surrounded by half a dozen apostles—camera crews, drummers, violinists, activists with bruised knuckles and open hearts.

“Yeshua,” Aziraphale began, voice smooth, bowtie neat. “We really must talk.”

The man turned, eyes sharp, voice hoarse from singing but louder than thunder. “Of course they sent you. The Supreme Archangel.”

“Aziraphale. I thought we were on a first name basis... Well—yes, that is—I’m here to help you find… sense.”

Yeshua laughed, bitter and bright. “Sense? The world is burning, and you want sense?”

He paced, barefoot, guitar knocking against his hip. “You think the Almighty sent me to sit in a palace and smile for the cameras?”

Aziraphale flinched. The boy—no, not a boy anymore—It was too much like history repeating itself. He saw Jerusalem in his gaze, Galilee in the cadence of his voice. He saw the first Messiah, furious at moneylenders in temples. He saw the same flame, undimmed.

📺 CNN Clip (Breaking News) Anchor: “In an unprecedented development, international diplomats offered political asylum to the so-called Messiah earlier today, urging him to leave the escalating conflict zone for his own safety.”

______________

⏺️ Live streaming Cut to Yeshua at a press conference, apostles behind him, MM and Mateo at his sides, mic shoved in his face.

“Asylum? You want to take me out of my home, my land, my people? Fuck you. How about making my home not a red zone? How about not bombing us in the first place? I don’t need your asylum. I need you to stop killing us.”

The room erupts. Reporters shouting. Angels upstairs clutching their pearls. On TikTok, the clip gets remixed with a bass drop, millions of views in an hour.

Aziraphale in the middle of heaven, endless white, pale, shaken, trying to soften the blow “He won’t… he refuses…”

He doesn’t say the rest: He’s right.

Heaven calls him “difficult, divisive, a PR disaster.”

Aziraphale just hears echoes of an older voice in a temple, shouting and flipping tables.

Earth. London.

Crowley, drunk-scrolling, finds the clip of Yeshua at the press conference. He spits whisky everywhere, cackling. “Bloody brilliant! Angel, your shiny Messiah’s got more bite than half of Hell. ‘Fuck you world, make my home not red’—there’s your bloody sermon.”

He shakes his phone at the ceiling, triumphant. “Ha! He’s got more sense than all of Heaven combined.”

Crowley refreshes, finds the TikTok remix, the bass drop rattling his speakers. He claps, once, sharp, grinning through tears he won’t admit to.

Earth. Ramallah.

The rooftop smelled of dust and sweat, of fried food drifting up from the street below, of guitar strings that had been played too hard for too long.

Aziraphale arrived in a shimmer of light he immediately tried to dampen down—best not to blind the apostles. They already stared at him like he was something too clean, too polished for the grit of Ramallah. He smiled, smoothing his bowtie.

“This is not quite what we rehearsed up there, dear boy. You know we…”

Yeshua cut him off, voice sharp as broken glass.

“Yeah, but here is not up there, Aziraphale. This is Earth. Real lives—actual lives—are being obliterated. By. The. Second.”

He jabbed his finger at the ground, at the city, at the distant boom of something that rattled the windows.

“And you want me to… Stick to the plan?!”

Aziraphale winced. The words echoed sharper than they should.

“Well—yes—the plan was to bring hope…”

"The fucking plan,” Yeshua spat, “was for me to play the philanthropist millionaire Messiah. A Nepo-baby savior in a penthouse, doling out charity like breadcrumbs while the bombs keep falling. That was your plan?”

“N-No! You were meant to show humanity what it could aspire to be. A figure of stability, generosity… a beacon of—”

Yeshua barked a laugh that wasn’t funny.

“The plan was to let me arrive in a first-world country, all golden shine, a miracle child groomed for cameras and Vatican speeches. That was your plan.”

His eyes flared, fierce, holy and human all at once.

“C’mon. That’s not God. That’s branding.”

Aziraphale flinched, wiring his hands.

“Not personally mine—” he tried, but Yeshua was pacing now, barefoot, fury radiating from every step. The apostles stirred, murmuring in agreement, one strumming a chord on the guitar like punctuation. Yeshua turned away, gripping the edge of the rooftop, staring at the city lights fractured by checkpoints and smoke. His voice dropped, quieter, heavier:

“I was born here for a reason. Again. Choose it, even, if that’s what you need to hear. Because the world hasn’t learned a damn thing since the last time. They kill each other over borders and banks, while angels rehearse their speeches and demons play dress-up with greed. And still—still—it’s the children who keep on starving”

Aziraphale’s throat tightened. He remembered Scotland—the starving villagers, Wee Morag, Crowley’s hissed bitterness. At the time, he’d believed Heaven’s insistence that wealth could be virtue, philanthropy the answer. Now, with Yeshua’s fire burning in his face, he felt that memory like a knife.

Aziraphale’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. He wanted to say: "You're angry, Your life on earth hasn't been easy,  your judgement is clouded”, but he could hear the falseness of it even as the thought formed.

Yeshua’s judgement wasn’t clouded—it was sharpened, cut raw by thirty-some years of mortal living, of dust and hunger, of being Palestinian in a world that wished his home invisible. He’d chosen to be here, again, knowing the cost. That was no mistake. That was conviction.

Yeshua turned back, calmer now, but no less fierce. “So forgive me if I don’t follow Heaven's script, Aziraphale. I’m not here for plans. I’m here for people.”

And then, softer, almost pitying:

"And I thought you, of all of them, would understand the difference.”

...

Aziraphale lingered at the stairwell longer than he should have, one hand still pressed against the warm concrete as if the rooftop itself could ground him.

The apostles’ voices carried up—laughter, the scrape of strings, Yeshua’s low murmur like thunder about to roll. He adjusted his bowtie, more out of habit than composure. He felt disheveled inside, as though Yeshua’s words had rearranged his feathers.

Not here for plans. Here for people.

It was so simple. So obvious. And yet, after years of being smothered in Heaven’s memos and rehearsals, it had landed like a revelation.

He remembered Wee Morag in Scotland. Crowley’s voice, dry and furious: “Things are different for people with money.” At the time, Aziraphale had deflected, believing philanthropy could mend what greed destroyed. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Heaven had buried him in paperwork, smothered him in polished phrases, but Yeshua—he’d chosen to be born again right here, where the world bled. He had no patience for branding. Only for bread.

Aziraphale sighed. He still believed in humanity’s loveliness—their food, their theatre, their silly clever inventions. He would always gush about them, even if Metatron rolled his eyes.

But perhaps it was not enough. He straightened his coat. He would go back upstairs, of course—there was no avoiding it. He would file the report, endure the meetings, and listen to the golden-boy gone rouge talk.

But tonight, as he lifted from the rooftop into the starlit sky, he carried something heavier than forms and memos.

A voice, still ringing: “I’m here for people.”

Heaven would never change. He knew that now. But he could bend their rules, slow their schemes, and guard this boy with every bureaucratic trick in the book. If that was rebellion, so be it.

Chapter Text

Earth. Worldwide.

Shibuya Crossing, Tokyo

The scramble froze. Every billboard, every neon sign, every phone in every hand flickered black—then lit up again with a single image: Crowley in immaculate black silk, sprawled in his Mayfair throne, wine glass glinting ruby.

Times Square, New York.

Tourists gawked as jumbotrons synced at once. No ads, no news, just a demon in sunglasses leaning back with the lazy confidence of someone who owned the chaos.

Piccadilly Circus, London

Commuters stopped mid-step. On buses, in shop windows, on billboards six stories high: Crowley’s smirk beamed down.

Everywhere else phones buzzed, tablets blinked, laptops rebooted mid-Zoom call. Even smart fridges and airport departure boards. One face. One smirk.

Crowley tilted his wine glass, voice low and silken, perfectly audible in a thousand languages all at once:

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between… Congratulations, humanity. Tonight, I’m cancelling the boring bits.”

He sipped, unhurried, eyes flashing gold.

“Consider this… my gift to humanity. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Close-up on the smirk. Serpent eyes gleaming, screen glitching like static.

And then it hit.

Credit cards: balances everywhere dropped to $0.00.

Student loans, medical debt, mortgages: blinked, then vanished, entire ledgers erased.

Stock exchanges: numbers scrolled red → then billionaire portfolios reset to $1.00.

Pension plans: ordinary accounts spiked, zeros multiplying like miracles.

Online:

📺 BBC Anchor, live on-air:

“We are witnessing a… complete collapse of international markets. Every billionaire portfolio—every single one—has been reduced to pocket change. Meanwhile, ordinary citizens are reporting—”

⏺️ Live Streamer (shaky voice, ugly-crying on cam):

“Chat… CHAT. My student debt just went from six figures to zero. ZERO. I thought it was a glitch but my loan portal literally says PAID IN FULL.

[donation alert chimes]

—user123: ‘don’t cry, king. A.J. said debt-free speedrun any%’”

Chat flying:

“😭😭😭” / “best timeline unlocked” / “capitalism got nerfed lol”

📱 Canada Teen TikTok:

“My grandma just checked her account. She’s crying. She never retired, and now—now she can.” [cuts to grandma dancing, tears in her eyes. Caption: “Gracias, A.J. 🐍💋”]

📺 CNN Finance Bro:

“This is… this is the end of capitalism as we know it!”

📱 TikTok Stitch:

Finance bro sweating → a single mom showing her cleared medical bills, screaming with joy. “Cool. End it harder.”

🧵 Reddit r/netsec 

Post title: “This isn’t hacking, this is god-tier performance art”

u/patchnotes_papi — 8.2k upvotes

Look, I’ve reverse-engineered ransomware before. This isn’t that. This is like someone found capitalism.exe and hit DELETE.

Top comments:

 ↳ u/sysop_mom (5.3k): not malware — it’s antiware.

 ↳ u/doomscroll_dad (3.9k): billionaires were literally the bug. patch successful.

 ↳ u/snakeemoji420 (2.2k): Daddy A.J. = hotfix confirmed.

📺 Billionaire, live interview:

“My mansions! My yacht! My accounts! My legacy!”

🇲🇽🇺🇲 WhatsApp California Family Chat:

👵 Abuela: mija mija check the bills, they’re gone, all gone

👩‍👧 Daughter: “what???” [screenshot of erased hospital bill]

👵 Abuela: Diosito sent a hacker 🐍

👩‍👧 Daughter: “no abuela it’s called A.J.”

👵 Abuela: aj aj aj aj aj! (20 stickers of roses and smiley faces)

🇮🇳 Family WhatsApp Group (Delhi):

👩‍🎓 Daughter: papa check my student loans [screenshot: “Balance ₹0.00”]

👨‍👩‍👧 Papa: beta… are you joking? this must be fraud

👩‍🎓 Daughter: “No papa. It’s everywhere. It’s real.”

👨‍👩‍👧 Papa: then today is Diwali again. [20 diya lamp emojis, fireworks GIF]

🇿🇦 Facebook Post — Auntie Mavis (Cape Town):

Auntie Mavis (profile pic: her at church choir):

“I woke up to find my clinic bill erased. The devil works hard, but this A.J. works harder. 🐍✨ Whoever you are, I’ll fry you a vetkoek and sing your name.”

⬆️ 18k likes · 6.4k shares

Top comment: “Not A.J. getting aunties on his side 😂 global zaddy confirmed.”

📱 Duet, Lagos Coder’s niece:

giggles into the camera, biting into fried plantain “Aunty says cry harder.”

📸 Instagram Story:

Photo: Hospital bill stamped “PAID.” Next slide → plate of biryani + wine glass emoji.

Caption: “Dinner tastes different when A.J. cancels your debt 😭🐍 #DebtFreeBabe”

📡 Telegram Broadcast:

Channel: Workers Solidarity Global

Pinned post: “Verified: donations auto-landed in 14 mutual aid accounts. Yes, it’s real. Yes, it’s safe. No, we don’t know who A.J. is, but until proven otherwise, we accept the redistribution. Solidarity, not charity.”

🎙️ Podcast Clip:

Two hosts mid-laugh, audio glitchy from too many live listeners:

“Bro… capitalism just got patched out like a Skyrim bug. Imagine explaining this in Econ 101.”

“Step one: erase Jeff Bezos’ bank account. Step two: add grandma pensions DLC. Step three: release thirst edits. Done.”

🟣 Twitch Clip – @BreadAndWiFi (Live):

Yeshua, sweat still clinging to his brow, leans into the mic mid-song. MM cackles off-camera, waving her phone. Mateo reads the trending hashtags aloud, shrieking:

“#DaddyAJ is real, babes!! Your debts are gone!”

The rooftop explodes into chaotic laughter. Yeshua wipes his face, grinning at the lens:

“We don’t know who you are, serpent-eyes stranger, but thank you. More bread, less debt. That’s the deal.”

Chat scrolls at light speed: 🌈🔥💸 “MARRY ME MESSIAH” / “A.J. X BreadAndWiFi COLLAB??”

📸 Instagram Story – @PolyOnTheRooftop

[Photo dump: MM holding up a cleared hospital bill like it’s a Grammy; Mateo attempting to balance a soup pot on his head; Peter in the corner, furiously typing on a laptop.]

Caption: “Dinner + revolution. Thanks to mysterious sugar serpent 🐍💋”

🌌 Tumblr

user: messiahstans-united

“imagine A.J. x Rooftop Messiah collab. serpent eyes in the beat, guitar loop under it. chaotic polycule energy tbh. #BreadAndWiFi #ChooseYourFighter”

(reblogs w/ tags: “shut up i’d STREAM IT” / “poly revolution NOW”)

Earth.

Shibuya Crossing, Tokyo.

For a heartbeat, Tokyo froze. Screens blazed with serpent eyes, phones blinked with impossible balances — ¥0.00 where there had been chains of debt. People stared, stunned, too polite, too practiced at swallowing miracles.

And then one student laughed. High, wild, disbelieving. He showed his phone to the girl next to him. She covered her mouth, then laughed too. Suddenly, the laughter spread like sparks. Strangers grabbed each other, crying and laughing at once, holding up phones like holy relics. Businessmen in suits hugged tourists, teenagers clutched grandmothers, entire streams of pedestrians collapsed into a crowd — crying, shaking, delirious with relief.

São Paulo, Brazil – Paulista Avenue

Traffic froze mid-horn. One car stereo cut off, then another, until the whole avenue went silent—then roared to life again, not with engines but with voices. Strangers spilled into the street, laughing, sobbing, flashing their $0.00 balances to each other. A samba drumline struck up out of nowhere, dancers weaving between buses and taxis. Someone painted a serpent in green glitter across a protest banner, and the crowd chanted A.J.’s name like carnival.

Nairobi, Kenya – Matatu Bus Stop

A matatu driver braked so hard his passengers nearly toppled out. He clambered onto the roof, phone held high, shouting, “Zero! Zero! They cleared it all!” Commuters erupted—hugs, ululations, laughter so loud it drowned the honking traffic. A woman selling mandazi shoved handfuls into strangers’ hands for free, her eyes wet. Kids climbed up on the bus stop shelter, waving their phones like victory flags, the serpent-eye memes already glowing on their screens.

Mexico City – Metro Zócalo

The train screeched to a halt, lights flickering. Every passenger’s phone buzzed at once. Balances: $0.00. For a heartbeat, silence. Then someone shouted across the packed car:

“NO MAMES—IS THIS FOR REAL?!”

The entire wagon broke into laughter and tears. Strangers shoved phones into each other’s hands, waving them like little stands. A vendor tossed mazapanes into the crowd for free, voice cracking with joy. The chant started low, then roared through the tunnels: “¡Ya no hay que pagar!”

The metro shook with celebration.

London, Crowley’s Flat.

Crowley leaned back, wine glass now empty, watching the fallout spread like wildfire across his screens. A grin tugged at his mouth, sharp and dangerous, the kind of grin he imagined a great Bond villain might wear. Screens still glowing with chaos from Zimbabwe to Argentina. His smirk tugged wider as headlines screamed collapse, memes painted serpent eyes in neon, and mortals wept with joy over balances turned to zero.

He raised his glass to the ceiling, to no one in particular.

“Chaos, Angel. Bloody, beautiful chaos. C’mon and try thwarting me now.”

He set the glass down with a flourish. Another wave of edits pinged across his screens. Sunglasses slipping, he groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“If this doesn’t get me a cult… then I genuinely don’t know what you people are into.”

Heaven, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale’s office.

The archive was quiet in the way only Heaven could be quiet—no dust, no hum, no air at all, just the sterile silence of eternity. Aziraphale sat alone, a slim stack of memos glowing faintly on the desk before him. The room smelled of nothing, felt of nothing, and still, he felt nauseous.

He adjusted his bowtie, though his hands trembled, and forced himself to read.

📬 Subject: Stability Measures – Messiah Oversight

Concerns have been raised regarding the Messiah’s current trajectory… Proposal: Initiate Memory Streamlining Protocol to remove obstructive mortal impressions.

His throat tightened. He turned the page.

—

📬 Subject: Public Image Realignment

Remove local specificity (references to Palestine, checkpoints, hunger). Replace with emphasis on “family values,” “peaceful coexistence,” and “hope.”

—

He pressed his lips together until they ached. Erase the dust. Erase the hunger. Erase the truth.

Another memo:

—

📬 Subject: Asset Management

Recommend full Cognitive Reset → retain divine essence, erase mortal experiences. Projected outcome: docile figurehead, compliant with Heaven’s branding.

Aziraphale’s vision blurred. For a terrible moment he thought he might be sick, right there on the flawless marble floor of Heaven. He gripped the edge of the desk until the parchment crinkled beneath his fingertips.

They wanted to strip him bare. To polish the fire out of him. To turn fury into branding.

The image of Yeshua’s face came unbidden: sweaty on a rooftop, voice ragged with righteous anger, guitar slung low. He remembered the boy’s laughter, bitter and bright, “That’s not God. That’s branding.”

And suddenly, Crowley’s voice, echoing from centuries ago in Scotland:

“Things are different for people with money.”

At the time, Aziraphale had flinched, had reached for platitudes. Now he could see it for what it was: a truth he’d avoided because it was ugly and uncomfortable and impossible to bureaucratize.

His hand hovered over the memo, trembling. He whispered to himself, voice breaking:

“No. Not while I’m here. I won’t permit it.”

He folded the memo slowly, precisely, as though ritual could steady him. His bowtie was crooked now, but he didn’t notice. His heart felt heavier than all of Heaven’s silence.

Heaven’s archive glowed too bright, parchment stacked with false calm. Aziraphale’s fountain pen hovered, then struck. He did not cross out, did not argue. Instead, in the neat, old-fashioned hand he’d used for centuries, he wrote:

📜 They want to erase him. Protect his memory. 

—A

He folded the memo precisely into thirds, tapped it once against the desk. With the smallest flick of his fingers, the paper shimmered, vanished.

Earth. Berlin, 2:13 a.m.

The grad student spun idly in their desk chair, chain-smoking, a line of code running across their second monitor. Suddenly the screen flickered. Over the terminal, a handwritten script unfurled, ink-black and immaculate:

📜 They want to erase him. Protect his memory.

—A

The student didn’t hesitate. Screenshot. Encrypted drop.

Encrypted Group Chat: The Serpent’s Kids (No AJ)

👤 BerlinGrad: [screenshot.jpg]

👤 SaoPaulo19: tf??? is this fanart??

👤 LagosCoder: nah. look at the ink. that’s not a font.

👤 ChennaiWhiteHat: [zoomed-in.jpg] see the folds? that’s… paper??

👤 BerlinGrad: it literally materialized on my IDE. I nearly pissed myself.

👤 LagosCoder: …so who the hell is “A”?

👤 LagosCoder: Is this what I think it is?

👤 ChennaiWhiteHat: Came through the encrypted line. Handwriting. Real ink. Whoever “A” is, they’ve got insider access.

👤 SaoPaulo19: It’s about the Messiah, isn’t it? They’re coming for him.

👤 BerlinGrad: Then we protect him. Extra layers. No debate.

Ramallah, Rooftop.

The apostle livestream crew found their routers glitching—then strengthening. New firewalls hummed into place, anonymous hands bolstering their digital defenses. The feed, usually easy to trace, suddenly ran like water underground. Invisible. Safe.

Yeshua strummed, unaware, while an invisible ring of serpents coiled tight around his network.

On-line.

📱 TikTok Fan Edit 

Clip: Crowley lounging on his throne, slow zoom on his serpent eyes.

Song: Pony by Ginuwine (because of course).

Caption: “Daddy A.J. just erased my debt 😭🐍👁🔥”

Comments flying:

“He just tanked capitalism in silk pajamas??”

“step on me daddy A.J.”

“WHY IS HE HOT”

🐦 Twitter

@debtfreedad — 11:04 PM

“so let me get this straight. some demon in sunglasses just wiped my mortgage while sipping wine?? ok. i’ll bark.”

🔁 47k retweets • ❤️ 120k likes

🎮 Discord — #aj-thirst-trap

@financebrokiller: “im not saying i’d let him ruin my credit again but…”

@animefangirl: [Crowley edit with sparkles] “already ruined mine 💖🐍👁”

Pinned: “rule 1: thirst responsibly. rule 2: no pyramid scheme links.”

📸 Instagram Story — @DebtFreeBabe

Boomer text over grandma dancing: “thank u aj 🐍✨💋”

Swipe-up link → “mutual aid guide” (500k shares in 2 hours).

📱 TikTok Fan Edit 

Side-by-side: Finance bro sobbing on CNN vs. Crowley sipping wine.

Overlay text: “Spot the difference: one has taste.”

Audio: Bass-boosted evil laugh remix.

🧵 Reddit — r/latecapitalism

Post title: so… A.J. just did wealth redistribution??

OP: not a drill. my landlord texted me crying. everyone in my building is debt free. should i send aj a fruit basket or my firstborn.

Top Comments:

↳ u/doomscroll_dad (15.4k): send him sunglasses polish.

↳ u/queercryptid (12.8k): nah send thirst edits, that’s clearly his fuel.

↳ u/serpent_watcher (9.2k): finally a redistribution plan that slaps.

🎮 Discord — #rentfreed

@snaccman: “bro my bank app says zero. like… literally zero.”

@mememaster3000: “aj’s got bond-villain vibes ngl.”

@gradschooldropout: “i thought it was a glitch. turns out it’s a gift.”

Pinned: “community spreadsheet of debt-free celebrations 💃”

📱 TikTok Fan Edit

POV meme:

POV: Daddy A.J. just wiped your grandma’s debt.

[Grandma twerking badly in the kitchen while family cheers.]

Caption: “She deserves it. 💋”

🐦 Twitter 

@DebtThirst — 01:47 AM

“look i didn’t believe in god but i do believe in A.J. pin me to the wall like u pinned the stock market babe 😩”

🔁 42k retweets • ❤️ 173k likes

📱 TikTok Fan Edit 

Crowley’s smirk freeze-frame → sparkly filter → anime blush added.

Audio: K-pop fancam edit (BLACKPINK bass drop).

Text overlay: “A.J. said retire, queen 👑”

📱 TikTok Fan Edit 

Split-screen: Shibuya Crossing crowd cheering under serpent eyes vs. Crowley sprawled in Mayfair.

Audio: Billie Eilish – “You Should See Me in a Crown.”

Caption: “Global daddy era unlocked.”

🎮 Discord — #horny-on-main

@fangirl666: “sraly A J. in silk pajamas is literally my roman empire.”

@taxfreethirst: “if he doesn’t choke me with that wine glass stem what was the point of society.”

@softsub92: “he’s giving debt daddy realness and i’m wet.”

📱 TikTok Fan Edit 

Loop of Crowley’s toast, subtitled in neon fonts:

“Ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between…”

Song: TikTok remix of Lady Gaga – Government Hooker.

Comment pinned: “This man just cancelled capitalism and gave us vibes.”

📸 Instagram Reel — @ThirstTrapEconomics

Audio: Ginuwine – Pony

Clips: Crowley sipping → cut with a girl sprawled across a bed waving a bank statement that says $0.00.

Caption: “Ride it, daddy A.J. 🐍🍷”

📱 TikTok Fan Edit 

Duet: Kid crying happy tears in São Paulo → “My mom’s chemo is paid. Who even IS A.J.??”

Crowley clip spliced after: smirking sip of wine.

Caption: “Global zaddy.”

🧵 Reddit — r/AJsThirstCult (already trending)

OP: “he nuked capitalism but why do i want him to nuke my back??”

Top Comments:

↳ u/serpent_thirsty (11.3k): the real debt i need cleared is between my legs.

↳ u/hornyscholar (9.7k): finally an anarchist dom with taste.

↳ u/grandmacrush (8.2k): i’m 72 and i would still climb him.

🐦 Twitter Trending Hashtags:

#DaddyAJ

#DebtFreeBabe

#SerpentEyes

#AJsGift

#CryHarderBillionaire

#ChaosButMakeItFashion

Crowley doomscrolls, sunglasses tipped down, muttering furiously:

“Daddy A.J.? Bloody hell. I did not sign up for this.”

Ping! New edit: Crowley’s serpent eyes + “Daddy A.J. frees us again 🐍🔥👁”

He groans, drags a hand down his face.

“Can’t believe I’ve been reduced to a bloody thirst trap.”

But the corner of his mouth won’t stop twitching upward.

He scrolled past another TikTok fancam—his serpent eyes slowed down frame by frame, sparkles and lip-bite filters layered over the freeze-frame. 

Comments were pure carnage:

“Step on me Daddy A.J.”

“This man deleted my debt and now he can delete my spine.”

 “Global zaddy supremacy!! 🐍🔥👁”

 “He nuked capitalism but also: who will make the fanvids if we have no rent? Asking for archival purposes.”

Crowley groaned, muttering into his glass. “Bloody internet’s lost the plot.”

Next swipe: Twitter thread.

🐦 @hornyforchaos — “Imagine A.J. standing over you in silk pajamas whispering ‘you’re debt free, babe’ right before—” [thread expands, gets very explicit]

Crowley’s ears burned under his shades. “Nope. Absolutely not. Humans are feral.”

📸 Instagram fanart: Crowley sprawled on his throne, shirt undone, serpent eyes glowing, piles of shredded credit cards around his feet. Caption: “Daddy said no more capitalism, so I made it porn ✨🐍✨”

“OH FOR F—!” He actually slammed his phone down, pacing. “Six thousand years and this is what gets me a bloody cult? Porn memes and grandma twerking?! Ridiculous.”

He scrolled faster.

Ping. 

Not TikTok. Not Twitter. Not Discord either. That sound only came from one app.

He grabbed his second phone. Screen black, message glowing. His encrypted chat:

 Screenshot: neat handwriting, real ink.

They want to erase him. Protect his memory.

—A

The smirk dropped clean off his face.

Crowley stilled mid-rant, wine dripping onto the rug. “…What the hell?”

Scroll. More messages.

👤 BerlinGrad: “Insider leak. Heaven’s targeting the Messiah.”

👤 LagosCoder: “Already boosting his network.”

👤 ChennaiWhiteHat: “He’s under protection now. Non-negotiable.”

🔊 A.J. “Bloody hell. You lot are protecting him? Behind my back?!”

👤 BerlinGrad: With respect, A.J… you weren’t doing it fast enough.

Crowley sat there, glass half-spilled, a strange ache under his ribs. Rage? Pride? Something softer? He wasn’t sure.

The group chat lit up on Crowley’s phone, messages flying faster than he could scroll.

👤 ChennaiWhiteHat: Heaven’s planning to wipe him.

👤 LagosCoder: Boosted his network already. Safe as we can make it.

👤 SaoPaulo19: He’s chaos, A.J. Just like you said. Worth protecting.

Crowley stared between the screen full of filth still autoplaying in one corner, and the deadly-serious hacker thread on the other.

“For Satan’s sake,” he muttered, horrified dragging a hand down his face “This is really happening right in front of my bloody salad.”

🔊A J.: “Excuse me. Did I miss the part where I authorized guarding Heaven’s shiny golden boy? Since when are we running bloody daycare for Messiahs?!”

The chat pinged back instantly.

👤 BerlinGrad: Since you told us chaos matters more than control.

👤 ChennaiWhiteHat: You said no physical harm. Protecting him keeps the chaos fun, not tragic.

👤 LagosCoder: Relax, A.J. We’re just planting chaos. Like you taught us.

Crowley sat bolt upright. His own bloody words, thrown back at him in pixelated text. He snarled, baring fangs at the glowing screen.

🔊A.J.: “Ngk! Insolent little shits… Unbelievable. Chastised by humans. Can’t believe it.”

Another ping.

👤 SaoPaulo19: Approval noted, boss. 🐍💋

Crowley let his head fall back against the sofa with a groan, dragging a hand down his face. Against his will, a grin tugged at his mouth.

🔊A.J.: “Fine. Protect the blasted Messiah. But don’t think for a second this means I’m going soft.”

Crowley sat fuming, glass in hand, still muttering about “bloody insolent humans” when the notifications rolled in faster than he could swipe. Meme edits. Fan thirst. Chaos, chaos, chaos.

He scrolled harder, sulking, until a new tag popped up: #BreadAndWiFi

📱 Notification: @BreadAndWiFi just went live.

Yeshua on a rooftop. Guitar slung low. MM at his side, Mateo laughing into the mic, Peter tapping away on a laptop in the corner. The cadence of Yeshua’s voice cut through Crowley like a blade:

 “Borders starve us. Banks will no longer strangle us. Tonight we fed 1000 people. Tomorrow we’ll feed 2000.”

Crowley’s cigarette slipped from his lips. He whispered: “…bloody hell.” The cadence. The grit under the voice. The absolute bloody nerve.

He scrubbed back the video, squinting. Yeshua looked dead into the camera—into him, it felt like—and grinned.

📱 TikTok (@BreadAndWiFi):

Yeshua strumming, MM harmonizing, Mateo blowing kisses.

Caption: “Poly on the rooftop, babe 🌈✨ #BreadAndWiFi”

Crowley muttered: “…he’s got a huge bloody fanbase already.”

📸 Instagram (@PolyOnTheRooftop):

A candid: Yeshua ladling soup, MM’s hand on his shoulder, Mateo mid-laugh.

Comments:

“When’s the album?”

“MM is serving, but make it queer.”

Crowley groaned: “…of course they’re photogenic.”

🐦 Twitter/X (@BreadAndWiFi): “ok yes he’s divine but he also burned rice again” – Mateo

Crowley actually snorted into his drink. “…idiot’s got a twink running PR.”

🎮 Discord Leak (Upper Room 2.0):

Peter dropping spreadsheets in #finance.“Rent covered. Mutual aid distributed. No, Mateo, you cannot expense glitter cowboy hats.”

Comments:

penguinsaidbybcumberbatch: “Wait, wasn’t Matthew supposed to be the tax guy?? Why’s Peter doing the spreadsheets?? 🤨”

user3.1426: “Fanon Peter >>> Canon Peter. Don’t @ me. Long live #daddyspreadsheet 💕 

Crowley barked a laugh reading comments. “…daddy spreadsheet, really?!”

He had heard of him, of course — everyone had. Headlines, edits, the occasional peak to the streams. But this was different. Seeing Yeshua up close on a live feed, the camera catching the small, human things — the way he laughed into the mic, the grit on his knuckles, the little half-smile when Mateo cracked a joke — felt uncomfortably intimate. It wasn’t discovery. It was recognition that cut sideways, the private kind that made his cigarette go cold in his fingers. 

“…bloody hell,” he whispered. “It’s him. It’s actually him.”

He refreshed the feed, heart kicking harder than he’d admit. Clip after clip. Yeshua in Ramallah, barefoot, furious, magnificent. MM sharp as glass, Mateo glowing, Peter steady in the background. The whole bloody lot of them, broadcasting like they’d been born for livestreams.

Crowley raked a hand through his hair, muttering like a prayer and a curse in one:

“Angel… your Chosen One’s running a bloody Twitch channel. And I think he just stole my thunder.”