#hate from heaven comic

[fullartmetal]

MY BOY

[eveningdawn222]

people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.

[sonchiildren]

Also, while the tabs continue to vex me...I did at least add the rest of the muses. Just note; mains are the Son Children (Gohan, Gokai, Saiyo, and Goten...and depending baby Gosuke), secondary are Trunks, Future!Trunks, and Future!Saiyo, and lastly request only is Chi-Chi. ...I am also playing Future!Trunks and Future!Saiyo as living in the current time-line, since Super decided to scrape that idea of the timeline being gone permanently and F!Trunks having to adjust and come to terms with his new home.

[patzweigz]

randomly hit with just how. strange. it really is that general discussion of fictional characters treats them as like... people, who's actions have consequences in the real world or who's writers put them through real situations

[fanaroff]

Kind of continuation to this comic.

The first thing he opens his eyes to—

———

“Narinder?”

Too loud. Too bright. Too much. Even through closed eyelids and flattened ears. His head pounded behind his eyes. A rhythmic thumping so loud in his ears. A noise he was so unused to. A mortal sound.

Pain was a blinding experience when one was no longer numb to it. The One Who Waits could only huddle in one spot and cling to his own shoulders with claws he couldn’t not yet control enough to retract. He knew where he sat, but he was not going to allow the recognition to settle.

Hurt lanced across his chest, his wrists. He wanted it to stop. This was not how things were supposed to go. He’d planned for so long. How could this have happened?

Narinder chose wrong. He chose wrong. He chose the wrong vessel. His vessel who built him up, built a Temple in his name, raised devotion! His vessel who then tore him down and reduced him to this quivering mess of a new mortal.

How he wished they’d chosen to kill him instead. To have ended his millennia of suffering, not extend it further.

He chose wrong.

The physical hurt now ran in tandem with the emotional. How could they do this to him? When he saw them choose… he thought that maybe things would go right. He would be free and his vessel tucked safely in their own little heaven… but he saw them return the Red Crown to their own head. That damned Lamb!

The one he gave life to! The one he saved!

Betrayed by one he trusted so—

Now he was here. Now he was mortal. How foolish of him.

“…Narinder?” Faust’s voice was gentle, no doubt a front put on for the followers (they should be HIS) that he could hear hanging about in curiosity. (Insects to be squashed! How dare they look upon his visage and see him in this form!)

Narinder knew that if he were to open his eyes, he’d see nothing but hatred in theirs. After all, he ordered his vessel to sacrifice themself. And after all, this was not something his vessel was willing to do. Would such an ask not generate hatred in one unwilling?

Either way, the refusal… the betrayal… has generated hatred within Narinder and when he returned to strength… he would make them pay.

There was no point in putting things off.

Narinder cracked open an eye, blinking rapidly against the blinding light, prepared to see the Lamb standing before him with a weapon in hand. (They’d be foolish not to, what if he chose to attack?)

Instead, the Lamb kneeled before him (why kneel now and not then?), a bowl of water in hand and fake concern across their face. They were still covered in spots of their blood and Narinder’s ichor from their battle, fleece torn in places and wool sticking up in different directions. Yet, they were the victor and looked it. Narinder had no doubt that he looked worse.

He felt worse.

Light from the setting sun lit against Faust, brightening them in almost a halo. It would be beautiful sight… if not for the knowledge he had.

��Betrayer.” Narinder rasped. It came out wrong. He wanted it to be a hiss. A snarl. But it was a wheeze of air at best. His throat hated it. He hated it.

Faust had the gall to shake their head. They opened their mouth to speak, but Narinder beat them to it.

“Betrayer. I never should have chose you. A lamb that defiled my name. My Temple for their own!” He slowly devolved into a rant. A proper tantrum for the ages. Spitting insults that brought gasps of shock from those around them, a few being hands to weapons (garden tools at best), and yet Faust did not react.

If he had taken a moment, he would have noticed their eyes darken to sadness and a frown overtaking their features. He would have noticed the hurt. The Crown trying to get his attention that he had chosen the wrong subject for his ire. But he was understandably focused on his own.

“I wish not to see you! I wish not to be here! Kill me, Usurper! End the suffering you drag out further!” Narinder’s voice had torn by the end, quieted by the force he attempted to put behind it and sounding as if he’d been exposed to the smoke of fires for hours.

He’d begged at the end. Begged to be killed and put out of his misery. And again the Lamb ignored this.

When Narinder was done, panting harshly and lying against the ground as his body turned tired, Faust stood from their kneel and turned to a she-rabbit. They placed the bowl of water in her hands.

“Take him to a tent. I feel he would be calmer if I were not in his line of sight. Have someone come to me if he attempts to attack anyone. Make sure he drinks. Make sure he eats. Force him to if you have to, but be careful. He has not eaten in a long while.”

The she-rabbit bowed her head as Faust turned without a second look to Narinder and strode towards the Temple. His temple no longer.

Narinder could only squirm and attempt at clawing, glaring at Faust’s back as he was dragged away with the help of two other followers. Kicking and screeching, he vowed to himself that the Lamb would pay for this.

They all would pay.

— —

Quick Oneshot that may not stay canonical, or it may stay as a companion piece. The image will stay canonical as the first thing Narinder sees upon his indoctrination. For now, it’s a prompt for myself.

I plan to do the main fic series from Faust’s POV, but I wanted to play around with some of Narinder’s thoughts. I don’t know if it worked though, I have a hard time thinking how someone might react in hatred so I hope I got it close enough.

Hope you like it!

[sixosix]

hello six! since you put it on your example, can I request izuku, a charger, but fluff? :3 congrats on 5k!

a/n 1k words !!! anon sent this back in march…its now july… thank you so much anon! sorry i got to this late

5K EVENT SPECIAL | EVENT MASTERLIST

"Seriously? None of you have one? Not even you, Denki?"

Kaminari inspects your phone from all angles, humming. He eyes your charging port distrustfully. "No? What even is this?"

You bury your knuckle on his head. "Dipshit. It's a phone. A phone that's about to die because you fried my charger trying to blow your hair this morning."

Kaminari winces. "Oohh..."

"Hey." Ashido claps a hand on your shoulder, sympathetic. "I'm sorry, but that idiot's right, ya'know? This model is outdated."

Bakugou is about to walk past when he plucks the phone from your grasp and then studies it intently. His eyes narrow.

You beam up at him, hopeful. "Do you have one, Bakugou?"

He throws it back at you, and you fumble to catch it. "Nah. Deku's got the same one, though. The nerd will let you borrow one."

And then he leaves, just like that. You're not sure if you should yell at him for risking your phone or kiss him on the cheek for presenting a ray of hope that came in the form of Midoriya Izuku.

Ashido's eyes turn sly. "Oh? Midoriya, huh? Looks like you'll have to..."

You slap a hand over her mouth. Kaminari perks up, his expression a visible representation of his brain lagging behind.

"Hafta what?" he asks in a whisper.

"Nothing!" you squeak out before Ashido could say anything. "Nothing at all. Mina, you're acting weird. I'm just gonna borrow a charger from my classmate. What's so strange about that? Nothing at all."

Ashido giggles. "Right, right. Make sure you don't stay longer than three minutes, or else I'll just assume you're stealing a ki—"

"God! Seriously. My phone's about to die! I should go now. Bye, Denki. I hate you, Mina."

You pad away, phone clutched in a death grip as Ashido's laughter echoes in the hallway. Of course. Of course, Midoriya would be the only one in the class with the same charger as you because that makes sense. Your long-term crush would be the only person, obviously. Right. Duh.

You have a suspicion that Bakugou is aware of this crush of yours, and Midoriya isn't the only one who has the same type of charger, but you'd rather take Midoriya than--god forbid--Mineta. Bakugou can play Cupid if he wants.

You knock softly. "Midoriya?"

Once, twice, and the door swings open right away halfway through the third one. You and Midoriya stare at each other for a startled moment. Midoriya gapes, mouth dropping open almost comically.

"Y/N!" he exclaims.

"Hi," you mutter. "Sorry, did I disturb you?"

Midoriya glances back at his room. You follow his gaze, falling on his desk with a single lamp lighting the room, directed at notebooks and pens spread about. He must've been studying.

Midoriya turns back to you with a soft smile. "No, don't worry. Did you need something?"

"Oh, yeah." You show him your phone, wishing to every deity out there that he doesn't notice how your hands are trembling. "Denki fried my charger, and my phone's about to die. Do you have one for this model?"

Midoriya's fingers brush your skin as he takes your phone to inspect it himself. You thank All Might and his mother that Midoriya's too busy with your phone to notice that you're steaming, positively overwhelmed by this proximity. You've never been close to Midoriya like this before. He smells like freshly pulled laundry, his warmth emanating even at this distance. You find yourself gravitating, inching slightly closer.

Midoriya looks back up again. Your noses nearly touch. You both jump back.

"Sorry!" you both cry out. 

"Um." Midoriya's face is beet red. "I do have the same model."

You knew that, obviously. You move to reach for your phone, eager to leave before you do anything else stupid and embarrass yourself further. "Thanks a lot, Midoriya. You're heaven-sent."

But Midoriya rears back. "Would you like to come inside?"

...What?

Midoriya wilts. "I—I mean, unless you want to charge in your own room, I was just— Well, that makes more sense, actually. Nevermind. Forget I—"

You brush past Midoriya, saying, "Sorry for the intrusion!"

As your eyes take in the alarming cluster of All Might merchandise, you belatedly register the door clicking shut behind you. Midoriya bounds over to his bed, pulling out his charger. He makes a show of plugging it into your phone and displaying how your phone brightens.

"Thank you, Midoriya." You sigh and cradle your now-charging phone in your arms, like handling a wounded child. "I might have to go out later to buy a new one so I don't bother you again."

Midoriya laughs, settling back on his chair, but he faces you. "I don't mind, really. You can visit here anytime."

You don't see why you must 'visit anytime' when you can bring his charger to your room, but you wouldn't want to overstep when he's already lending you his things. And there's really no downside to it aside from your impending doom of humiliation; you wouldn't take down the offer of rooming alone with your crush. Not when he smells so nice, and he’s giving his undivided attention to you.

"So..." You set your phone aside. "Is that Preset Mic's seatwork?"

Midoriya glances over his shoulder, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah. I wanted to finish everything today."

"Do you mind teaching me?" you blurt out.

Midoriya blinks owlishly.

"I-If you want, I mean! I'll pay you back or something—"

Midoriya slides his chair closer to where you're sitting, beaming. "Sure. While your phone charges."

"Yeah," you say faintly. "Yeah. While my phone charges."

You stumble into Bakugou on your way out of Midoriya’s room, giddy and floaty, like Uraraka’s touched you with all ten fingers and left you to rot in space. You muffle a squeal as soon as the door’s shut. Bakugou arches a suspicious brow, looking at you up and down like you’ve done something particularly scandalous.

“What?” you ask defensively.

Bakugou huffs, smirking. “You took your sweet time there.”

“He offered for me to stay while I waited for my phone to charge.” And then you stick your tongue out for good measure.

“As if. Deku uses a faster charger. Your phone should’ve been done five hours ago, dumbass.”

[patchiko]

what do u think ak!jays love language (i think that’s what it’s called 😭) is? also, what type of love language do you think he’d like?? like acts of service, words of affirmation, etc.

also random headcanon but i feel like both ak and comic jay r both good cooks it’s just the vibe i get

-🪽anon

Ahkendidhso Ive written about this before but my brainrot my lovely 🪽 anon…

tw; religious themes but their very very very super metaphorical i pinky swear chat. #i love religious themes as a way to metaphorically talk about devotion

Jason Todd is as devoted to his lover as a martyr to their grace. His faith to his loved one is almost insufferable at its core.

Like in a,’ My lungs only breathe because I have faith in your purity. ’ way, so anyways yeah Quality Time and Acts Of Service.

Quality Time- Jaaon can barely pry himself from your presence at times, and yet he does. Though every moment he’s away from you feels sardonic, like that viscous black ooze that he’s named ‘hate’ is getting bigger. Once he even gets a moment of your time his mind melts. He slowly allows himself to indulge in your presence, but in the most unhealthy way possible. Jason tried to keep himself away, he really did, but he always found his feet dragging to you.

Maybe its the little sacrificial lamb in him, the yearn for a greater good in his destruction. Thats what he believe he was conditioned to be, ’The Greater Good.’ Batman cleaned him from the dirt-stricken filth of Gotham alleyways; Batman would make his coat pure and holy, he learned to achieve that ‘Greater-Good’ when Batman wrapper that rope around his neck and lead him to that devil, or saint, he couldn’t tell the two apart sometimes. They both look the same as his depraved reflection.

When his red branded rebirth came he couldn’t help himself trotting to you like the holy little lamb he was conditioned to be. You, the only compass he had, a sense of direction he couldn’t bear to lose. He sits in your presence waiting for his rapture. When not, he’s stuck in a state where can’t tell if he’s more scared of being lost or alone. Jason finds he’s neither when with you, with you he’s stained red but his neck is no longer painfully warm, his body can be mangled, his mind can be mortal. He always trots back to you, because it is the first place he is welcomed to with open arms, yes, you are the warm light of the heavens he was conditioned to bask in. The personification where the death of his self is meant to be.

Acts Of Service - I believe this side of him comes more when its towards the part of the relationship where he’s most comfortable! He’ll run errands, do your dishes, maybe if the guilt of getting your floor a little bloodied gets to him he’ll pay your rent. It takes him awhile to loosen up and stop acting like a house maid. He still does everything he can for you but in an mundane way, like a little routine. (like a little wife omg chat i love him)

Whenever he slips through that window he takes armor off and sets them down on your floor. He’ll walk over to where you sit and kiss you on the cheek, whispering in your ear on how he ordered take out. He’ll come back to you with clean clothes and washed hair, sitting close to you, yet not closer if not allowed.

He’s much like a Saint Bernard now, for he always finds his way back to your side. A gentle giant, neither of you can keep yourselves away from each other; tenderly caring for each others needs. With you, he gave up on his divided sense of pride, his fundamentals and foundations that gave his name meaning were reckoned meaningless, he gave it up and swallowed the bitter pill of which he found the unsatisfactory taste of forgiveness; and with that pill he allowed himself to grieve.

He’s much like a Saint Bernard now, he can guide people to the place they believe to be heavens for their sake of peace. He holds someone in his arms the way they need to be held, he says those things that make someone think, leading them back to the path they left. But most of all he always comes running back to you.

sorry chat this is so bitter sweet i love his self destructive mentality that would take him decades to weed out.

[dinoace2]

For @hg-aneh , this comic they made :]

Bit of a different take, this time, what if it wasn't just that he didn't talk, but he couldn't?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a shitty day.

All the days had been shitty.

Aziraphale had lost count how many there had been so far, and rain doesn't exist in Heaven. But clouds massing over Soho suggested that the newest thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.

Earlier...

"No, no, please, you can't do this!" Aziraphale thrashed about, trying to loose the grip of the Powers who held onto each of his arms. One on either side, holding tight to ensure he couldn't move.

Uriel sneered at him, their eyes flaring with anger. "I already told you once, Aziraphale. You ask too many questions. Supreme Archangel or not, there still remain standards that must be met. Lines that cannot be crossed."

Aziraphale frowned. "It still seems quite reasonable to me to demand why! The very idea of creating Humanity, just to destroy it, it's...well, it's senseless! Sure, they've made mistakes, but they don't deserve utter annihilation for it! And they definitely don't deserve it if the only reason is 'the Almighty has grown bored of Her little social experiment'! That logic is, quite frankly, nothing short of childish and ridic- !"

One of the other angels cut him off with a knee to the stomach. He winced, letting out a huff of air as he sank to his knees.

"Thats enough!" Michael frowned. "I'm not sure what the Metatron saw in you before, but I'm glad He finally came to His senses." She leaned down, inches from his face. "I've half a mind to strike you down where you stand, traitor."

"S-surely," Aziraphale whispered, his voice hoarse. "Surely, this can't be what She wants. This can't be Her will."

“You don't have the right to suggest what She wants.” Michael scowled. “such blasphemy begs execution.”

“I think you and I both know what happened the last time you tried.” Aziraphale managed a smirk. 

“We're well aware, thank you.” She huffed. “we had to get creative this time around, I hate to say.” She waved a hand. “Uriel!”

She stepped aside as the other archangel approached, some sort of weapon in hand. They raised their arm to strike, and Aziraphale flinched, his eyes shut tight.

…

He paused. Wasn't something supposed to happen? He opened his eyes, only to find Uriel already putting their weapon away. 

What happ- he paused. His mouth had opened, his lips formed the words, but…he didn't say anything. No sound came out.

He tried again, getting the same result. Michael chuckled. “A fitting consequence for the angel who talked too much, no?” she waved to the angels on either side of him. “You know what to do.”

Aziraphale struggled in their grasp as they dragged him away, far past the point of no return.

~~~

It burns...

It's so cold, but it burns...

Aziraphale wasn't sure how long he'd been falling.

He felt infernal wind flying around him, whipping in his hair and tearing through his feathers. It was completely dark, he couldn't see anything. The only reason he knew which way was down was because thats the direction he was going.

Hellfire lashed at him as he Fell, flicking at his clothes, his skin, his wings.  Every burst of flame stung with a flash of icy, searing pain that burned deep into his soul.

He wanted to cry out, to scream, to call for something, anything, but when his mouth opened he was still trapped in the same empty, maddening silence as if he had done nothing at all.

He wondered if this was how Crowley felt when he Fell; freezing, burning, hurting...alone. Thinking through everything that led him here. Wondering if he did the right thing. Wondering if there was anything else he should have done, anything else he could have done, to possibly have changed what he now faced.

Crowley...

What would he say, when he saw Aziraphale like this? What would he do? Would he even do anything? Would he glare down at him? Say 'I told you so'? Grin and laugh? Or maybe he'd just walk away, not even dignifying a response. Aziraphale wouldn't even blame him for that, considering how he left things. Whatever Crowley decided to do, it was definitely going to be deserved.

He put a hand to his throat, realizing that, whatever happened, he wouldn't be able to say anything. Wouldn't be able to explain himself, or say anything that he wanted to, or... he paused, then hugged himself. For the rest of eternity, no matter how much he may want to, no matter how hard he'd try, he would never be able to tell Crowley those three bloody words that he'd always wanted to say. Those three blasted words that had been on the tip of his tongue for millenia. Those three damned words that he should have said before.

But...even if he said them now...there was no guarantee (or, at this point, no chance) that Crowley would accept it, surely. Not after everything he did...after everything that happened.

  He hugged himself, pulling his knees to his chest, and choked on a silent sob. Everything hurt, he felt confused and scared and ruined. All he felt he could do was fall, and wait for the crash.

~~~

Aziraphale's eyes opened. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what he was. He felt nothing at all. But at the same time he felt everything…and it all hurt. His lungs burned and his eyes stung. A cloud of ash lingered around him, smothering the nearby air and nearly making him choke.

He wanted to curl up, to cry, to never move again. He felt like he couldn't move, yet still that he had to. His face hardly moved, his expression limp and exhausted and miserable. In all fairness, that's exactly how he felt. Nothing. 

He gathered what strength he had and pulled himself to sit up, looking around. His skin stung with burns and his eyes couldn't quite focus. His fingers curled in coarse, sharp, black sand beneath him, and waves lapped at his feet. A burnt smell came from the bubbling ‘water’. Sulfur…? It looked like some sort of…infernal beach.

He got to his feet, brushing the sand off his coat and beginning to walk. Hell's offices must not be far from here.

Sure enough, after walking for a while he made it to a dim-lit building, greenish light spilling out of the few windows. Heaven's basement, indeed.

When Aziraphale opened the doors, all went suddenly still and silent. All eyes fell on him. The cramped crowds parted as he walked past, perhaps out of recognition, perhaps out of fear. He stopped one demon on his way, asking for directions by simply pointing a finger up.

~~~

The clouds overhead were dense and dark, nearly blotting out the natural sunlight of the late afternoon. Thunder rolled in the distance, deep and low, a promise of the storm that was to come.

A distinct ding echoed in the empty Soho street corner, and a cloud of ash spilled out onto the sidewalk.

As if to gather what dignity he had left, Aziraphale straightened his coat, straightening the wrinkles in the fabric, and approached A.Z. Fell and Co. The first raindrops of the oncoming tempest splashed against the pavement.

He hesitated as he reached for the door. The bookshop was an embassy after all. Demons aren't allowed to pass without permission...would he even be able to go inside his own- well...not his anymore - home? His fingers clasped around the doorknob and gently turned it, breathing out a sigh of relief when nothing stopped him.

The familiar chime of the doorbell was almost comforting as he stepped inside, but relief was quick to be replaced by regret.

It was dark. The lights were all out, the shades all drawn. The shop looked untouched, and while ordinarily that would be a good thing, not like this. Everything was covered in a visible layer of dust. He swiped his finger on the till counter, carving a revealed line of clean wood beneath the soft gray film. Not just untouched, but abandoned.

You poor thing...wasn't Muriel supposed to look after you?

Among the stagnant, silent scenery, a mop of long red hair was draped across a table. The body slumped beneath it stirred at the sound of the doorbell. Golden eyes blinked slowly, adjusting to the shift in lighting.

Aziraphale stood still, saying nothing, doing nothing. What happened to you? How long was I gone? How long have you been alone? His mind raced with questions that he couldn't voice.

Once he noticed the figure in front of him, Crowley was quick to sit upright, eyes wide. "Oh..." Frantic emotions of all natures flashed across his expression as he tried to determine whether the sight before him was really and truly there.

"Oh!"

He got to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well! Look who bothered to show up!" A sharp grin took over his face as he sauntered up to the visitor. "The Supreme Asshat of Heaven, dirtying his clean little shoes to come and laugh  at the pitiful, sad demon." His voice came out as a hiss, laced with bitter sarcasm and poorly-disguised sadness. Aziraphale didn't move, didn't respond. He couldn't.

I'm so sorry, dear…is that what you think ive been feeling? What I've been up to? Why would I ever mock you, I could never-

Crowley put his hands up and spoke in a mocking tone. “‘Ooh, poor Crowley, he must be feeling so pathetic, all alone’.” He grinned wider, his arms flat at his sides. “Well. The joke's on you. I'm better than ever on my own. Just me. A team of Myself.” He stepped forward once more, blinking away tears. “I don't need you!”

Aziraphale just looked at him, part of his mind wondering if this new form could cry.

Inches away from his face, Crowley nearly shouted, “So tell me, Angel, why did you come back?! Why are you here, Aziraphale?!”

With a shaky breath and a whoosh of feathers, Aziraphale answered his question. It…seemed the easiest way to communicate, considering the circumstances. Thunder cracked outside, a flash of light through the windows highlighting the jet-black wings from behind. He could do nothing but watch, as the color drained from Crowley's face.

“You….you-” he was still for a moment, quiet and shaky. His anger seemed to shift, still present but no longer directed at Aziraphale. “You idiot!” He launched forward and grabbed Aziraphale by his jacket’s lapels. “Why, Aziraphale?! Why did you leave?! Why did you go back?! Why?” He finally choked on a sob, collapsing against Aziraphale's chest. “Why, Angel…why…why…” He dissolved into broken cries, sinking to his knees as he begged for answers.

Oh, Crowley…

They sat in silence for a long while, Aziraphale unsure of what to do. He certainly couldn't say anything.

When Crowley's sobs slowed to soft whimpers, the angel stepped back. Crowley looked up at him, confusion in his gaze.

Aziraphale took a breath, then recited the simple, memorized steps in his head. Stepped forward with one hand up and the other on his hip, kicked his leg back and lifted his arms, spun around on one foot, and ended in a bow. You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right. He sunk down on the bow, propping himself on one knee and keeping his head low.

Crowley was silent, his jaw slack as he processed what just happened. 

“...Angel-”

He reached up, gently holding Aziraphale's cheek with one hand. Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning into the demon's touch.

“...say something…please…” He whispered, leaning closer.

‘I can't,’ Aziraphale mouthed, trying to gesture to his neck. ‘I'm sorry.’

Crowley paused, nodding slightly. He seemed to understand. He pulled him close, pressing their foreheads together. “...Heaven took it from you…didn't they.” It was more of a statement than a question. When Aziraphale nodded, he sighed. “Those angels and their ‘poetic justice’, huh? They…they think they have the right to take everything…I get it. I've been there. Though I'm sure you know that already, heh.” He smiled weakly, and he felt a silent chuckle shake in Aziraphale's chest.

“...im glad you came back,” Crowley whispered. “I…im sorry how I acted…what I said, when you left…a-and…the…the kiss, i…im so sorry…I wish it had happened under better circumstances…or…maybe even just…never at all, I…I just…you…” his rambling trailed off, as Aziraphale cupped his face in both hands, gently lifting his chin.

The little space between them closed, their lips falling together as both demons desperately clung to one another, their only lifeline in an otherwise empty world. This wasn't like the last one. The last one was a plea to stay…this one was a promise. 

Tears finally fell down Aziraphale's cheeks, stinging his skin as he pulled Crowley closer still. He pressed kisses to his lips, his cheek, along his jaw, anywhere he could reach. He mouthed what he couldn't say against Crowley's skin, three words over and over, whispered silently wherever he touched. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Crowley pulled away, if only to breathe for a moment. “Aziraphale…” He wiped at the tears on his cheeks with his thumbs.

He hugged him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “my offer still stands, you know…our side…together. Just us…if- if you're interested, I mean. I…I know, it…sounds lonely…but…nothin’ wrong with being lonely together, is there?” He offered a weak smile. 

Aziraphale smiled, a real, true smile for the first time since getting on that bloody elevator oh-so-long ago, nodding as he clung tightly to his other half.

Together. Our side. As long as we have each other.

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! :]

[chimeracomicscollective]

Chimera Comics Collective Itch.io Sale!

Hi all! Below the cut is the first set of creators for our itch.io ebook sale, starting this Monday December 2 and running for two weeks. All proceeds will go to the artists! We have several more to introduce as well - this bundle will be QUITE the bang for your buck!

Daughter of the Lilies - @bludragongal

Masked mage Thistle finds herself hired by a band of mercenaries - but the world seems to hate and curse her at every turn. Why does she see herself as a monster?

Hazy London and Nigh Heaven and Hell -@scottycomics

Hazy London is a LGBTQ+ slice of life webcomic about bandmates navigating relationships - and Nigh Heaven and Hell, a medieval horror about trying to kill god. It's safe to say, Scotty can do it all!

Ghost Junk Sickness - @feathernotes and @spacerocketbunny

Trigger and Vahn are bounty hunters in a galaxy full of supernatural mysteries, but their next bounty - the elusive Ghost - might be the key to solve them all.

Heroes of Thantopolis - @strontiumsun

When Cyrus gets mysteriously transported to the City of the Dead, he finds a vibrant and colorful afterlife plagued by troubles. But why did a living boy end up there in the first place?

Godslave - @godslavecomic

When Edith frees an Egyptian god from a canopic jar, she receives some of his power in return for her service. The Egyptian pantheon clashes with the modern day, and Edith's going to have to kick a lot of divine butt.

Phantomarine - @phantomarine

A ghostly princess must sail across a haunted sea to save her soul from a devious death god known as the Red Tide King. But is he as monstrous as she thinks he is? ...Well, yes. But also no? Maybe???

[rattlebear25]

Since I am an Adam stan and I really hope he returns in the next seasons (I believe in the Sinner Adam theory) I made a Sinner! Adam design:

+ Some expressions

Design Note:

When i was thinking the design i thought about Heaven and Hell colors contrast. Winner! Sir Pentious got a more lightful palette like white and gold when he went to Heaven so i thought Adam would have a black/red/brown palette also because he died in a rocky place. I added more spikes on him, in Hell he is more aggressive and violent.

His bird wings became dragon or bat wings and he got an evil tail like Lucifer or Charlie in their Full Demon form. He wear goat hooves like boots and his battle robe is ripped apart. The jacket is dark because his robe color was deep blue before dying so the jacket is his robe but darker. Some designs that i saw online fuse Adam's human form features like the hair crest and the goatie with his mask and it becomes his real face. His guitar can become an Axe during the fights against the Sinners, but this time his guitar is stuck in the Axe mode and can't return a guitar.

• How he relates with other characters:

Niffty: Unlike the other members of the Hotel, Adam has a scared and panicked behavior towards Niffty and insults her anytime he sees her and he doesn’t even try to touch her (who saw Episode 8 knows what I am talking about)

Alastor: Anytime Adam sees Alastor becomes furious (not as with Lucifer or Charlie) because of Episode 8. He thinks he is a psychopath because his cannibal behavior, ignoring that himself being a sadistic person too. He hates Alastor tastes in fact of musics, preferring rock songs or metal.

Lute: Lute is the only person in this list which Adam really cares for. The main reason he wants to go back to Heaven it’s her and take back his Exorcist leader title. Him and Lute shared the same interests for rock musics/bands, singing, weapons, battling and eating junk food (unlike Adam, Lute is more balanced at eat fries and hamburgers). From Lute perspective, she tries to accept Adam’s death, but she always bring Adam’s halo (the one she showed to Lilith/Eve at the end on Ep 8) as a memory of him. Lute goal is avenge Adam’s death but when she discovered that he returned as a sinner in Hell, her plans changed to save him and bring him back as her Leader and boyfriend.

I was thinking of making a full artwork of him using his Axe and some short comics idk

I love that i drew Adam with expressions that are really similar to the original one lmao

[lynn-tged-posting]

so i've been working through the tged webnovel (really, really slowly) (but im getting there!) (it's been REALLY fun i love their banter so so much i wish there was more of it in the webtoon)

and i keep thinking back to chapter 43, where lloyd is surveying the wetlands and arcos comes with him

i don't really have much new insight, i just think about their interaction in this chapter a lot, especially since it's one that doesn't show up in the webtoon adaptation

arcos going out of his way to spend time with his son, and making him a lunch that he knows his son loved, all as an unspoken apology

because "how could he", right? how could a father hate his son and only start to love him again when success has been found? that's so haunting to realize; that someone you loved so much, someone you raised and nurtured, someone you knew the favorite foods of and why, could become someone you hate. and then, the son you once raised, the son who became a stranger, went and grew up without you.

did i give up too soon? did i abandon my own son? ... what kind of father does that? ... right?

and so he does what he can to offer repentance. he takes time out of his day to engage with what his son is doing. he shows that he still remembers his son, the boy who would rather eat boiled eggs and tomatoes over any other dish. he offers it all in a basket, carrying the love he feels he should've given to lloyd a long, long time ago.

... and it's not even the original lloyd frontera who receives it.

we don't get to know what suho is thinking in this moment, but i think his silence speaks volumes.

... because "how could he", right? how could this fraud in another man's body accept this silent apology that isn't truly owed to him? this man, this baron, this father, is asking for forgiveness when he had every right to be angry with the original owner of this body. and he doesn't even realize, because how would he possibly know his original fate? only you do.

this wasn't meant for me ... right?

but suho doesn't reject him, either. he doesn't interrupt arcos, he doesn't leave. they sit together and eat boiled eggs with honeyed tomatoes in silence.

it makes me wonder what suho is thinking about, what he's feeling, what he's remembering...

because (and call me crazy, call me speculative) heaven knows the love language of an asian parent.

here's some cut fruit. here's your favorite snack. here's dinner. i've brought it here to you.

you're working so, so hard. i'll support you, i'll be here. don't worry about anything else, just keep growing.

i love you, i love you, i love you, attached to every plate.

"this was your favorite food when you were young. ... i should have given you as many boiled eggs and tomatoes as you wanted."

and again, it's a little bit of speculation from me, but i think that's why suho doesn't say no, why he lets arcos make this apology. it's a piece of what he misses most.

and so they both leave a little bit healed. "the basket was lighter on the way home. and albeit very slightly, their steps became lighter as well." it might not have been between the right souls, but it's a weight lifted nonetheless.

... all this to say that i am absolutely MOURNING that this didn't make it into the adaptation!!!

i understand that with comic adaptations, there are going to be some cuts to ensure pacing and workload stays reasonable, but this would've been absolutely devastatingly emotional (/pos) to witness visually,

because what would lloyd's (suho's) face look like? what expression would he make, can we visually see how he feels? and arcos, what does he see when he looks at his son? fatherly love and solemn regret, painted all over his face, what does that look like to the adapter? to the artist? to us?

and in general too, we lost the characterization and relationship of arcos to suho; i really, really wish it made it in :(

end post

[queerfortress2]

Oh my god, I loved the way you described the support classes in an argument, I feel like it was totally spot-on. Would you be willing to write how the other classes would be in an argument, as well? Or, at least maybe the defence classes?? Thank you and have a wonderful day! 🥰

another engineer (technically) one, im in heaven. also, thank you! (also so very sorry for how short it is, my brain is so very very fried from art fight.) — mod engie

GN!READER X DEFENSE CLASSES ; ARGUMENTS

DEMOMAN

out of all of them? he is the best. he can actually recognize that he is wrong in an argument after the fact and apologise, which is crazy by mercenary means. after all, most of his problems are solved by alcohol and bombs, but he cares about you enough not to blow you up, so be thankful for that.

that being said… he’s also drunk most of the time, so the former may not even apply when you’re arguing. he most likely won’t recognise he’s even arguing— hell! he might not even remember he’s arguing halfway through and begin talking about a completely unrelated topic. it’s kind of difficult to continue from there, considering he’s either too drunk to recognise you, sleeping, or taking another swig out of a comically large bottle.

"Aye..! I know y’er mad aboot th’ match but in—" His glassy eyes looked around, almost not at you, rather your general surroundings, his leg limp slightly. Be tilted to the right as he looked towards the fireplace of the lounging area, stumbling slightly, "—Wh’teva’ ‘s really jus’ ah… hic!—" Almost on cue, the man had practically fallen, stumbling over, falling asleep momentarily. The second his body loses balance, you seem to have been forced by your instinct to catch him. The impact between him and your arms almost knocked you both over, but thankfully he slowly rose back up to his feet and looked you in the eyes. Unfortunately for you, he already forgot about the argument, and began incoherently babbling about how he missed being this close to you. ..Maybe bring it up another time. One of the rare hours when he’s sober.

when he's sober afterwards i imagine its a lot easier to have a conversation with him, after all he's usually willing to admit he was in the wrong, and a lot of the time, its not a big argument. he's just not a man easy to anger. while the support classes are much easier to aggravate. a common theme seems to be the defense class men are just a loooooot more patient. (also a lot more apologetic)

ENGINEER

its genuinely really hard to argue with this man because he is (most of the time) correct. even if it is an argument you thought you knew all about he's INFURIATINGLY on top. why? well, he does his research really. he's not as willing to win silly little debates but when it comes to much more serious decisions being made. or, say, doing something utterly STUPID at work that could've gotten you killed. yeah, the respawn exists, but darn it that don' mean you can play with it!

so when you, say, fuck around with dangerous technology, he will 100% start arguing. not because he hates you for messing with his latest trinket, but because you could've gotten seriously hurt! that's not a game he's willing to play. unlike the medic, he doesn't often fuck around with satan, the poor texan doesn't want to grow more grey hair in his... beard? eyebrows? i don't know, dell is practically bald.

"WHAT were you THINKING?" The Texan dropped his hard hat onto the desk beside him. The man works late nights to make sure no one gets royally fucked by that dangerous machine his Grandfather created a few generations before, and you're skipping out of it like it's a playground? It's safe to say his blood pressure suffers due to your recklessness. Though it was clear his volume was unwarranted, he finally started over with a long sigh, talking at a normal volume. "Y'know that thin' wasn't always 'dere? Dontcha? Don't get too comfortable with that thin'. I don' wanna see you get hurt, y' hear me?" Dell really didn't want to hear your side of the argument, after all, in his mind there was no reason in hell OR heaven for you to just casually run at the flames of the opposing Pyro for 'funsies'. Imagine how it is for him to see you die in numerous ways on the battle field. It AIN'T NICE, to say the least.

no matter how long the argument went on, he would eventually shut you down with a good 'don't pull that shit again' and move out to take a lap. he takes a lot longer to cool down than the other two defense mercenaries, mostly because whenever he argues genuinely, it gets rather personal. even if to you it seemed rather 'impersonal' and 'professional' feel-y, in his heart it was because all the machinery is what gives his family their name. whenever he sees someone messing around with it? it genuinely ticks him off.

HEAVY

man of little words argues the least, mostly because, unlike engineers, everything is rather impersonal. he's definitely heard it all, and while i don't think he apologises as often, it's also just difficult to get him to argue THAT BADLY. the most you get out of him is maybe two words telling you not to do something, and even then there's not that much room for argument is there? you either do what he's asked of you or you don't. both are things he can't quite control. he's just as stubborn, as you can tell he just does his own thing, only following directions when he can see it's vital for his or others' survival.

not impossible to argue with him, however. there are times when you can get him to argue, but its usually not anything important. perhaps you had a different opinion on how a cliffhanger was supposed to be interpreted? now we're getting somewhere. maybe you have a rather negative imagine of fyodor's brothers. he's not gonna let you pass without explaining why.

"I just didn't understand what the Father was supposed to mean in all that!" You may have exclaimed as you sat across from the largest mercenary on the team, yet sat composed in a comfortable sofa chair, with small glasses and a comically small book in hand. He wasn't usually seen like this, after all, most people see him screaming violently on the field. It's only this side that you see most commonly late at night. The way you seemed to speak of it was rather surface-level. Which, not to blame you, it's a Russian novel, not many are reading it at all. Heavy never owned books in English. So it's really just for you to 'suck up and take' while reading with him. Thankfully, he's taught you enough to have you fill in the blanks with common sense. Perhaps it was just American society getting to you. Back at home, the meaning was a lot easier to grasp, knowing that most were under a similar crushing situation under the new rule. At least in Russian society, where a lot of knowledge is needed to even begin to understand the book, the brothers' differences were clear in what they represented and what their father represented, especially in the modern day with the uprising and new government, filled with Soviet control. The man stared lost in thought at you, which is mighty intimidating on its own, before actually speaking up. "Ah, no." He simply shook his head, leaning forward in his chair for you to hear him better, "He uses father in metaphor not..." He snapped his finger attempting to remember the English word for his sentence. "Literal. Father mean more than just caretaker. Mean oppression." It sounded as if he were to continue before he simply sat back and relaxed back into his chair.

it didn't exactly feel like an argument, in fact it felt more like he was informing you. but that's genuinely the closest i could ever imagine him getting to an argument. he just doesn't seem like that type of guy.

[jksnrabbit]

DNDADS OCS, BUT THIS TIME ITS S2

THIS TIME i present TWO . TWICE the character for One post because i couldnt be bothered to make 2 debut ref sheets for them both

Luis and Santiago Sanchez, originally made as dnd characters for a campaign that never took off, so i smushed em in s2

here's an introductory comic to how luis and lark met, simply cause ive had this comic in my sketchbook for ages and it makes me cackle everytime

fun facts below the cut!! [i wrote more than expected]

☆ i made them sometime in 2022, before the s2 teens made it to heaven, so now idk how they can be part angelic considering angels r just eyeballs, but fuck it. if there can be half demon characters, there can be half angel

☆ theyre both peruvian [because i dont see enough peruano characters in media istfg]

☆ newly moved in to san dimas! moved in the same neighborhood as the oak-swallows-garcia family

☆ i believe these are pre-season 2 ep 1 ocs. like, maybe a year or 2 before the events of s2? idk . time is fake

☆ some inspiration for these two was taken from jim and barbara from trollhunters! i still love that show so i blended it with my own experiences and dndads and here. mental illness incarnate

LUIS

☆ bisexual nurse dad! since he was supposed to be a dnd pc, i had him as a life cleric, so to explain for his healing magic i decided to have him be ½ celestial, maybe aasimar

☆ that being said, he does not know of any non-human heritage nor magical healing. he just thinks he's naturally good at healing

☆ having magic immediately puts him on lark's radar, leading him to investigate luis. luis is just happy to have a new friend

☆ divorced from santiago's mom

☆ can't cook For Shit. it doesnt matter if you give him instructions, if it involves a stove/oven, there will be smoke

SANTIAGO

☆ transgender king!!! he/they legend!!! no im not projecting dont @ me /j

☆ chismoso/nosey to the point where, in san dimas, a hotbed for doodler activity, it puts him in danger. and you best believe he's snooping on this weird dude who's hanging around his dad so much [lark]

☆ new transfer to teen high! mainly just concerned with joining the track team

☆ unfortunately also the king of running in his binder. god save this kid

☆ due to celestial heratige, hates taylor swift's part demonic energy - he chalks this up to just not liking his vibe

[starsfic]

Chaos

Summary: Azure Lion and Lady Bone Demon are in the void. They aren’t alone.

Notes: The mention of a sparrow is a reference to this comic by @dr-chalk. There's not actually any spoilers, this is just working off a theory brought up by the new season, but better safe than sorry.

-_-

Death was boring.

At least, in Azure's case, it was. Nothing but white stretched as far as he could see, with no shadows, no noise, and no company...

Besides hers.

He had awoken to her hovering over him, her dark curls flowing down her back like spilled ink. Her face, although lovely even with her skin stretched taunt over her skull, had been void of expression. "So, he killed you too," she had said, with no explanation of who he was.

Azure already knew.

Supposedly, her name was Baigujing, although most had called her Lady Bone Demon at the end of her life. She had supposedly attempted to save the world as well by burning it to ashes. Azure had asked how that was considered saving the world, and the following words had shut his mouth.

(He would never think of sparrows the same way again.)

Azure hated her company but clung to it. There was nothing else in the void that stretched for what felt like miles, nothing but his own mind and memories. And with the nothing of the void, he had time to think over his life, his actions...his relationships...

He missed the warmth of Flower Fruit Mountain. He missed the joy of his brothers. He would've gladly never looked at Heaven again if it meant he was back there.

Baigujing never spoke much about her life as they sat together, backs pressing together. He figured that she too was stuck thinking about it, though.

He wasn't sure how long this dragged on. It could've been seconds. It could've been centuries.

Just, one day, there was a splat.

Azure brushed it off as being too deep in a memory of a silly food fight Bull and Wukong had once. Half a heartbeat passed before another splat made his ears twitch. He brushed it off again.

The third splat was followed by Baigujing sighing "What is that?" and him cracking an eye open.

There, right in front of him, was a small puddle of...something. It had a deep, dark color, almost like the ink of the memory scroll, but as he watched it, it shimmered to shimmer through the rainbow, from gold to white to red to lavender... Azure reached out and experimentally poked it, finding it to have the same texture as clay.

Before he could wonder, there was another splat as more of the strange stuff dripped down from the ceiling.

He craned his head back and felt himself go pale.

There was a massive crack in what he supposed must be the ceiling of the void, revealing stars and galaxies and ominous dark clouds. And, staring out, is a giant mass of clay, staring him down with empty sockets.

Without a word, Azure knew it was hungry. That it would consume whatever it could find.

And, right now, they were the closest thing.

"...Nope."

Without a second to think he jumped to his feet, grabbed Baigujing, and took off running. He heard a shriek from the creature behind and sped up.

He just had to stay away from it. They just had to stay away.

Hopefully, the thing would get bored...

Right?

[quirklessidiot]

title: hell's favorite secretary [sneak peak] pairing : Devil!Ryomen Sukuna x F!Lost soul!reader [based on the webtoon 'the devil is a handsome man', DC Comics "Lucifer", and the book and video game 'Dante's inferno'] Genre: Alternate Universe-Hell, angst, mystery/thriller, mild horror, romance, slow burn, hell au, dark comedy, lost soul x devil au

Summary: The faceless man shrouded in mystery tends to be a subject of rumors and false pretenses, but you'd think otherwise when you accidentally caught sight of those grueling red eyes.

General warning for the story: graphic depictions of heavy gore (manslaughter, mayhem, and torture), and explicit sexual scenes, more will be added per chapter. this will be exclusively released in ao3 in december <3 Notes: after reading a couple of pages of dante's inferno, reading lucifer (the comic book), and the devil is a handsome man, it sort of struck my interest to write this story! this is a pretty long series and im actually so excitied to write this lol.

if you're a person heavily practicing the catholic faith, i won't recommend reading this series as this talks and leans on the devil (i'm not a satanist pls), he's not glorified here in anyways but I do recall people who lean heavily on the faith are not fond of reading any media depictions of the devil.

i hope you enjoy! rb's are always appreciated.

There are possibly hundreds of artworks about the devil. 

The most famous one is that snake hanging off the forbidden tree or, better yet, a half-animal and half-human. Others would be an ugly babe falling down from the heavens. The most popular modern one would be the one in red with horns on his head, yet your boss did not resemble any of those impressions. Instead, he wore a three-piece suit and had a hole right in the middle of his face.

Yes, you heard that right.

A hole. 

All you could see was an empty void of black nothingness. Nobara had said that Sukuna – yes, the devil went by that name — would never show his face to lost souls like you because, as an angel before, seeing him in his proper form would result in instantaneous combustion. 

Despite that good reason, talking to him was still disconcerting. The whole situation remained to be anomalous.

The ringing thoughts about your previous conversation with your workmate replay in your head like a broken record, your eyes trickling on the piles of paperwork across the window that revealed your boss leaning against the table with his usual outfit and pink tufts of hair neatly styled away.

You recalled meeting him for the first time and wondering why he seemed somewhat familiar. You had overtly eyed him up and down. Despite the hole in his face, he had caught on quickly and asked what exactly you were doing. Until now, you couldn’t understand the physics behind how he could even see you and talk.

You purse your lips in deep thought as lines form in the middle of your head. You don’t even feel your boss walking up to you on your desk, “Seems like someone’s head is up in the clouds this morning.” he points out.

You immediately sat up straight, your shoulders squared, “Sukuna, Sir…” you jumped, eyeing him somewhat warily. 

Despite how he made you feel, the devil was not exactly a strict boss. 

He’s rather lax and did not mind procrastination and passing your work at the last minute as long as you did it well. He works on proper hours, gives vacation and leaves, and an appropriate timetable for lunch breaks. 

He’s hard to hate for a being who's been blamed for man’s misfortune since time immemorial.

“Was the long weekend still not enough?”

“I’m not exactly a sloth, Sir,” you mumble to yourself, but he catches onto your words and remains unphased. It's uncharacteristic for you to say anything more to him, but you needed a good starter for this conversation to get on,  “...Although, I-uh…I do have a question…You remembered our contract, sir?”

One thing that humans were able to grasp correctly about hell and its king is the contract signing and how the devil gives out favors in exchange for something you truly hold dear. For you, since you’re a lost soul, in exchange for changing your status, you’d give proper work hours and help him capture at least eight hundred itinerants.

You’re running on two hundred and fifty so far.

“Oh?” he leans in closer, “That’s not something we talk about every day.” his body language remains fluid and guileless as if he wanted you to speak your mind more, and it only made your palms sweaty despite the coldness of the room, “Would you like to change some conditions? I am, after all, a fair man.” His voice is crisp and light, a charm that made up for his empty face.

“I- well, I’m going to be frank with you, Sir…” you blink, “I- um,” you start to stammer, and it only makes your stomach do different kinds of flips as your mind conjures up different types of worst-case scenarios. It’s not like you couldn’t become a soul after this, right? You’d only have to wait for a century and try to retain your sanity along with it.

He cocks his head to the side, and if you could paint a face on that void of nothingness, you’d wish it would be kind eyes looking down on you, but this was the devil, the man who was struck down from the heavens for being too ‘arrogant and malicious’. You need to be careful with your words, “I…I need information…” you swallowed, your words tumbling out clumsily.

“Information?” your boss remained relaxed, and you knew it was rather diabolic to even pray for God when you were literally in hell, but you had little to no way of reading him. There’s another round of stifling silence; you only want to melt into a puddle of goo this time.

[catholic-character-tournament]

Round 5 - Catholic Character Tournament

Propaganda below ⬇️

Sister Michael

She drives a DeLorean. She does judo on Fridays. She likes a good statue and despises the French. Her full nun name is Sister George Michael, after the guy from Wham!. She is the fiercest nun you’ll ever come across and, if you’re attending Lady Immaculate College, she’s the woman in charge. So whatever you do, if you’re feeling anxious or worried or just need a chat: don’t come crying to her.

joined the nunnery for the free accommodation?

she does love a good statue it has to be said

She is the headmistress of a catholic school <3

sister michael so reminds me of the nuns who taught me. they're tough and sometimes a little harsher than a woman who dedicated her life to god should be but they're also wonderful people. i had a nun teacher who was 60 years old and would do handstands. another nun (also in her 60s) told me god was nonbinary. another was really mean and made me cry. (so did the handstand nun.) while the catholic girls school is The Catholic Experience, the school wouldn't have been the same for me or the derry girls without at least one nun who seemed to have sprung up out of the ground fully formed, ageless.

Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler Propaganda:

good lord where do i start. in the animated series he converts logan to catholisism and then fucks off basically thats the main thing he did there. i think one time they tried to make him a demon to explain how he looked but everyone hated that. he sold his soul one time to help his friends out after he died. he and logan have a weird little gay thing. he was a priest one time but he was made a priest by a fake bishop from a religion that hates mutants iirc so he just wasnt a priest. like 3 people have written him in a way i like and one of those is my friend just talking about how they view him.

wow marvel loves making catholic characters dress/look like demons

Kurt is a mutant who was born to mystique who looks a LOT like a devil (technically is half one but that cannon truth isn’t real go back to bed), his mother dropped him off a cliff when he was born and he was picked up by a Romani group/circus (fuck old comics man) however he then narrowly escaped being sold to a freak show and found himself in a small German town. There he met a kind priest, who showed him God, and he quickly grew attached to the idea- However, it wasn’t long before people began labeling him a demon and soon the whole town was against him with pitchforks and fire. Cornered and injured, Kurt thought this might be the end for him- maybe he would see heaven so long after finding it- but he was then saved by Charles Xavier who invited him to the X-Men. AND ITS BEEN SO MANY YEARS AND HE HAS BEEN THROUGH SO MUCH THERE. SO MUCH. SO GOD DAMN MUCH. BUT THE MOST AAAA THING TO ME CONCERNING HIS FAITH HE WHEN HE LITERALLY DIED AND WENT TO HEAVEN BUT THEN BECAUSE OF DRAMA WITH HIS FATHER HAD TO BRING HIS FRIENDS IN WITH HIM FROM THE BEYOND. THEN WITH ALOT OF TROUBLE THEY FOUGHT HIS FATHER AND THE ONLY WAY KURT SAW TO STOP HIM WAS IN A MOVE THAT STRIPPED THEM BOTH OF THEIR SOULS AND PUT THEM BACK ON EARTH. SO KURT CANONICALLY HAS NOW LOST HIS ABILITY FOR ETERNAL PEACE, LOST HIS VERY SOUL, TO SAVE PEOPLE- AND ALSO TOLD NO ONE NOT EVEN HIS GAY LOVER WOLVERINE.

Nightcrawler is a mutant vigilante who looks like a classical demon. He can’t even go to church without people panicking and trying to exorcize him. Despite it all, he’s so full of faith and hope and compassion, and he wants to believe the best of everyone. Also, he’s bffs with an extremely angry Jewish sword lesbian. That has nothing to do with anything, but it’s important to me that you all know that.

What if you were a devout christian and literally looked like the devil? He nearly became the pope, which was a plot by some supervillains that also involved faking a rapture? There is nothing like comics I swear to god.

A catholic who is half demon I don’t think I can better explain a struggle than that. But his character is so relatable to people who feel unwelcome with their congregation because of something that is a part of them but still feeling a connection to the faith. Kurt actively engaged in his faith and shares how his faith helps him through all the things he has faced in life and how he found a home with those of the church who leave the judging to God.

so they made kurt a priest briefly before deciding to retcon it, resulting in nightcrawler actually being part of a plan by villains to promote him to pope then reveal to the world that the pope is a demon. wild.

I have a side blog and a tattoo about him and i really really want him to win

Wisecracking devil-appearing devout Catholic with the Best superpower (teleportation)? HECK YES

German Catholic circus acrobat who looks like a demon & can teleport through a hellish alternate dimension with a puff of sulfur. Character of all time.

hes catholic and his dad is the devil. what could be funnier than that. also hes my silly little guy.

Nightcrawler is the world’s most fun catholic priest. I first was introduced to this kindhearted teleporting acrobat while he saved a boat full of stowaway refugees from inter dimensional pirates with swashbuckling gusto!