#and I think a satanic holiday is the perfect day for my bastard to be born <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[multishipper-baby]

Since I already thought of birthdays for Jason and Rayray, I decided why not go through my OCs and give them all birthdays? And so I did.

[valkyriesryde]

Release the Hounds {6/?}

Chapter Six: Am I Supposed to Fight?

Pairing: Persephone!Steve Rogers x Hades!Reader

Chapter Summary: Both sides are preparing but the question of whether they will actually have to fight is still standing. And everyone has an opinion.

Word Count: ...2,000ish lol

A/N: Sooooo I’m a slack human being but I’m not giving up on this story! Just have a bit of a busy life at the moment hahah here you go fambam please forgive me. I’m going to try and smash out several chapters in the next week before I go on holiday/school starts back up.

Series Masterlist ~ Masterlist

As Hades stepped into the home of her brother she slipped off her coat and threw it over the back of the couch in the first living room. 

“Where art thou my dear brother?” She called through the house and a sweet whistle sounded down the stairs and around her. She dressed and presented herself much more casual than when she met with Thor. She no longer adorned her business attire, dressed in black jeans and a loose t-shirt. Her boots hitting the marble as she climbed the stairs. 

Loki’s house is extravagant. The outside something like a greek temple with its decorated ionic columns and statues. The inside much the same in its sense of power. But Loki likes to be comfortable.  His home has a, well, homely feel to it. Art adorns every wall, in every corner but the blanket is thrown lazily over the couch, there’s a pile of books on the coffee table and as she walks down the hallway she can smell the sea salt as if they were right next to the ocean. She can hear the horses in his backyard through the open windows. Hades always enjoyed coming to Loki’s home because thats what it was. A home. It wasn’t a place of work, apart from his office, his children come and go as they please, there’s always dishes to be washed and laundry to be folded. She felt welcomed here.

“Since when do you work this late?” She leaned on the doorframe of his office as Loki looked up from his piles of paper, his long black hair disheveled from running his fingers through it.

“I’m a very hard worker excuse you,” he smiled and offered her the seat in front of his desk, reaching into a draw next to him and bringing out two glasses and a bottle of nectar in a beautifully adorned glass bottle. Hades’ eyes lingered on the bottle as she ached for him to just hand the thing to her so she could pour it down her throat. Lord she needed a drink after this week.

“And I’m beloved by all,” her voice was sarcastic and she drooled as he handed her the glass and raised his eyebrows.

“By me especially,” he winked. Loki, forever the cheeky bastard.

“My biggest supporter,” she smiled and they clinked their glasses. 

Loki looked back down at his work, his forehead crinkled and his lip pulled between his teeth, she had an inkling to rip out the paper from under him but knew better to disturb him while he thought. It could be important afterall. 

So instead her eyes wandered, they moved to the ceiling tall bookcase to his right, spotting some of her favourites amongst his collection. She stood and walked towards the giant fish tank he had to his left and peered in, watching the exotic fish minding their business.

“Why can’t people be more like you,” she muttered under her breath and the red and blue fish with a tail that looked like it belonged to a feather dancer stared blankly back at her.

“They don’t like being stared at,” Loki chimed from his desk, his attention still on his papers. She sighed and fell back into the seat.

“Perhaps if you joined me for dinner and a drink or two I wouldn’t. Why are you working, work is off limits on our nights.” She was getting agitated, her entire week had been filled with work, forgetting about the normal stuff, the addition of the council and that damn god of spring was starting to give her a headache. “I’m sick of work! I just want a night off, please Loki.” 

“Well I’m sick of you being treated poorly by assholes who think they’re better.” His voice was stern and she leaned back for a second in shock at it. Loki was not often passionate about things. Unless someone had spoken poorly against him or, in Odysseus’ case injured his son and was just a “lying good for nothing asshole!” Loki fought when it was his reputation on the line, but this, this was different, the last time Hades had seen Loki fight for someone other than himself was when he went by Poseidon and they fought side by side with Thor, then Zeus, against their father. Hades prayed a war would not come of this strife that was forming between the Olympians.

“Thor told me what you’re doing, why didn’t you come to me about this? I would have told y-“

“You would have told me to stop, that it’s for nothing but I’m sorry to say Hades, you’re wrong.”  

Steve had his nose buried in his notebook while his mother went on about her campaign to “keep that wicked witch of the Underworld from getting her death grip on the council.” He sketched out the cornucopia from the gates, the flowers that had adorned it. The pages were covered in those sketches, one of her crown, how it was burned into his memory but he didn’t dare draw her face. Currently his pencil shaded a hand, with a vine twisted around it, the thorns piercing its skin and Steve couldn’t help but feel the prickle of the thorns in his own hand.

“Steve!” He jumped at the sound of his mother’s voice. The book slammed shut and he slid into his pocket as she dropped a clipboard into his hands. “Go around the council’s homes, get their signature. Thor needs proof that we will not stand for her to sit with us. We must band together in a time like this. I have no doubt the olympians will agree.” He dropped the clipboard onto the table and shook his head. She paid no attention to him, instead continuing her work as she wrote notes for the debate. “Sing your name too, we can’t forget about ourselves.”

He picked up the clipboard and walked out the door making his way out of the house towards Bucky’s home first. 

Bucky’s house always confused Steve, the interior and furniture changed every couple millennia but the outside, the general idea of it was always the same and it was never extravagant. Most homes in Olympus didn’t change much, they just added things to keep up with the times. Bucky’s home was basically a shack. A cabin in the woods. A beach house with the lake view to match. Made of dark wood with a porch that stretched around the entire front of the house. Bucky’s home was one that matched its owner in its entirety. Bucky was a relaxed man, he took things as they came and he was never very serious. It was one of the reasons Steve enjoyed his company so much because when his mother was up his ass or his work was being exceptionally hard Bucky was there with a pat on the back and a drink in his hand inviting him to watch the sunset over the water. 

They were best friends, could always count on one another no matter what, Steve knew that Bucky had his back always, and so he knew now that no matter how much Bucky disapproved of the situation he would still back Steve. 

“You’re mother is going to kill you.” Bucky sat leaning on his knees on the couch, his beer long forgotten about on the coffee table as he held the clipboard in one hand shaking his head at Steve. 

“Pretty sure she always kind of wants to kill me.”

“Never. You’re her special little boy, her one perfect creation,” Bucky cocked a smile at his friend who rolled his eyes back. 

“Shut up,” Steve leaned back and sipped at his own beer, watching it spin in his hands. It was a solid plan, if he went to the right people it would work, he could go behind his mother and her campaign and plead Hades’ case. Maybe even talk to Loki, though he wasn’t sure if Loki would believe him. He wasn’t overly sure if anyone would believe him. 

“You already know I’m on your side Steve. I know Hades, I remember the last time she sat on the council. She’s smart, she has the knowledge and the authority, she deserves to be there, but the younger gods, the once who have forgotten what she did, the ones that have never worked with her. They don’t know. They eat out of Demeter’s hands with all her bullshit about satan and how we ‘don’t need the dead in the business of the living’,” Bucky mocked Demeter, he was never afraid to do that in front of Steve, at first he felt slightly weird about it, like his mother would know if he ever spoke a bad word about her but he soon realised the Bucky was safe, he could be himself and say what he wanted without consequences, well, with little consequences. 

Steve thought about what Bucky had said, he knew that Bucky would be on his side, Bucky had never not shown support for Hades herself, just, ya know, the stupid shit Steve did in Hades…

But something stayed with Steve. ‘the ones that have never worked with her’, had Bucky worked with Hades? When would Bucky have to work with her? Bucky worked with the sun, he worked with prophecies and medicine, none of which concerned the dead.

“Start with Becca, she and I are one of the same, Pallas-Nat, she’ll be on your side too, I know she’s already talked to Loki about it. That’s who you should go to after, to him, if he knows, if he has confirmation from Nat, I know they hate each other because of Athens and Odysseus but he trusts her word, he trusts that she’ll choose the winning side.” Bucky went on and on about who Steve should see, who he knew that would be on his side.

He listened intently, took note and made a plan of what he should say to each. To Becca, goddess of the hunt, the best way was to talk to her about Bucky, they always fought side by side. To Natasha, goddess of wisdom, it was going to be harder. But if Bucky was right then she already agreed with Steve, they just needed to join forces.  

Hades,

I don’t know when you’ll get this, I plan on giving it to Peter to pass on, I know I can trust him to get this to you safely. There’s five days before the council debates and I thought you would appreciate an update as to what is happening in Olympus.

I imagine you have your own ways, maybe spies, Loki has probably discussed matters with you also. He said he had told you he would fight whether you liked it or not, how you told him that he was stubborn. You said I was stubborn as well, I guess I am, but I can’t help fighting for what I believe in. I believe in you. I believe that you should have a say and so do many of the others, Loki, Becca, Natasha, and Jane all agree with me. I think we actually have a shot but Loki thinks it will take your appearance to convince Thor and the lesser gods and nymphs that will be present.

I hope to see you there, please. 

Yours,

Steve 

Hades and Sam sat side by side on the balcony that overlooked the gates. They watched as night engulfed them and there was an eery silence between the two. A fresh argument still sitting between them, two sides of the same fight. 

Hades’ mind was fighting with itself, her guard was being torn down brick by brick as Loki and Steve tried to convince her to stand before the twelve Olympians. But Sam wasn’t a fan of the idea.

“What if it’s a trap,” he argued, “we don’t know what Demeter has up her sleeve,” he said, “we don’t need them!” He raised his voice and she let him get it all out.

“Are you finished yet?” She brushed her hand over her dress and looked at him as Sam nodded. “You’re right.” 

Sam was shocked at what she said, he expected her to rationalise her reasons, he expected her to tell him to mind his own business, to tell him that she would stand up for the Underworld. But she didn’t.

“I’m what now?”

“You’re right Sam. Everything about this is stupid. The living and the dead shouldn’t be mixed, bad things happen, bad things like husbands wanting to resurrect their wives, like people thinking they can make deals in order to mess with what is natural. They don’t respect us or what we do here, you’re right, it could be a trap. Demeter will make it a living hell for myself and the rest of you here if she can. You’re right, we don’t need them, we run things differently here, our systems aren’t the same.”

“Then what…” Sam looked at Hades in awe, there was fire in her eyes and he knew that look, she was sick of being undermined, she was angry, she was determined and if he knew her as well as he thought he did he knew what that look meant. She had a plan. “Then why are you considering it?”

“Because they need us.”

Chapter Seven: Here Comes Trouble

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[cryptidkieren]

come around (3/6)

waddup guys!! this one took forever but its 4000 WORDS so i hope that explains my absence :)

ao3 link 

-----

“What about this one, angel?”

Aziraphale looked up from the soft yellow cardigan he was holding, people scurrying around them with their own shopping. He wished he hadn’t.

Crowley held aloft a maroon sweatshirt with what looked to be a drawing of Jesus… sneezing into his elbow?

“I don’t get it.”

The mischievous smirk on the demon’s face instantly disappeared. The bustle of the shopping center around them seem to grow louder in the silence that hung between the two supernatural beings. “What d'you mean, you don't get it?”

“I mean,” Aziaphale wrinkled his nose as he neatly folded the cardigan back into place, turning back to face his companion. “That I don’t know why a sweater of Jesus Christ sneezing is an appropriate gift for the son of Satan.”

Crowley, for whatever reason, seemed to be absolutely baffled. “I- What- Sneezing? For all the bloody-”

The angel stifled a laugh and plucked the sweatshirt out of the sputtering demon’s hands. He hummed as he looked it over, inspecting it for any mistakes in the stitching, as Crowley attempted to pull himself together.

Just as Crowley opened his mouth, most likely to criticize him for still culturally living in the 19th century, Aziraphale interrupted with a cheery “Actually, I think we should get it!” The angel quickly placed the garment into their basket as he watched, looking positively bewildered.

Aziraphale chuckled at Crowley’s expression; he was a bit of a bastard, after all.

“I cannot believe you, angel,” Crowley sighed, rubbing his temples rather vigorously as they continued their hunt through the department store. The angel only smiled serenely in response.

The festive season onslaught was in full swing by that point, people rushing about trying to finish up their Christmas shopping and attempting to dodge the snowdrifts that had piled up throughout the previous days. Loud, cheery holiday music blared in every store, while vendors on the sidewalk sold hot chocolate and warm pretzels to passersby.

It was Aziraphale’s favorite time of year, and Crowley’s least.

While the angel adored the general sense of goodwill and cheer that permeated the air during the holiday season, Crowley always saw it as more work. Every year without fail, Hell expected him to tempt and irritate humans more and more than the previous year.

He also hated Christmas music with the passion of a dying star.

The two unearthly beings had been through numerous shops in downtown London that day, trying to find the perfect gifts for their human friends. They wanted to do it the “proper way,” or Aziraphale wanted to, at least, since they had never bothered to before.

They had been in their current store for around 15 minutes, Crowley picking up joke gifts with all the seriousness of a clown while the angel reprimanded him fondly. At one point, the demon had eyed an over-the-top festive ugly sweater with growing mischief. Aziraphale only shook his head and steered him away, knowing the sweater would end up in Anathema’s pile of gifts at some point.

The angel perused the selection of sketchbooks the shop was selling, noting with a touch of disdain the ones made to look like antique tomes, as Crowley trailed behind him. He paused, however, when he saw something that caught his eye. It was a glittery notebook with a curly-headed dog on the front. The dog was sitting happily, tongue lolled out in a canine grin. It wore a black collar with a skull and crossbones, a human skull resting at its feet. ‘Bad to the Bone’ curled around the image in a pretty cursive script.

“I think you’d like this one, Crowley!”

The distinct lack of a sarcastic response made Aziraphale pause, turning to see what could have distracted his companion so thoroughly from him.

“Crowley?”

Crowley, however, was nowhere in sight.

Scanning the immediate area revealed nothing as to where the demon could have gotten off to. Dread steadily crept up Aziraphale’s spine as he dropped the notebook and quickly headed to the front door of the shop.

It seemed that the temperature had dropped since he had last been outside, the wind whipping snow around his ankles and blowing flakes down the stark road. The streets had emptied as the hour grew later, leaving Aziraphale alone on the sidewalk, with only the parked Bentley to keep him company. The angel stood there, freezing and panicked, torn on which direction to start searching.

A noise from the alley next to the shop caught his attention. It was a sort of wet sound, like slicing through meat, accompanied by what sounded like a muffled cry of pain. Vicious laughter followed, a sound that was as familiar as it was horrifying.

Of course the angel followed it.

What he found made Aziraphale’s blood boil and his Grace to erupt out of him in incandescent waves of light, violently enough that it almost discorporated his human body.

There was Crowley, tossed into the snow and bleeding from a large gash on his chest. His glasses lay broken by his feet, a cut across his nose oozing dark blood down his face. A bloodied hand was raised in front of him, as if to shield himself from an incoming blow.

The demon looked terrified. He looked as if he knew he was moments from death.

Above him stood Hastur and a squat, mean looking demon unknown to Aziraphale. Hastur looked as grotesque as ever, though both demons had curled in on themselves in fear as the angel’s fury reached them.

One of Hastur’s arms was covered in what looked to be a thick latex glove that reached his elbow, not unlike the ones used to handle dangerous chemicals. His protected hand held a golden dagger that radiated a soft white light, undimmed by the black ichor dripping off the blade. Aziraphale felt his breath falter for a moment.

He knew that weapon. It belonged to Uriel, though it hadn’t been wielded in millennia.

He also knew it was made of the best celestial steel Heaven could offer.

Celestial steel that, of course, could destroy demons permanently, as it was forged using holy water.

Aziraphale felt the tenuous control on his anger snap. His wings exploded out behind him, white feathers swirling with the untouched snow by their feet. They spanned so large that they completely blocked the entrance to the alley, making the glow of his Grace even more blinding in the dim light. When he spoke, it was as if a thousand other voices echoed his words.

“Hastur, Duke of Hell, how came you by this Heavenly blade?”

The two standing demons were quick to cower away from him. After a moment, Hastur dared to sneer up at the enraged angel.

“It was a gift, from the Archangels Gabriel and Uriel. They only allowed my possession of it for killing the demon Crowley and,” the demon paused then, straightening a bit when nothing happened to him. He licked his lips, a disgusting smile stealing its way onto his face. The demon next to him seemed to have gained confidence along with Hastur, grinning maliciously up at the angel.

“And they were hoping that by killing your boyfriend, you would go running back into their arms like a child. I believe they planned to make an example of you, Heavenly scum.” Hastur laughed wickedly, along with his little cronie.

While the two demons laughed themselves silly, Aziraphale stole a glance at Crowley, who was still sprawled in the quickly blackening snow. He was pale, a hand clutching at his bloody chest, while his golden eyes were wide in fear and… awe? He must’ve hit his head on something, because that couldn’t be right.

“Silence!” Aziraphale’s voice boomed around them, immediately putting an end to the two demons’ merriment. They were back to looking petrified, at least. “You forget yourself, Duke of Hell. One angel can destroy twenty demons without a thought. What could a Principality do?”

“Y-You can’t!” cried the undersized demon, wagging a trembling finger at the angel. Hastur was frantically trying to quiet him. “We have o-orders from Lord Beelzebub themself! The demon C-Crowley must die!”

With that, the demon ripped the celestial blade from Hastur’s grip. Aziraphale watched in frozen horror as he screamed, the skin of his palm already steaming and bubbling from coming into direct contact with an object from Heaven.

The angel snapped out of it when the demon raised a trembling arm above Crowley, poised to strike a killing blow. Time seemed to slow to a stop around them as Crowley’s life hung in the balance.

“NO!!”

A blinding flash of light and a bang that seemed to shake the very Earth. Uriel’s blade clattered to the pavement, a smouldering pile of black ash where the short demon previously was. Aziraphale’s outstretched hand (when did that get there?) trembled in the air. His breath wheezed out of him as he realized what he had done.

In all his many years, the angel had never killed anything, let alone destroy something so completely-

‘He was going to kill Crowley.’

And just like that, all of his guilt slipped away like water down a riverbed. His breathing evened out and his arm stopped wavering, dropping back to his side with a sense of finality.

Hastur, who had started screaming incoherently when he saw what had become of his partner (again), snapped his attention back to the suddenly calm angel. He looked even more terrified than before, and rightly so.

Aziraphale slowly approached the demon, who frantically tried to get away. Miraculously, his feet appeared to have been stuck fast to the ground, making his escape impossible. The angel rose himself the few inches difference between them to stare directly into Hastur’s soulless black eyes. His own were reflected back at him, burning an otherworldly blue.

The demon twitched as the angel’s Grace enveloped him completely, forcing little choked off sounds of pain from his throat. Aziraphale gripped Hastur’s white blond hair in a tight fist, burning the side of his face where they came into contact.

“You’ll tell everyone down there that no one shall harm what is mine. I am the angel who walked through Hellfire and never Fell, so please think before you act against me.” Aziraphale pulled Hastur closer, making the demon cry out in agony as the angel’s wrist pressed more firmly to his cheekbone. “Do you understand me, Duke of Hell? If any future suffering comes to Crowley from Hell, I’ll hunt you down first.”

“I do!” he croaked, squirming to get away from Aziraphale. The skin where they connected was bubbling up, smoke rising from the prolonged exposure. “I’ll tell them! I swear!”

“Good.” With that, he released the grip he had on Hastur, flicking his fingers to unstick his feet. The demon scrambled away from him, disappearing not a moment later.

Aziraphale floated softly back to firmer ground as he reigned in his Grace and wings, releasing a noisy breath. A pained whimper from the gutter had him scrambling towards Crowley, ignoring the sharp sting of falling so quickly to his knees on cement. The edge of panic that had kept its place in the back of his mind finally took control, making his hands shake with adrenaline and fear.

“Crowley- Oh-” The angels hands fluttered over the still bleeding wound. “Let me-”

“No,” Crowley rasped, coughing wetly to the side. A few drops of black blood stained the previously untouched snow. He caught both of the angel’s hands firmly in his own. “No, Aziraphale, don’t heal me like that. I wouldn’t survive it.”

Aziraphale was bewildered. The demon had never denied a healing opportunity from him before. Then again, nothing the angel had ever healed for him had been this serious. “What- What do you mean? I’ve healed you plenty before!”

The demon grinned up at him tiredly, white teeth stained black. “Your Grace, angel, it would kill me. It’s t-too big of a wound-” He turned to cough again, blood spilling over his lips.

His resolve hardened then. Aziraphale quickly hooked his arms under the demon, ignoring his weak protests, and gently lifted him into his arms. “Fine, but we’re not staying here. They could come back at any moment.”

“Wh-” Crowley swallowed thickly, his arms wrapped limply around the angel’s neck. “What a-about the sword?”

Aziraphale glanced at Uriel’s blade, still laying on the ground. The hilt had fallen into the ashes of the demon he killed, smearing them into the creases of the ancient binding around it. They would probably never come out, since miracles couldn’t work on Heavenly objects.

“I’m afraid I have to set you back down for this, darling,” Aziraphale said regretfully. He wanted nothing more than to run away right then, get as far away from that alley as possible with Crowley. But he had to send the blade back to its owner, lest it fall into the wrong hands. Again.

He also wanted to send a message, granted it was a nonverbal one.

“No no, it’s fine, I’ll just bleed q-quietly over here, n-no trouble,” the demon snarked as he was gently set to lean against one of the walls of the alley. Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly before getting to work.

Using the fallen demon’s ashes, Aziraphale quickly sketched out a messy sigil on a cleared area of the ground. It was reminiscent of the communicating sigil he drew all those months ago, with a few minor details switched around. Instead of being able to send messages, it would allow the celestial dagger to be sent straight to Uriel and whoever else was with her.

Sort of like a Heavenly mail chute.

The blade disappeared in a flash of light and the ash drawn circle blew away, leaving nothing behind but Crowley’s blood in the snow.

Aziraphale quickly gathered his demon (yes, his demon, God damn it; he had made his intentions perfectly clear, just then) and fled to the Bentley.

He only prayed no other forces were after them that day.

-----

Getting Crowley back to his flat was difficult, as any sharp turns the angel made caused him to groan in misery from the back seat. Aziraphale had never driven a day in his life, either, so that made the panic in his chest double as the speedometer steadily rose.

They screeched to a stop in front of Crowley’s stark building, the smell of burning rubber following them up the front steps. Aziraphale made it so no one would pay any attention to them in the lobby, because what was another miracle at that point?

The lift ride to Crowley’s floor seemed to go on for eternity. The demon had refused to lean against the wall for support, instead choosing to cling to Aziraphale as they rose through the building. The angel tried to ignore the wetness seeping through his shirt and jacket as he gripped Crowley closer to him.

When the lift stopped, the small jolt forcing a pained gasp out of the demon, Aziraphale quickly got them into the dark flat. He gently led the demon back to the bedroom, knowing that the unused couch in the living area was as uncomfortable as it was expensive.

“There we go, that’s a dear,” the angel muttered mindlessly, trying his best not to hurt Crowley further as he was set onto the soft mattress. He stared at the demon, fretting on how to help him, when he heard a breathless laugh.

“Calm down, angel,” Crowley said as he smiled up at him, exhausted golden eyes half lidded. “I-I’ll be alright. Don’t worry your p-pretty head about it.”

Aziraphale glared at him, snapping his fingers loudly to miracle away the demon’s unsaveable shirt and jacket. “I will not ‘calm down,’ Crowley! They sliced you open!”

“Alright,” the demon breathed, his eyebrows attempting to join his hairline. “Alright, Aziraphale, it’s o-okay. I’m okay, thanks to you.” He took one of the angel’s hands into his own, so gently that the angel almost started crying right then.

He sniffed instead, swallowing his tears back as he held onto the demon’s hand. “I-I have to help you, my dear. You’ll bleed out if I don’t do something about this, and then you’ll be discorporated.” The angel pushed back Crowley’s disheveled hair from his forehead, keeping his touch light, trying not to startle him with the affectionate gesture.

Crowley, however, appeared to have stopped breathing for a moment, his eyes wide and astonished. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Aziraphale blinked, surprised at how easy it was. Usually, the demon fought him every inch of the way when it came to healing him.

“Yeah, do your thing, angel,” the demon said, smiling weakly as a touch of redness crept onto his cheeks. “I trust you.”

Aziraphale felt as if his heart was going to burst. Not wasting any more time, he held his hands over Crowley’s mangled chest and called for his Grace to heal him. He was so absorbed already in what he was doing that when Crowley screamed bloody murder, the angel fell onto his arse.

Scrambling back to his feet, he hovered over the demon, not touching him but trying to help nonetheless. “A-Are you-”

“Keep going!” Crowley grunted and reached for those fluttering hands. “You can’t s-stop, Aziraphale, or it hurts more.”

The angel nodded briskly, readying himself before allowing his Grace out once more. The demon started screaming again instantly. His back arched to a painful looking height as the muscles and tendons knit themselves back together, his blood flowing backwards into his body.

It only took a moment, but it felt like it lasted for an age. When the open wound looked no worse than a shallow cut, Aziraphale retreated so quickly his back hit the far wall, the glow of his Grace dimming to nothing. Crowley dropped back to the bed like a puppet with its strings cut, panting and trembling minutely.

The angel felt his heart shatter, knowing he had to do it, but not liking it one bit. “C-Crowley?”

It took a moment, but the demon eventually answered. He sounded wretched, like he had been tortured for days instead of being healed. “Yeah?”

“Can I- Is it-”

A sigh and a flopped arm interrupted his babbling. “Just get over here, angel.”

Aziraphale let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. Double checking that all of his Grace was firmly tucked back into himself, he quickly approached Crowley. The demon was sweating heavily, his golden eyes had a hazy sheen over them, and he was still bleeding from another slice on his arm.

But he was alive. Aziraphale hadn’t killed him, his body hadn’t discorporated, he was alive-

“Hey hey, angel, it’s alright, everything’s okay,” Crowley said gently, if a bit anxious. The demon reached up to gently wipe at one of his cheeks. “There’s no need to cry, love, I’m fine.”

Aziraphale realised then that the tears had finally escaped as all the adrenaline in his system lessened. He sobbed with his next breath, holding the demon’s hand to his cheek. The angel fixed him with a stern, if watery, glare. “Never do that again, Crowley. I mean it.”

The demon chuckled weakly. “I swear I won’t allow Hastur and whatever goon he’s toting about get the drop on me again.” His thumb brushed against Aziraphale’s cheek, catching the tear there. The angel smiled at him, feeling so soft and full of love for this man- demon- being, he was surprised Crowley himself didn’t feel it.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Aziraphale gently took the demon’s hand off his cheek. “Oh look at me, you’re the one who’s injured and yet you’re still consoling me for being overemotional.”

Crowley smirked up at him, looking fond. “Well, what else would you have me do, angel? Let you cry all over me like a tissue?”

The angel snorted, rather inelegantly, as he scrubbed at his damp face. “You menace. I assume you keep a medical box somewhere?”

“Now why in the bloody Heaven would I do that?” Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, his smirk growing wider. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale, I can just wish my injuries away.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes at the dramatics. With a snap of his fingers, a fully stocked medical kit sat next to the demon’s hip. “You’ll have to sit up for this one, my dear.”

He helped Crowley up to rest against the headboard, the fluffy pillows almost swallowing him whole. The angel climbed onto the bed beside him, getting comfortable and opening up the first aid kit.

He tried to make quick work of stitching up Crowley’s arm, knowing the demon hated needles. He was interrupted, though, when Crowley made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

“I’m almost done, my dear,” Aziraphale hummed. In truth he was only halfway through the cut, going slower than he usually would to prevent as much bleeding as possible.

“What? No, that’s fine, wasn’t even thinking of it,” The demon huffed, looking to steel himself against whatever he wanted to say. The words came tumbling out anyway. “Back in the alley, what- what did you mean by ‘no one will harm what’s yours?’”

The angel paused, his heartbeat kicking up a couple notches as he scrambled to find something, anything to say. Embarrassment made his cheeks flush hotly, keeping his focus on his work as the demon tried to catch his eyes. “I- Well, I think I rather told them what I think when I chose you a-and humanity over Heaven. Earth is ours, and humanity has us to protect it against- well, against everything else.”

Aziraphale risked a peek at Crowley. He looked pensive, his bloody face making him seem like a real demon. The angel jumped slightly when he was caught staring at the demon. Crowley smirked at him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, he seemed... Well. It was like he had accepted something, though the angel couldn't fathom what.

“Let’s hope we’re a bit more competent on that front, eh?”

Aziraphale chuckled weakly as he turned back to his task. He made short work of the last few stitches before running off to the kitchen to get a bowl of water. Crowley still looked like a bloodbath, after all.

The demon slid down the sheets to lay fully on the matress once more. He didn’t seem to mind the constant touching as Aziraphale carefully cleaned and wrapped his wounds.

He did hiss halfheartedly, though, when Aziraphale was accidentally too rough on his split nose.

“Sorry,” the angel cringed, prodding gently at the cut. He carefully stuck a plaster on it, just to be safe. “It doesn’t seem like it’s broken, so there’s one upside.”

“Praise be,” Crowley deadpanned. His tired smirk drooped a bit at the edges, but it was there nonetheless. The sight made Aziraphale shake his head affectionately, his chest growing tight once more.

The angel sat back when he was finished patching up anything hurt on his companion. “That should do it, then.”

Crowley hummed softly in acknowledgement, his eyes already closed. Aziraphale stared down at him, a quick flash of horror tearing through him as he thought of how close the demon had come to death. A warm hand on his knee quickly brought him back to reality.

“R'lax, angel,” Crowley slurred. He hadn’t even bothered to open his eyes, the hand thrown on Aziraphale’s knee now slowly moving back and forth. It was quite soothing, honestly.

“Sleep now, darling, you’re exhausted. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

“F’got how scary you were. Still beau’ful, though,” Crowley muttered as he shifted about, getting comfortable. Of course, the angel immediately flushed to the tips of his ears.

“Wh-What was that, my dear?”

When all the demon said in response was a soft hum, his hand stilling, Azirphale let out a heavy sigh.

The angel risked a chance to run his own hand through Crowley’s fiery hair, smoothing it away from his steadily bruising face. He continued when the demon didn’t stir, effectively petting him at that point.

Though the angel himself was exhausted, for the first time in a few centuries, he refused to lie down beside Crowley (no matter how much he longed to).

Aziraphale took the remaining scraps of courage still within him and sat guard. He would wait, either for Crowley to wake or for the forces of Heaven and Hell to come for them. Either way, he would wait.

Nothing would harm Crowley ever again, not if Aziraphale had anything to say about it.

-----

[beginning] // [previous chapter] // [next chapter]

[lucy-sky]

Hey guys! Today is World Theatre Day. I think it’s a great holiday. Theatre will always be on a special place in my heart. At school I attended theatre classes and we did a lot of performances for local events. I’m not doing it anymore but I will always remebmer this feeling when you’re on stage, when you’re someone else, but still your soul is kinda naked. Theatre is an amazing thing. It’s a place where magic happens here and now, unlike movies where you can make several takes of one scene until it turn out perfect. It’s a place where the actors share their energy, emotions, their soul with the audience. It always gives me such incredible vibes I cannot quite describe. Theatre is AMAZING! And the actors who work on stage do an amazing job.

Today I would like to present you a small series of posts introducing Sam Rockwell on theatre stage. I don’t know how you feel about these pictures, but as for me - I sense some kind of magic even in them. Hope you enjoy too.

(I apologize for a lot of text - I didn’t plan it, but it was pretty interesting to read about these plays and I honestly would love to see them on stage)

Sam Rockwell on theatre stage - Part 1:

The Hot l Baltimore (2000), directed by Joe Mantello 

A play by Lanford Wilson set in the lobby of a dilapidated old hotel, from which the “e” in the hotel sign is missing - hence the name, Hot L Baltimore. 

The play is comprised of a series of conversations between the residents of the hotel, who are contemplating an uncertain future after the hotel is condemned and scheduled for demolition. (c) encyclopedia.com

The Zoo Story (2001) 

A one-act play by American playwright Edward Albee. The play explores themes of isolation, loneliness, miscommunication as anathematization, social disparity and dehumanization in a materialistic world.

This play concerns two characters, Peter and Jerry, who meet on a park bench in New York City's Central Park. Peter is a wealthy publishing executive with a wife, two daughters, two cats, and two parakeets. Jerry is an isolated and disheartened man, desperate to have a meaningful conversation with another human being. He intrudes on Peter’s peaceful state by interrogating him and forcing him to listen to stories about his life and the reason behind his visit to the zoo. The action is linear, unfolding in front of the audience in “real time”. The elements of ironic humor and unrelenting dramatic suspense are brought to a climax when Jerry brings his victim down to his own savage level. (c) Wikipedia

The Dumb Waiter (2001)

A one-act play by Harold Pinter written in 1957.

Two hit-men, Ben and Gus, are waiting in a basement room for their assignment. As the play begins, Ben, the senior member of the team, is reading a newspaper, and Gus, the junior member, is tying his shoes. Gus asks Ben many questions as he gets ready for their job and tries to make tea. Ben continues reading his paper for most of the time, occasionally reading excerpts of it to Gus. Ben gets increasingly animated, and Gus's questions become more pointed, at times nearly nonsensical.

In the back of the room is a dumbwaiter, which delivers occasional food orders. This is mysterious and both characters seem to be puzzled why these orders keep coming; the basement is clearly not outfitted as a restaurant kitchen. At one point they send up some snack food that Gus had brought along. Ben has to explain to the people above via the dumbwaiter's "speaking tube" that there is no food.

Gus leaves the room to get a drink of water in the bathroom, and the dumbwaiter's speaking tube whistles (a sign that there is a person on the other end who wishes to communicate). Ben listens carefully - we gather from his replies that their victim has arrived and is on his way to the room. Ben shouts for Gus, who is still out of the room. The door that the target is supposed to enter from flies open, Ben rounds on it with his gun, and Gus enters, stripped of his jacket, waistcoat, tie and gun. There is a long silence as the two stare at each other before the curtain comes down.

Although the play is realistic in many ways, particularly the dialogue between Ben and Gus, there are also elements that are unexplained and seemingly absurd, particularly the messages delivered by the dumb waiter itself. Pinter is notable for leaving the plays open to interpretation, "wanting his audience to complete his plays, to resolve in their own ways these irresolvable matters". (c) Wikipedia

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot (2005), directed by Philip Seymour Hoffman

A play by American playwright Stephen Adly Guirgis.

The Last Days of Judas Iscariot tells the story of a court case over the ultimate fate of Judas Iscariot. The play uses flashbacks to an imagined childhood, and lawyers who call for the testimonies of such witnesses as Mother Teresa, Caiaphas, Saint Monica, Sigmund Freud, and Satan. (c) Wikipedia

Judas was the disciple of Jesus who betrayed his friend and teacher to the authorities. He is seen as the man responsible for Jesus’s death; afterwards, Judas fell into despair and hung himself from an olive tree; since then, he has been suffering for his deeds deep in Hell, and will continue to do so for all eternity. Is that really fair? Was Judas the duplicitous master of his own fate, a much-suffering pawn used for Jesus’s ends, or just a man who made a mistake? Set in a courtroom in Purgatory, The Last Days puts Judas’ case to a hilarious, riotous, piercing trial, the results of which are sure to make the inhabitants of Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory - and the audience - reconsider what each thought they knew about forgiveness, faith, and the human inside one of the history’s most infamous figures. (c) stageagent.com

A Behanding in Spokane (2010), directed by John Crowley

A black comedy by award-winning Irish playwright Martin McDonagh. This is his first play set in the United States.

Set in a rundown hotel room somewhere in small-town America, it depicts the fateful encounter among four disaffected losers: the one-handed Carmichael, who has spent the past 47 years trying to retrieve the appendage that a bunch of "hillbilly bastards" forcefully removed when he was a teenager; Toby, a low-level scam artist; Marilyn, his white-trash girlfriend; and Mervyn, a truly creepy hotel "receptionist" who takes an inordinate interest in his guests' comings and goings. Toby and Marilyn have made the mistake of attempting to con Carmichael with the claim that they're in possession of his errant hand. Upon inspection, it turns out to be not of the Caucasian variety, resulting in his holding them at gunpoint. When they claim that they really do have his hand back in their garage, he runs off to retrieve it, but not before handcuffing them to the radiator and setting a lit candle above an open can of gasoline.

When Mervyn subsequently stops by the room, he's not particularly interested in helping the couple escape, despite his obvious romantic interest in Marilyn. It turns out he's still pissed off at Toby, whom he recognizes as the drug dealer who ripped him off years earlier. (c) hollywoodreporter.com

The play was nominated for the 2010 Drama League Award, Distinguished Production of a Play.

A Streetcar Named Desire (2011)  

A play written by Tennessee Williams. 

The play dramatises the life of Blanche DuBois, a southern belle who, after encountering a series of personal losses, leaves her aristocratic background seeking refuge with her sister and brother-in-law in a dilapidated New Orleans tenement.

A Streetcar Named Desire is Williams' most popular play, is considered among the finest plays of the 20th century, and is considered by many to be Williams' greatest work. It still ranks among his most performed plays, and has inspired many adaptations in other forms. (c) Wikipedia

[serpentandthejar]

Luciferian Challenge day 5: How do you feel about veneration/genuflection? If you do honor Lucifer/Satan what kind of offerings you do? Why?

Veneration, sure. I venerate Lucifer as I venerate the best version of myself, the one that I seek to become, and as I venerate all those who have taken up the mantle of Lightbearer, whether they are real or imagined. I think it is closer to veneration of an idea than of a figure, though. Putting a name and a person to it just makes it easier for humans to understand. For me, that name is Lucifer. 

Genuflection isn’t something I do. I don’t need to give someone power over me (or pretend that they have it) in order to show respect for them. As for offerings... well, there are things I do which help me feel more attuned to Lucifer. On the ritual end of things I tend to cut up some fruit to eat before meditating or divining. But things I do as part of my everyday life also make me think of him- studying or improving a skill, creating something, social justice work, and self-care.

Day 6: Do you meditate?

Yes, although not as often or as intensively as I should. It’s especially difficult to set aside the time for it during the school year.

Day 7: Have you given an oath to Lucifer? Why or why not?

No, and I wouldn’t. I think it’d be quite hollow. I’m already committed to my principles and I think I’d just feel silly doing it ritually. Also, I’m uncomfortable with the idea of symbolically pledging allegiance to another being, even one whose literal existence I don’t believe in.

Day 8: Do you practice witchcraft? Why or why not? Is the Devil or a Lightbearer involved?

No, I don’t consider myself a witch. I do use what I call magic, but perhaps in a limited way, from a psychological framework, and I’ve only scratched the surface. Lucifer is very involved.

Day 9: How do you feel about God? (aka TBUT, That Bastard Up There)

Very intensely negative. I want nothing to do with him or any entity that aligns itself with him. If Lucifer represents resistance to oppression and authoritarianism, then God embodies that oppression, and has done so throughout my life. He’s my intrusive thoughts ordering me to physically harm myself in order to redeem myself for some human mistake, and demanding inhuman perfection/obedience or self-flagellation. He’s every time I’ve been told that I’m sick and wrong, and he’s the part of my mind that’s been conditioned to believe that and act accordingly. I understand that that isn’t what he represents to everyone, but those are things that my life experience has associated with him. I don’t really care to try to break those associations, either. I think there’s a reason I have them- Christianity is quite literally a tool of the real people who want to harm me, and one they use as their symbol- and it’s healthy for me to be able to talk about that and use that analogy, as long as I don’t treat other people poorly in the process.

Day 10: Do you have any daily practices or do you celebrate any holidays i.e. sabbats? Or are your holidays not religious related?

I’ve started to think of Halloween and Walpurgisnacht as personal religious holidays, and I’d much prefer to divorce myself from Christian symbolism and celebrate astronomical holidays instead of Christmas or Easter, but since my family just goes with mainstream/secularized American holidays I publicly go along with that. 

Day 11: Do you believe in hell? What kind of place do you think it is?

I don’t believe in anywhere but here. That being said, there are lots of hells on earth, almost all of them human-made.