hey pls checkout my doctor who fanfic having a blast writing it.
So am really loving Warhammer TikTok edits lmao
After this, I'm going to post a Doctor Who chapter
This was going to be a post yesterday, but my stomach was hurting a lot
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[with Michael]
The bells of Saint Peter's Basilica rang for midnight Mass, their iron tongues echoing across Rome. But beneath the prayers of the faithful, another sound stirred.
Wings.
White light streaked across the heavens as Michael, Archangel of Heaven, descended with a host of twelve angels. They did not flare trumpets or call psalms. They came silently, weapons folded, faces serene.
Michael's boots touched the cobblestones of the Vatican courtyard with the softness of falling snow. Around him, guards in papal armor froze, eyes widening, rifles shaking in their hands.
One dropped his weapon entirely.
Michael said nothing. He merely looked at them, and the men felt as though the marrow in their bones turned to ice. The youngest among them whispered, voice cracking:
"He's real."
The Archangel turned his head slowly, golden eyes burning in the dark. "Stand aside. This is not your judgment."
The guards obeyed, pressing their backs against the wall, their mortal courage failing.
Without further pause, Michael led his host into the heart of the Vatican. The bells continued to ring, as though masking the steps of Heaven's executioners.
Deep in the papal archives, Michael convened his angels. They formed a circle of wings and light, their faces blank, unreadable.
Michael unrolled a scroll inscribed with divine script. The Decree. The names of every bishop, priest, and researcher tied to the Holy Sword Project glowed faintly in crimson.
"These are guilty," Michael said. His voice was steady, clear, like water poured into a glass. "Their work was unauthorized, their sin deliberate. They sought to forge weapons in our Lord's name without consent. Their souls are already condemned."
He lowered the scroll. His gaze was hard, but his tone was strangely calm.
"They are to be removed. All others, the innocent, the ignorant, will be spared. They are to be warned. One of the angels, Raziel, inclined his head. "What of spies and hardware planted by devils or fallen?"
Michael's answer was instant. "Burn them. Tear down their devices. The only reason we left them is because we want them to know we were not building weapons to restart the Great War."The angels bowed. The order was given. The purge would begin.
Marta De Luca, secretary to Bishop Renaldi, had never feared the archives. It was a quiet place, full of dust and secrets. Tonight, though, she felt uneasy.
She adjusted her glasses, typing notes on the Bishop's dictation regarding "Project Sanctus Ensis." She didn't understand the science behind it, only that it was "the future of holy warfare."
Then the air shifted.
The lamps flickered. A pressure weighed down on her chest, and Marta realized her lungs weren't working right—she was barely breathing.
Footsteps echoed. She looked up, and her throat closed.
Angels. Real angels.
Their wings unfurled like storm clouds of light, filling the chamber. Their faces were calm, inhumanly so—neither cruel nor kind, just… absolute.
At their head was Michael, tall, flawless, golden eyes glowing faintly. He regarded the Bishop, not Marta.
"Renaldi of Rome," Michael said simply. "You are guilty."
The Bishop rose, stammering. "I—Lord Michael—I was only following—"
A sword of light swept in a single arc. There was no scream, no blood. Renaldi simply vanished into a flicker of ash and fading soul.
Marta collapsed to her knees, sobbing, clutching her crucifix. She expected to be next.
But Michael turned his gaze on her, and for a heartbeat, she felt her soul laid bare.
"You are not guilty," he said.
Then he and the others moved past her, their wings brushing the air with whispers of flame. Marta remained frozen, her tears falling silently, knowing she would never forget how close she came to being erased.
Elsewhere, the angels of Heaven swept through hidden vaults.
A team led by Sariel entered a laboratory where scribes had wired fragments of Excalibur into data-cores and blood-fed runes. Devils' bugs hung in the rafters like black spiders, their crimson eyes recording. Fallen angel lenses spun in corners, silent witnesses.
Sariel raised her hand. A wheel of fire bloomed above her palm, spinning with scripture.
"Begone."
The room ignited. Not in heat, but in purity. Every lens cracked. Every bug shrieked in a frequency only demons could hear before dissolving into smoke. Computers sparked and melted, runes tore themselves apart.
The scribes screamed and tried to flee. Sariel's eyes fell on them.
"Your names are not written," she said. "Run. Spread the fear."
They stumbled into the night, alive but scarred, their work in ashes.
In another chamber, a scientist was cornered by Michael himself. His name, Dr. Paolo Escher, glowed crimson on the scroll.
He dropped to his knees, glasses shattered, papers spilling everywhere. "Please—I only wanted to help mankind! We needed stronger weapons—holy swords—"
Michael studied him, expression unreadable. Then, in a voice calm as a parent correcting a child, he said:
"You thought yourself creator. You were a thief of divinity."
Escher sobbed. "I prayed before every test! I did this for the Church!"
"No," Michael said, his blade lowering to the man's throat. "You did this for ambition."
The sword struck. Escher was gone, as though he had never existed.
Two assistants in the corner shrieked. Michael turned his head. Their names were not on the scroll.
He sheathed his blade. "Leave. Tell the others what happens when man plays with Heaven's tools."
The women fled, gasping for air. Behind them, only silence remained.
Sofia, a novice nun, had spent her life imagining angels as kind, radiant beings who sang hymns and smiled at children.
Now she watched them walk the hallways of the Vatican, and her heart quailed.
They were beautiful—too beautiful. Wings spread in perfection, robes white as stars. But their faces were empty. Their eyes saw everything, judged everything, and cared for nothing but order.
One passed her in the corridor. She bowed automatically. The angel paused, its head tilting slightly, gaze falling upon her.
"You are afraid," the angel said, voice soft, almost curious.
Sofia stammered. "Y-yes."
The angel leaned closer, eyes piercing. "Good. Fear keeps you from sin."
Then it walked on.
Sofia pressed herself against the wall, trembling, the sound of its fading wings like thunder in her ears.
For hours, the angels moved through the Vatican and beyond.
Everywhere the guilty were named, they were struck down. Bishops in their studies, scientists in their labs, scribes in their offices. Some begged, some fought, some denied. All were erased in silence, their bodies dissolving into nothing.
Where innocence remained, mercy was given. But even mercy was terrifying. Mortals were left alive with the weight of Heaven's eyes on them, knowing they had been spared not by right, but by choice.
And everywhere, the angels destroyed the hidden machines of devils and fallen-bugs, crystals, and recorders. They left no trace of the project, no record for enemies to exploit. Only ash and whispers remained.
By dawn, the purge was complete.
Michael stood atop the steps of the Basilica, his sword planted in the stone. The surviving bishops gathered below, pale, trembling, many too afraid to speak.
Michael's voice carried over them like a church bell:
"You are shepherds. Shepherds do not build weapons. Shepherds do not play at gods. You will guide the flock, nothing more. This is not a request. This is law."
No one dared argue. Heads bowed, tears flowed, prayers mumbled.
Michael lifted his sword, its light dimming, and for the first time that night, his eyes softened.
"Do not mistake this as cruelty. We purge to protect. We cut away rot so that the body may live."
He spread his wings, radiant in the rising sun. "Remember this fear. Let it guard you more than greed."
With that, he and his angels rose into the sky, wings tearing the clouds, leaving Rome below in awestruck silence.
Marta De Luca knelt in her tiny apartment, hands still shaking. She had watched men vanish like shadows before morning light. She had heard angels speak words sharper than blades.
And she knew one thing with absolute certainty:
They were not merciful in the way humans thought. They were merciful like surgeons—cutting, precise, leaving behind scars instead of corpses.
She looked out her window at the Vatican, the spires glowing under dawn, and whispered:
"They aren't ours anymore. We're theirs."
And in her heart, fear and reverence mixed until she could no longer tell the difference.
The Hell
The report reached Grigori headquarters not as a whisper, but as a scream across every surveillance channel.
Every hidden lens, every infernal bug, every shard of black crystal the Fallen had planted in Vatican vaults… was gone. Not destroyed by human hands, but erased in a way no devilish countermeasure could explain.
Azazel, Governor-General of the Grigori, sat at his cluttered desk with a glass of scotch and watched the feed collapse. One by one, every link went dark, static crawling across the screens.
By dawn, there was nothing left.
He sat in silence, his usual smirk absent.
"Shit."
By midday, the top cadres of the Fallen gathered in the war-room. Screens flickered with the last frames their spies had captured: blinding light, wings spreading through shadow, faces too radiant to behold.
Michael.
And others, twelve strong Angels that they don't know, probably to newborn angels.
The council dissolved into argument.
Kokabiel slammed his fist down. "You all saw it! The purge in Rome wasn't just whispers—Michael went through like a plague. Dozens erased. No devils, no fallen ears left to spy. That wasn't a rumor. That was a message."
Barachiel, normally calm, leaned forward, eyes sharp. "And what message do you think it was?"
Kokabiel said. "That our Father is back. And He's pissed."
Kokabiel then laughed hard, though his eyes betrayed the tremor in his voice. "Maybe he's saving us for last. A special execution. As Lucifer always said, Father played favorites."
"Shut up." Armaros hissed. His wings twitched, restless. "If Father's back, we need to beg for mercy, not spit in His face."
The word Father lingered in the air like poison. It was instinctive, automatic. None of them could call Him anything else. No matter how much they'd fallen, no matter how much they'd rebelled, He was still Father.
Barachiel gave a bitter laugh, though it lacked any humor. "Mad? We rebelled, Armaros. We walked out of Heaven. We didn't just break curfew—we burned the house down and spat on the walls. What do you think?"
Armaros swallowed hard. "But—He let us live. If He wanted us gone, He could've erased us ages ago."
Kokabiel glared at him. "You think that means forgiveness? No. It means He was waiting. Waiting for the right time to come back and settle the score."
Shemhazai raised a hand. "Enough. Fear makes us sound like children."
Barachiel shot back: "Maybe that's what we are. Scared kids afraid their dad's about to walk through the door with a belt made of stars."
That earned him a few nervous chuckles, but the unease never left the room.
Azazel raised a hand, silencing them.
"Panic won't help. Let's think. If he is back… then why now? Why display Himself with blood instead of words that not like the old man?"
Shemehazi's eyes darkened. "Maybe because He's angry, we all did extreme acts during the war."
No one replied. The thought hung heavy in the chamber, suffocating.
Kokabiel spoke up, "Let's not forget those new angels, including the Rider and the horsemen of the apocalypse. Father is designing and making new gen angels of war
He pulls up the images showing twelve new angels—towering, armored, their wings not just white but edged with burning energy. Their faces were serene, but their eyes glowed with the weight of eternity.
"These aren't the angels we remember," Tamiel said quietly. "They're different. Stronger. Sharper than the angels he built for combat back in the day."
For the first time, none of them argued. The room was heavy with the weight of realization.
Shemhazai rubbed his temples. "This doesn't make sense. Why now? Why would He wait centuries to act?"
Barachiel's jaw tightened. "Because he wanted us to think He was gone. That's the cruelest part—He let us believe we were free."
Kokabiel spat. "We were free. And we used it better than Heaven ever did. Humans thrived under our guidance."
"Guidance?" Barachiel snapped. "Or manipulation? You think He doesn't see the wars, the cults, the games we played? You think He's blind?"
Kokabiel didn't answer.
For all their wings and power, the Fallen sounded less like beings with powers of gods and more like frightened children. Their voices overlapped, raw with panic.
"What if He sends Michael, or worse, that Lucifer 2.0 in a leather jacket after us?"
"We'll fight—"
"Fight? You saw the photos. That's not a fight, that's suicide."
"We can run. Hide."
"From Him? Where? Space? Hell? There's nowhere He can't reach."
The table shook as arguments flared. For once, their pride couldn't mask the truth.
They were terrified.
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So far that 6 chapter post since last and this week not bad for me, check out my Doctor Who fanfic.
So to let you guys know, I'm doing college class again, but it's on Saturdays and Mondays at 8 and 9 am.