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zephyrofalltrades · 4 years ago

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Day 9: Possession

CW: Partial demonic possession, strangulation, self-harm, graphic depictions of demonic wounds, swearing

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his sweater vest looking at the old abandoned house at the side of the road.

“I like spooky-looking places remember?” Crowley said pulling out his camera from the back seat of his car. “Besides, this place is aesthetic - perfect for my photography class!” he grinned as he looked back at his friend.

“Yes, well, I also heard demons live there,” the blonde shivered.

“Demons aren’t real, angel. They’re just the construct of bed time stories and the magic of cinematography,” he hummed tying his long red locks so as not get caught in the camera straps. “Besides, we’ll be out of there before you could say 'tickety-boo',” he laughed.

"I've got supplies, just in case." Aziraphale piped up, taking out a crucifix, a rosary then a water pistol from his pockets. He patted the last with reverence. "Holiest of holy waters," he announced proudly. "From a bottle my parents got when they visited the Vatican then promptly forgot in a box in the garage."

Crowley bit his tongue from making a comment. He'll be damned if he'll ruin the blonde's fun. But he ought to show a little bout of annoyance to keep his image.

Crowley rolled his eyes at the paraphernalia, and held out the crucifix. "Planning to play as an exorcist dressed like that?" the red-head gestured to his cream sweater vest and tan trousers.

"Hopefully, it won't come to an exorcism," the other sniffed. "Which reminds me, give me your arm."

"Which one?" Aziraphale shrugged so he cast in his right.

The blonde took the rosary and wound it around a sinewy wrist, knowing that the red-head would cuss vehemently if he hung it around his neck. "There," he said with a wiggle. Crowley felt the charged contact and his brain was fried for a moment or two before his senses came back. Looking ridiculous was a small price to pay to keep his angel happy.

Soon they managed to finally step out to the door and let themselves in. It was a usual haunt for teens giving innocent dares or those with questionable hobbies. The graffiti was everywhere.

“Oh demons! Come say 'hello!'” Crowley giggled as they entered.

“I don’t think you should do that, Crowley. What if it gets mad?”

“Aww, come on angel, the demon can’t get mad because it’s not real!” he laughed aloud, earning a huff from his friend.

After a few shots of the main rooms, the pair decided to venture down the basement. It had the standard level of spookiness with an added bonus of a crudely scribbled occultist's pentagram in one of the musty corners. He gave the blonde a mischievous look and proceeded to flop himself down unto the floor, torso in the middle of the drawing.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale hissed.

"Hey, demons!" the red-head called. "Come get me!"

"Oh dear, please don't…" his friend's voice trembled.

"It's just a bit of fun, angel," he complained, but got up anyway to dust himself off. "If there are demons, they ought to show themselves more if they want to be known. Waste of time to just keep hiding in the dark, if you ask me."

His left hand suddenly came up to slap his cheek.

"Shit! That stings! What the fu-" another slap.

"Crowley, what are you doing? Is this another one of your pranks?"

"This isn't me! This is -" The hand grabbed hold of his sunglasses and threw it against a wall, hard enough to shatter the lenses and bend the frame. "Oi! Those were new!"

The sunglasses were the last straw, Aziraphale knew then that his friend wasn't playing a game. He took his crucifix and advanced towards Crowley. "Now you listen here," he addressed the limb, which Crowley was restraining with his other hand from punching himself in the face again. "Leave him alone!"

They heard an unearthly chuckle from all around them and the room's darkness felt heavier than before.

The blonde jumped and whirled about, searching for the voice's source. Before he could turn back to Crowley however, the errant hand slapped the wrist holding on to the crucifix. The wood fell from his grip but a part of it touched the demonic palm.

Crowley yelped and the hand recoiled. "That burned!" he said more out of surprise than actual pain. They could try exorcising his arm! But how? he thought frantically. Before he could think of a plan, the limb grabbed for a new target.

This time he watched his hand curl around the blonde’s throat. “Stop! No!” he screamed, but his limb took no heed. Aziraphale was holding on to it with both hands to no avail, lifting him from the ground.

Crowley pressed the rosary hanging from his right wrist at it but although it stung the same way, it didn't make it let go of the blonde. Panicked, he looked for the crucifix but it had been knocked far from his reach.

"Po-pocket," Aziraphale gasped out, still doing his best to pry the fingers away.

With wide eyes, Crowley searched his friend's pockets. His fingers touched plastic. The handle of the water pistol. He hoped it was holy enough to combat the demonic arm. He snatched it and pulled the trigger, first aiming at the hand then soaking the rest of his arm for good measure. The pain blinded him but he kept going, wringing every drop of the holy water from the toy. Finally, the fingers slackened.

Aziraphale fell to the floor gasping and watch as his attacker jerked in pain. The skin of Crowley's arm was steaming a sickly green. Bumps were forming from underneath, cracking the skin then popping to excrete a blackish sludge, oozing down to the floor.

Crowley tried not to howl but he couldn't suppress the whimpers. He retched as the smell of sulfur and decaying flesh reached his nostrils. Finally succumbing to the torture, he fainted.

When he woke, the first thing he saw was a crucifix nailed high on clean white walls. He grimaced at it before turning his head to look at the rest of the room. Cots were lined along the walls. It was a ward, he surmised, burrowing beneath the blankets once more and hissing as the sheets slid against his heavily bandaged arm.

"Ah, you're finally awake," came a voice from the other end of the room. A nun was striding towards him with a pitcher of water, a glass, cups and a pot of tea. Behind her was a smiling Aziraphale clutching a tin of biscuits. "Gave us all a fright you, did," the nun chastised. "We patched your friend up as best we could, but you were worse for wear."

She took the pitcher and poured him a glass. He did his best to not choke as he gulped the liquid down. He looked up to find both nun and blonde peering at him curiously.

"Wot? I was thirsty," he said defensively.

Aziraphale chuckled. "It appears you're good to go dear boy. If drinking holy water doesn't bother you, then we have nothing more to worry about."

#racket's 13 days of halloween #good omens fanfiction #good omens #with buzzfeed supernatural elements #i just had to #human au #my fics

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lolmyeyebags · 4 years ago

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Tempting. But nah, I’m good. Unless? ;)

Summary: You find yourself attempting to swindle a witch. Naturally, it doesn’t work out and she casts a curse on you. How were you supposed to solve this curse before seven days?

Warnings: No smut but it’s basically an intro to a smut series; a prompt?

Word Count: 5,538

A/N: Oneshot? Series? We’ll find out in the next episode of-

Ao3 Link

This is her place, right? You’re sure this is the place you agreed to meet up on. You’ve double checked, no, triple checked your messages with the witch you met on bledit, Tituba. You’ve been to her house before but never in the dark. With your paranoia, you could only imagine how mortifying it would be if you were to arrive in a random demon or witch’s home, knocking on their door, and possibly being eaten or roasted alive. According to her message, you were at the correct destination... which was in the outskirts of the devildom, in the middle of the night.

At least, it felt like nighttime. Since the devildom had no sun - excluding Lord Diavolo’s private beach - your body had to adapt to the climate change and learned to tell time in a different way, and by that it meant you relied on your gut feeling and occasionally, checked the time on your DDD.

The gravel crunched and shuffled with each step you took, and with each step, your gnawing anxiety grew stronger. Please, there’s no way this is the wrong house. Although, maybe it was since it was pitch black and you were a powerless human in the night - ok - get a grip.

You know, maybe this wasn’t your brightest idea. I mean, what if you died in the most embarrassing way? What if a creature of Devildom decided to make you their food, feed you to their offspring, and leave your naked and mutilated body to be found. That’s just… no, you’d rather not think about that. You'd simply pass away if you let yourself die looking crusty as fuck.

Though, you wouldn't have found yourself in your little nighttime adventures if you'd just get a grip and master lucid dreaming the normal way. If you just had enough patience and practiced in a neat and timely routine, you would’ve mastered lucid dreaming and the ability to shift into your ‘desired reality’ as those clickclock creators instructed.

But who were you kidding? You know your dumb ass could never have the patience and consistency to do that. That’s like, some normie type of shit. And you? A whole ‘nother breed. Those foolish little clickclock creators have no idea that you were basically y/n and have a main character complex. What? Don’t look at me like that, me. We’re built? Different.

“Lucid dreaming isn’t that hard, it requires patience and understanding, yeah right,” you mocked the various clickclock creators and sent a pebble flying to a pile of rocks. “Stupid clickclock, stupid lucid dreaming, stupid hard and unobtainable 2d waifus and husbandos.”

All you wanted was to lucid dream once! Just once is enough. You wanted to open you eyes to an animated world and see your beloved 2D characters materialize right before you. Of course, you know it wasn’t all that possible to do in real life. I mean, if even the hardcore otaku himself hasn’t managed such a feat, how could you - the lowly human - accomplish what Mr. The Lord of Shadows couldn’t do for centuries?

And yeah, he’s the Lord of Shadows alright. If you learned anything from your writepod addiction in middle school, it’s the ability to spot a poorly disguised fan fiction based off of celebrities in real life from a mile away. Although, it did surprise you to find that the great author of the legendary TSL series was THE Simeon himself.

I mean, Simeon? Hello? The holiest of angels? That was a shocker.

OOF! You face planted into something soft, almost like a jello cup you’d eat in the summer. You were snapped out of your thoughts as you fell on the prickly leaves, ass first.

“Oh, what the fuck?” You balled your hands into fists and attempted to rub the disorientation away, and standing at a good 6’10” was quite possibly the tallest being you’ve ever laid your eyes on - and the most amusing to make fun of.

The witch fixed her gaze onto you, “you’re late.”

You felt a swirl of emotions wash over you. I wonder how you were going to torment her into casting a lucid dreaming spell on you. Or better yet, have her teach you how to shift realities with her witchy powers. Oh! Or even better, blackmail her into sending you off into a parallel universe in which your favorite anime are real and you were the all mighty ruler of that world, giving you the powers to switch dimensions and warp your realities with a snap of your fingers.

A grin tugged at your lips, “what’re yOu looking at Cocksucker69?”

The witch, Tituba, pressed her lips into a tight lipped smile and hissed, “I thought I told you to not refer to me as that, xXdiavoloismybitchXx.”

“I—“

“Did you forget what followed after you endeavored to bring me humiliation in public? Forget the way those demons turned around, their jaws slack with shock as I uttered your bledit username, exposing you as bledit’s most notorious troller, and all of your-“

“YES! I mean no! No, I haven’t forgotten. You right, my bad,” you shivered at the memory and shook your head.

It was as if it happened yesterday, because it did. It wasn’t the wide array of emotions the demons bore that bothered you. It was the fact Tituba emphasized your username, while you were in the entrance of RAD, no less!

You were one of the two only human exchange students and that made you quite a celebrity in the school. The demons knew that! They weren’t fools. Your username probably struck a cord that inspired a string of gossip and rumors to spread, that would no doubt reach Diavolo. You couldn’t bear the thought of reliving the wave - no, tsunami - of embarrassment that washed over you. No, it felt more like it drowned you. Like damn, that witch really had it out for you!

“Right so,” with a cheshire grin, you prod her arm with your elbow, “where were we?”

She groaned in exasperation.

“Child, you are accelerating my expiration,” the witch brought two fingers and pinched the space between her eyebrows, smoothing out her wrinkles, no doubt caused by you.

“I’ll behave this time, I swear! Scout’s honor!”

“Despite my knowing of my inevitable regret, I’m obligated to continue,” the witch pushed her door open and ushered you in. You stepped inside and a fresh crisp breeze licked at your cheeks. You sighed in content, welcoming the verdant ambiance of Tituba’s cottage.

The lace of your shoes became undone in a second, and in the next, you soared in the air and flopped unceremoniously on Tituba’s sex pit. It wasn’t an actual sex pit though. It was simply an indentation on the wooden floor that Tituba renovated into a conversation pit, which turned into her designated sleeping area, thanks to your persistence.

Pillows, throw pillows, plushies, fluffy blankets - if you had to choose a place to sleep for eternity, it would be Tituba’s sex pit. Your eyes widened in delight as it settled on the long shape of the body pillow you gifted Tituba as an apology gift… After you fell against her cauldron she was using to ferment blood moon water. It spilled all over the floor and became ‘unclean’ as she called it.

“Oh!!! The Barbatos body pillow I gifted you! I knew you still love me! You tsundere simp, you~!”

Tituba met your waggling eyebrows with an unamused stare. “Get to the point, MC.”

Just the slightest, you dipped your head, narrowed your eyes, and put on the biggest smirk you could manage - your signature Robbie Rotten face you always wore as you plan to blackmail her.

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

Yeah, the transactions weren’t as smooth as you thought it would be. Sure, maybe you tried to manipulate Tituba via sabotaging her date who she was talking to through the cinder app. Well, you didn’t try, you succeeded. And as a result, you were put under a supposedly ‘excruciating’ curse that even Solomon himself couldn’t break. ’Supposedly.’

“Heed my words, MC. If you are unable to find salvation by the seventh day, you will meet your demise, devoured by a great and powerful hellfire, subject to—“

“Yuh, I’ma dip, I have to binge my new anime I’ve been obsessed with - bungee street cats - peach out!”

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

What type of curse, spell, whatever it was, was it though? You couldn’t help but ruminate over Tituba’s warning.

...

Nah, she’s just playing with me. She’d never! Right? Even if it was a curse, a prank if you will, what would it be? Were you cursed to break out? An irrational fear of yours you shared with her? Is is that you fear you’d be subject to an embarrassing sequence of events that’d take you out? Fuck, if it was something embarrassing, you’d simply pass away. You had enough with the second hand embarrassment you got from awkward anime characters. You weren’t about to live through your own embarrassment. That was just... too cruel.

Nothing strange or unusual has been happening so far. It was just the normal you, the pure, selfless maiden going on about her life with the seven demon brothers. Sure, it should’ve made you feel better but it only unnerved you even more. Fuck! What exactly was the curse? Maybe you shouldn’t have cut her off and dipped. You felt a thin layer of sweat slowly creep up and you brought a hand up to fan your face. Damn, was it hot in here or was it just your wet ass pussy?

♪ Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, you fucking with some wet ass pussy. Bring a bucket and a mop for this wet ass pussy. Give me- ♪

You were snapped out of your thoughts when a firm grip made contact with your shoulders.

A strangled cry left your lips as you doubled over. Fiery ropes of erotism enveloped your body. It was as if every nerve, every vein in your body was coursing with raw pleasure. You felt a blush come over not just your cheeks but your entire body as you locked eyes with the classroom that you disrupted with your lewd… sound.

The professor coughed and proceeded to point to the diagram of a demon, angel, and human anatomy, explaining what the three species have in common and what they don’t.

Your bottom lip sought comfort in being chewed by your teeth. With your head hung and your hair slightly covering your face, you followed the hand on your shoulder to its owner.

My, just how mortifying could it get? It was fucking Simeon. His cheeks were dusted pink and his lips were caught in an ‘o’ and his eyes were filled with surprise, then worry.

“Simeon, I,” your eyes were downcast, refusing to meet his gaze, “I-I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s come over me.”

What the fawk. This is the worst day ever. Now the image of a little lamb you assumed Simeon had for you would be replaced by a horny, hormone monster.

Stupefied, Simeon sat still, staring at you.

Fuck! This is so awkward! I should probably explain that I didn’t mean to release a porn star moan just because he touched my shoulder! I mean, he’s an angel and this is just the worst fucking thing oh my gosh...

And with that, your dumb ass found yourself rambling to Simeon in great, excessive detail of your meeting with Tituba. Even going as far to expose your usernames and directly quoting yourself and that wretched witch.

“Oh my,” he lifted your chin with his fingers and you stiffened, resisting the urge to sing a song of the pleasure that coursed through you. He frowned and studied the way you reacted to his touch. He probably didn’t intend to almost send you into your first orgasm buuuut hot damn. Please, Simeon, stop being so breathtaking with your exposed shoulders.

Hold up. Shoulders? What the hell, just how far did you fall? You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain and you became the villain. You were literally a prime example of why dress code conduct in the human realm prohibited shoulders from being shown in school. Who would’ve thought?

“Not to worry, MC, counseling little lambs in their times of need is our job, after all.”

Fuck, why is he such a gentleman. You felt like putty from his touch alone and your thighs found itself squeezing together as a response to his touch.

“S-Simeon, please,” you grit your teeth and muster all of your willpower to not moan. Continuing with your impromptu explanation, you say, “it’s just, whenever I find myself bumping into anyone, it feels almost uncomfortably good. Like, pleasurable? I don’t know how to explain it but,” your chewed on your lip. “I don’t know how it came to that considering I’m literally as pure as anyone could get but I feel extremely overcome with lust for some reason.”

A husky timbre sang in your ear. “Oh? Is that so?”

Fuck. No no no! You hit back the urge to moan and doubled over in your seat, balling your hands into fists in an attempt to regain yourself.

Who-? Who fuck is this evil? You come back to your seated position and find yourself face to face with Solomon. His eyes were twinkling with pure mischief.

How in the world did you forget that Solomon sat right next to you? Directly to your left, no less. How much did he hear? Knowing him, he probably noticed your state of distress and took full advantage of it, listening in on everything you ranted to Simeon.

“Ah,” he stifled back his laughter, “so you weren’t kidding?”

You pressed your lips together in a tight line, bringing your hand up and preparing to smack a bitch until you realized you’d probably double over again from the skin to skin contact. “Ugh, you’re lucky I can’t strangle you.”

Well, you’re fucked.

“Aww, you shouldn’t be like that, MC!” Solomon brought a hand up to his chest and frowned. “After all, since a powerful witch like Tituba put you under a curse, you’d benefit from having The Greatest Sorcerer on your side.”

You groaned and slid down your chair, covering your face in equal parts shame and annoyance - only for Solomon, of course. Simeon, however, deserves the whole world.

“Little lamb, I think you should head over to the House of Lamentation early,” Simeon advised. You met his sympathetic gaze and felt a wave of relief wash over you. Truly, he was an angel.

“Can I really do that?”

“I’ll walk you over to the nurse’s office if you’re scared,” Solomon cooed. His lips brushed against the shell of your left ear and his fingers strummed along the small of your back.

“F-Fuck,” you whisper screamed and clutched your body, as if you were holding yourself down from the oncoming shockwaves his mere actions brought upon you.

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

You found yourself in the common room, back at the House of Lamentation. You sat down on the rightmost part of a loveseat, welcoming the warmth of the fireplace and the sound of wood snapping and cracking against the fire. Fucking Solomon. That sneaky rat bastard. Who gave him the audacity to act like Hugh Hefner, when at best, motherfucker was Voldemort.

It was a wonder how you got here safely, really. Considering that you weren’t the best at keeping yourself composed when you were under pressure. Maybe you were born with it? Maybe it’s Maybelline.

Ding! Your DDD vibrated against your back pocket. Shame coursed through you as heat pooled in between your legs. Even from that? Really? To think you were acting more like a crusty, musty, virgin than Levi.

Who was it that texted you this time? Your face fell as you read the banner on your DDD.

Solomon.

Great, you wonder what he has planned for you this time. Taking a deep breath, you click on the notification.

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

Solomon: This is so funny. Guess what kind of curse you’re under.

MC: ...MF. Get on with it!!!

Solomon: It’s a fucking curse of temptation, charged with eros.

MC: ...

Solomon: ...

MC: Say sike rn. Please. I’m begging you.

Solomon: Then beg.

MC: ...

Solomon: LMAO

MC: You can break it right?! It’s just a fucking horny curse. It doesn’t seem that complicated

Solomon: Stupid hoe. Did you not pay attention to Unit 1 of Incantations?

MC: TF?? Who do you take me for? That was like the first week I was abducted. Ofc I was tryna convince myself I was just high or something or like I was in a weird ass dream

Solomon: ...Well, the simpler and more direct a curse is, the harder it is to break. Obviously, complicated curses are more susceptible to flaws and mistakes. And it’s just your luck because the curse Tituba placed you under is lined with malicious intent.

Solomon: Didn’t you say she only spoke a single sentence when she cast her spell on you?

MC: Oh fuck.

Solomon: LOL! Literally. I could break it in a day or two if it was any other witch. But this is Tituba we’re talking about.

MC: Her breed? Different >:)

Solomon: ...

MC: Ok! I’m sorry. Please, go on oh great and powerful one.

Solomon: Hold on, I’ve only just figured out what type of curse you’re under. Give me a few hours and I’ll head over there and explain it to you once I’ve solved it.

MC: MAKE IT QUICK. IF THE BROTHERS FIND OUT, I’M GOING TO PASS AWAY FROM EMBARRASSMENT

Solomon: dO YOU WANT ME TO SOLVE IT OR NOT?

MC: I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, take your time oh, Solomon the Wise. But come quick! Please

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

“LOL! You’ll never guess what happens in chapter 22 of Being An Old Man, I Thought It Was Too Late For Me To Have Kids With My Wife Sarah But God Blessed Me A Son!”

“You wouldn’t dare! I haven’t reached that part yet! You wouldn’t use such dirty tactics to distract me.”

“Abraham has to sacrifice his-“

“NOOO!”

“Levi, MC, please,” Satan sighed and lowered his book, meeting your sheepish grin and Levi's scoff with an unamused stare.

The common room was full of life. Satan sat right across from you, engrossed in another one of his nerdy books and Asmo sat beside him, humming a tune as he painted his nails - for like, the third time this week. Mammon sat right next to him, fixed on his DDD. You could barely make out the layout of the akuzon app. Stupid mammon, he’s already on another online shopping spree despite having more frozen bank accounts that even Lucifer himself could count.

Speaking of Lucifer, you turn your gaze to him as he sat on the armchair, smack down in the middle of the two loveseats right across from each other. He just came back from another meeting with Diavolo and was sorting through his papers.

What in the name of Christopher Gray... how could one man look that stunning after being holed up in a meeting for five hours. Your dumb ass would step out of the meeting looking like you haven’t washed your hair in years.

Beel sat to the left of Levi. He chewed on a stick of bat jerky and was watching some video on his DDD - probably about working out or food - and Belphie laid by himself, curled up right in front of the fireplace with his head resting on his cow pillow, knocked out cold. Or well, knocked out warm.

It was almost strange how calm the ambiance was. You felt a spike of anxiety churn at your stomach. Why do you feel like something bad is going to happen?

“Hey, pay attention normie! I’m about to beat your high score in subway swimmers!” Levi stick his tongue out in concentration, deft fingers swiping away at obstacles and collecting grimm as he ran away from the kraken security guardian.

“Oh no! NOOO!” You clutch your DDD, just in time to watch your character collide with a bed of coral. Your face fell at the words displayed on the screen. ‘Save me!’

“No, I ran out of keys,” you groan and threw your DDD at Levi, crossing your arms.

“The only reason you’ve been able to keep up with me all this time is because of all the money you’ve spent on keys, MC!”

“Hey!” You scoff, “you’re making me feel like Mammon!”

“Oi! I don’t spend that much money!”

Without missing a beat, Satan quips back, “Only because Lucifer confiscated Goldie from you - again.”

Beel nodded his head. He took the last bite of his bat jerky and hummed in agreement.

Ding! Dong!

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, “Who’s at the door?”

Shit. You forgot how the brothers don’t exactly hold Solomon in the highest regards.

Nervously laughing, you answered him, “Ah, that would be Solomon.”

Feeling his scrutinizing gaze, you look up and lock eye contact with Lucifer. His eyes narrowed and you feel yourself growing hot under his gaze. Not that he was turning you on, no. You never liked this kind of attention on you. I mean, who’d openly like to get gawked at?

As if answering your question, Asmodeus gives you a playful smile. “Oh? Solomon? I didn’t know you two were close.”

“Uhh, well, it’s-“

“Oh! Solomon! I’ll get the door!” Levi snapped out of his trance and pressed pause on his game. Thank goodness Levi and Solomon bonded over TSL. You couldn’t imagine any other brothers welcoming him inside if it weren’t for his connection to Levi.

Belphie began to stir from the commotion. He brought himself up to a sitting position, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?” He yawned.

“MC.”

You turned your attention to Lucifer who looks more daddy than ever. His arms were crossed and his eyebrows were pressed together in disapproval. His frown was only the cherry on the top. “Would you care to explain why you invited Solomon over?”

Fuck. Please stop being such an alpha male for once. Images of his physique towering over yours flooded your mind. His hands would pin yours right above your head, rendering your arms useless, and his strong legs would encase you in a cage like hold. Then, him being Lucifer, would say something clever and sensual at the same time, and you'd melt under his gaze.

Wait. UGH! Snap out of it!

You opened your mouth to respond to him when Solomon beats you to it.

“I’ve figured out the exact curse MC has been afflicted with,” and with a smirk, “and how to relieve her of it.”

Shit. Oh shit. He really wants to watch the world burn, huh? You grimaced, bracing yourself for the onslaught of questions from the demon brothers.

Satan’s glare directed at Solomon disappears and is replaced with concern, “a curse?”

“No! It’s not fair! You’re supposed to be my Henry for all of eternity! You can't be cursed!”

“Hey MC! Just what kinda things have ya been up to? I’m s’posed to be protecting you, ya hear?”

“Poor MC! She looks so stressed! That's sooo not good for your skin!”

“Can’t she just sleep it off?”

“MC,” Beel frowned and you returned his concerned expression with a small smile.

Lucifer slammed his hands on the coffee table, it was like thunder just went off inside of the house. “Enough!” His brows were bunched together in a glare and his arms were crossed. “Solomon, would you care to explain the kind of curse MC is under and who the identity of the caster is?”

Your jaw fell slack and you gave Solomon your best ‘please no’ stare you could muster. Your hands were collected in front of you like a prayer.

Solomon only smiled and a chill ran up your spine. That’s not how a smile is supposed to look. No, a real smile would be if your eyes shrank, forming half crescent moons, with wrinkles in the corners. No way. Was he really…?

“If you don’t mind, Lucifer, I’d like to get MC’s approval before continuing.”

Confusion. Yeah, that’s the best way to describe how the brothers reacted. Complete and utter confusion.

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

She signed defeatedly, “fine. Do your worst.”

Is that idiot really going to tempt me into unleashing as much chaos as I could possibly muster? Which is… a lot. I mean, I am known as The Great Sorcerer.

Though, she looks so tempting when she’s so defeated - so small and weak, pathetic, even - it only brings me more amusement. Now, I wonder what route I’m going to choose this time. Should I play as the devious sorcerer? The kindhearted and forgiving human friend of MC? Who am I kidding? Both! Yeah, that wasn’t even a question. I almost laughed out loud. Man, I really am a genius.

I cleared my throat, unwavering as I felt the collective gaze of the demon brothers fall upon my being. And a lustier one from emanating from Asmodeus. No surprise there.

Choose your words carefully, Solomon. You gotta be on her side.

“MC has been afflicted with a curse of temptation, charged with eros, by Tituba the witch. It’ll continue to affect her over the course of seven days, subjugating her to extreme heat that will boil her from the inside out lest she finds relief. She has until the clock strikes midnight on the seventh day.”

Perfect.

A furious blush cascaded over Mammon’s features. He was the first to break the silence. “O-Oi! You’re kidding right?”

“Wah!” Asmo crooned. He gave MC a half-lidded smile. “My my! Now isn’t this a wonderful turn of events~!”

Satan elbowed Asmo on his side. “That’s enough with the teasing, Asmo,” he lectured.

“Oh, don’t give me that, Satan, those bright red cheeks of yours aren't fooling anyone.”

“A-Asmo!”

“Whoa! This is just like the anime I’ve been watching! I Attempted To Manipulate A Great And Powerful Witch And Now I’ve Been Cursed And The Only Way I Can Break Out Of It Is For Me To Kiss The One I love!”

Beel gave Levi a frown, shaking his head at his antics despite the pink that dusted his features.

A glee of joy overcame me as I watched everything unfold. Lucifer looked as if his eyes were about to pop out of its sockets. He was torn between maintaining his stunned gaze onto me or onto MC, whose probably attempting to curl up into a ball at this point.

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

Y’know what, I really am going to smack a bitch. And by that, I mean Solomon and how that sneaky bastard carefully chose his words to bring forth a reaction like… well, like this.

You were so engrossed by the chorus of reactions harmonizing with each other, and focused on morphing into a ball of shame, you almost forgot about Belphie. That was, until he placed his hand on your calf, coaxing you out of your ball. He gave you a kind and sympathetic gaze. His lips were set in a small frown, his eyebrows downcast.

It happened in only a few seconds. You were filled with equal parts horror and pleasure because he didn’t know that simple touches like this could affect you to such a degree. Couldn’t blame him though, he was the only brother that didn’t react in such an inappropriate way to your predicament. And he didn’t even seem amused by it at all.

You, however, well... His warm touch, placed on your calf only sent you into overdrive. “N-No! Don’t touch me!” The absolute lewdest, cry - followed by a moan - escaped your lips. Your body shivered and as if on cue, an overwhelmingly hot fire washed over you. A deep, unyielding fire. It fucking sent you, and the brothers.

“Ah,” Solomon laughed, “I may have forgot to mention that during this period, MC’s senses will be hightened tenfold. If not, possibly more. I figured that’s what the extreme heat stood for and this just proved me right.”

“F-Fuck,” you breathed. Shit, fucking get a grip, MC! You’re in the middle of the brothers and stinky Solomon who’s thriving off of your suffering. Scowling, you sent him a middle finger.

You caught yourself staring at Belphie. His eyes, which were filled with sympathy was now clouded over by something else. It darkened, and you saw his pupils blown wide, threatening to devour the bluish violet color that surrounded it.

“I’m sorry, Belphie, I should’ve told you before,” you murmur.

This was it though. This is the day you die. Cause of death? Embarrassment. Yeah, that’s right. Like a fucking sim dying because it peed in front of the other sims in the club, probably because you kept on cancelling their whim to use the restroom.

“I can help you find relief.”

Pause.

Your moth fell agape at Belphie’s suggestion. Did he really just suggest that? To you? Do you pretend to be Helen Keller? Do you become Jared, 19? There’s no way you could say yes, despite the temptations you’ve felt, longing for sexual touch. After all, your first kiss happened such a long time ago. And even then, you broke it off after a brief moment because you found yourself unwilling to make a fool of yourself. Ha! You, accepting Belphie’s proposal. What a long shot. You were definitely prepared to pass away before you could make an even bigger fool of yourself in front of the brothers and Solomon.

“B-Belphie! Hey! Get your hands off my human!”

Satan and Beel were at a loss for words. To your surprise, so was Lucifer. And Levi, you could only assume, is passed out next to you on the couch after hearing your cry of pleasure.

“Guys, uhh,” you scratched the back of your neck, “it’s okay. I’ll just accept my fate and boil over by the seventh day.”

Right! I saved them from the discomfort of being obliged to help me relieve myself. Plus, that was sorta awkward. I mean, if it happened to someone I didn’t harbor any feelings for, why should I have to help them get laid or something? This was only fair.

At your words, Lucifer was roused to take control of this discord. “Absolutely not. As the eldest and trusted advisor to Diavolo, it is my duty to-“

“Oh, come on Lucifer! Don’t give us that! Just admit you’d be more than willing to help our little MC out in her predicament,” teased Asmo.

You fidgeted in your seat. How were you going to explain to the brothers in a logical manner that you’d rather die than admit you’re an inexperienced virgin that could rival Levi himself?

Oh no. You were too late. Solomon caught on to your trepidation and released a dramatic gasp, “MC, don’t tell me,” he paused, for dramatic effect, “were you not kidding when you claimed to be pure? Are you actually a virgin?”

You smiled like the calm before the storm, the waves pulling back before the tsunami crashed. It was the way the earth stilled before the meteorite connected. “I’ll take that as my cue to pass away.”

You closed your eyes and pretended you were in a place, free from embarrassment. Ignoring the gasps and murmurs from Mammon and Satan (and Levi who woke up after passing out), the hums of approval from Asmo and Belphie, the way Solomon stifled back his laughter, and you couldn’t hear it but you were guessing Beel and Lucifer were completely speechless.

“MC, you can’t just close your eyes and pretend we aren’t here,” Satan coaxed, "we're not going to let you perish because of this curse."

You cock one eye open and nodded, ruminating over the different ways you could respond to his infuriatingly rational comment. “I can try,” you maintained your smile and sat cross legged on the couch, meditating into the astral realm. That's where your soul was, of course, after you died from the embarrassment.

“Oh honey,” cooed Asmo, “we only want what's best for you. Plus, I could practically taste the desire oozing out of you.”

“Asmo!”

———♦︎———♦︎———♦︎———

This was going to be a long night. Solomon bid farewell to the brothers after chatting with Lucifer, discussing the curse as in depth as he could without revealing the little snippet of information he decided to keep for himself. The rest of the brothers went back and forth with MC, trying to convince her to think over her choice and the severity of the curse but with a pride that could rival Lucifer’s, she rejected it with a shake of her head and kept her arms crossed. It took her a while before it dawned on her - the brothers would not yield until she gave them a satisfactory answer. Defeated, she told them that she would consider it.

It was getting late.

The brothers returned to their rooms and MC followed not long afterwards. The House of Lamentation was filled with a different tension tonight, one unlike any other.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #swd obey me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me solomon #obey me simeon #obey me fanfic #obey me fanfic x reader

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years ago

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Faith, Hope, Love (Rated PG)

Summary: On Christmas Eve, centuries ago, Crowley catches Aziraphale performing numerous acts of breaking-and-entering. The reality? A bit more heart-wrenching. The outcome? Mildly humorous. So he decides to lend a hand. (2669 words)

Notes: Written for @potterheadandsherlocked . I used a real German painter from the approximate time period as inspiration, and points to the possible origins of a certain Christmas legend. XD

Read on AO3.

A small village in the Holy Roman Empire of the German Nation, 16th Century

A silent night.

No clouds, but a howling wind.

A full silver moon, throwing shadows on the ground.

Between them, a figure glides, moving about the houses in the square, keeping to the walls and peeking in the windows.

He opens the doors a crack and sneaks inside, a pack on his bag so laden with packages it should slow him down.

But it doesn’t.

It doesn’t so much as press his feet into the snow so he leaves no prints behind.

Cloaked in red and white, covered in feathers like an upright standing dove, the figure flies from house to house, dipping in and out so quickly he appears as only a blur between blinks.

An ephemeral streak against the dreary landscape.

The figure reaches the final house – the smallest of the lot, leaning with every breeze that blows. His hand reaches for the knob, ready to give it a turn, when a secondary figure creeps up behind him – one without his gift for secrecy.

“Hello, Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale’s hand jerks away from the door in surprise. “Do you have to keep doing that every time you see me?” He peeks behind him, glares into poison yellow eyes.

“Yes. Yes, I do. Well, well, well, isn’t this a sight.” Crowley smirks, arms crossed over his chest, though that’s hard to tell in the outfit he’s wearing. “Breaking into houses on the holiest night of the year? Tsk tsk, Aziraphale. If you wanted to fall so badly, you could have just come talk to me.” I would have talked you out of it, he thinks bitterly.

“That’s not what I’m doing!” Aziraphale hisses.

“You could have fooled me. I’ve been watching you – running in and out of these houses with that pack on your back, full of ill-gotten goods. And …” Crowley leans back, his smirk growing, eyeing up and down the blood-red cloak the angel has on, shielded by his wings curled around his body. “What on Earth are you wearing?”

Aziraphale’s right eyebrow shoots up on his forehead. “You should talk. What poor creature did you mutilate to make your get-up?” He snickers as he looks down the demon’s body at the shaggy jacket and trousers he’s wearing, reminiscent of a muskox, horns included, fixed to the hood, and … Aziraphale’s brows draw together. “Are there … hooves on your shoes?”

“There are indeed,” Crowley says, overly proud since he knows he’s being made fun of. “They’re quite useful for walking through all this ice and snow.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the door. “I’ll bet. Now, if you don’t mind …” He gives the door a shove, ready to resume his work, but it’s stuck. He pushes again. It seems to push back, actively resisting. That’s when he realizes …

“Crowley! Stop holding the door shut!”

“Nope. Not until you tell me what you’re doing.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. But it’s been a long night. I’m bored.” The demon sniffs. “Amuse me.”

Aziraphale sighs. He doesn’t have the time nor the patience for this. But it has been a long night. Aziraphale could retaliate – blow the door off its hinges, knock Crowley down the mountain to boot. But neither is worth the effort in the long run.

Plus, he runs the risk of waking someone up.

“If you must know,” he starts haughtily, “I’m not stealing anything. I’m giving.”

“And what are you giving, angel?” Crowley’s voice becomes softer – not just in volume, but in tone. It makes Aziraphale want to mirror it.

“Hope. In the form of food, warm clothes, a few toys for the kids.”

“Ah, I see,” Crowley says, his soft tone turning sour, and Aziraphale is sorry he let his guard down. “Church attendance low in this town or something?”

Aziraphale sighs again. “Something like that.” He’s not necessarily offended that Crowley would boil everything down to that. God doesn’t happen to be one among his favorites. But for Aziraphale, it goes farther than humans occupying the pews in the rundown shack of a church outside town. It was put there by the same people who force these people to work from sun up to sun down with little to no compensation so why should they attend? And since that’s been happening, keeps happening generation after generation, why should they have faith at all that the Almighty is going to fix that for them?

No, Aziraphale doesn’t care that only three people here still attend church every Sunday, or that they’re the only ones here who pray. He cares that very few people in this town want to go on living, that more and more men risk the dangers of the ice and cold knowing that they won’t return.

Betting on it, in some case.

That’s what concerns Aziraphale more than anything.

He wants these people to have something to believe in.

He needs them to see that there’s a brighter future ahead.

“How many houses have you been to tonight?” Crowley asks.

“I … I don’t know. About two hundred? Maybe three? I started at the bottom of the mountain after sunset …”

Crowley tuts. “Why don’t you use a miracle? Do all the houses at once? Unless …” He tilts his head, eyes Aziraphale dubiously “… you don’t want Heaven to know what you’re doing? Do you?”

“This doesn’t happen to be one of my official assignments, no, so I thought it best not to bother Heaven.”

“But why not? They’d give you a commendation, right? Or don’t they think giving food and toys to poor people is worth a miracle?”

“Whether they do or not isn’t the point,” Aziraphale says, hoisting the sagging pack on his back, hoping Crowley will take the hint and leave him to it. “Sometimes it’s nice to do things without someone else looking over your shoulder.”

Crowley nods. Then his eye widen. “Oh. Should I … should I leave then? Do you want to be alone?”

Aziraphale stares at the bizarrely shaggy demon, balanced expertly on two hooves, a bit too much on the nose for Aziraphale’s taste, and smiles. “No,” he says with a muted chuckle. “That’s all right. Stay, if you’d like. I’d appreciate the company.”

“All right-y then.” Crowley beams, all too pleased, and Aziraphale begins to wonder if he made the right decision inviting him along.

Oh, well. Too late now.

Aziraphale turns back to the door. The warm comfort of Crowley’s body presses against him as the demon prepares to follow him inside. Aziraphale’s smile, which had been absent most of the night, blooms. What a comical duo they must make to outside eyes, he thinks. But what on Earth will he tell people if they get caught? Aziraphale can pass himself off as Saint Nicholas, of course, but Crowley? Will the mortals believe that he’s Aziraphale’s tall, gangly pet? Some kind of malformed reindeer, perhaps?

They’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

He opens the door slowly, thanking God when the wood doesn’t creak, the hinges don’t whine. There hasn’t been any rain since the snows set in and the doors have been dry as bone. With not a single soul awake, the square is still full of conversation, the houses spreading gossip that can be heard for miles with every wind that blows.

Crowley steps into the house behind him, catching the door when Aziraphale lets it go and closing it, careful not to make a sound. With the door shut, they should be plunged into darkness, but there are so many cracks and holes and uneven corners, pricks of blue moonlight shine through. Inside the house feels more like an ice box than a home, the coals in the stove having long since given up the fight at keeping the place warm.

“This poor family,” Aziraphale mutters as he puts down his pack and sets to work. “A mom and two children, one crippled, father gone. How they manage to keep food on the table, I can’t understand.”

“Sounds like a miracle.” Crowley strolls the small living area, examining the nothing this family owns but this two-room hovel, the lot of them huddled together in the next room, fast asleep.

“I wish it was,” Aziraphale says, unpacking a box of oranges, another of walnuts, sacks of sugar and flour, small pouches of molasses and peppermint, and a brown burlap wrapped side of bacon. Then he sets out some brightly painted wooden blocks, a toy train, a set of eight water colors, a soft doll with real yarn hair wearing a pretty blue dress. Crowley watches the angel pull more and more items out – a few warm blankets, trousers, shirts, and shoes, marveling at its capacity.

“That’s some bag.”

“Made it myself.”

“Any alcohol in there.”

“A bottle or two. Mostly for use as medicine, for good moms and dads.”

“Party pooper,” Crowley grouses. “Probably the shite stuff anyway, ain’t it? Knowing angels ...”

“Hell---hello?”

Aziraphale and Crowley look at one another, both of them wide eyes and rigid spines. The first to his senses, Aziraphale spins around quickly, curling his wings around himself, hiding his face behind long, white feathers that make him appear to have grown a beard.

“Hello, little boy,” he says in a huskier version of his voice, one that makes Crowley choke on his tongue. “What’s your name?”

“H---hans,” the boy stutters, creeping out further into the moonlight. “Hans von Aachen.”

“Hello, Hans. And what are you doing awake at this hour?”

“I heard voices. I’m the man of the house, so I came to investigate.”

“Are you now?” Aziraphale says fondly, sadly, since this man of the house can’t be older than ten.

His lack of nourishment makes him look eight.

“A-ha.” The thin boy looks up at the angel in awe. “Are you … Saint Nicholas!?”

“Why, yes,” Aziraphale lies confidently since he’d intended on going with that explanation all along. “Yes, I am.”

Hans gasps. “I was hoping you’d come! My momma, she says that she would pray and pray and pray for you when she was my age, but you never came! But here you are! Oh!” His hands flutter in excitement. “I should go get her! Tell her the good news!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale glances over his shoulder at Crowley, subconsciously asking for help. Crowley is better with children than Aziraphale, after all. Luckily, Aziraphale hadn’t encountered one till now. “That wouldn’t be …”

“Don’t do that,” Crowley steps in. “No need to bother her. She needs her rest.”

Crowley’s voice attracts Hans’s attention. When he lays eyes on the demon towering above him in his shaggy suit with hooved feet and a hood of horns on his head, the boy’s paper thin skin goes pale.

“Who … who are you?” Hans asks in a shaky voice, pointing a fearful finger at Crowley’s face.

Crowley looks to Aziraphale for an appropriate response. But since the angel doesn’t seem to have one, Crowley decides on one for himself.

It gives him a wicked giggle, too.

“I’m a demon!” Crowley growls before Aziraphale can stop him.

Hans’s breath catches in his throat. “B-but … why would Father Christmas be traveling with a demon?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, unamused, “why would Father Christmas be traveling with a demon?”

“I’m …” Crowley hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead, but he recovers quickly “… I’m here to punish all the bad boys and girls! Stuff them into baskets and take them down to Hell for an eternity of punishment!”

Hans gasps again, stumbling backward, literally shaking with fear.

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale mutters.

“You’re not a bad little boy?” Crowley asks, slinking towards Hans, tilting his head left and right in jarring ways. “Are you?”

“Oh! Oh, n-no! I’m not … I’m not bad! I pr-promise! I swear!”

“Leave him be,” Aziraphale says, taking a snarling Crowley by the shoulder and pulling him back behind him. “Don’t worry, dear Hans. My traveling companion won’t hurt you.”

Hans nods, but he continues to look unsure. He takes a step towards Saint Nicholas, but the hissing, spitting demon keeps him away.

“Wh---what can I do to make him leave?” Hans asks timidly, but in Aziraphale’s eyes, with great courage.

Crowley stands up straight, gazing thoughtfully at the little boy worrying his lower lip with gapped teeth, the two up front too big for his mouth. “Does your mum keep any alcohol in the place?”

Aziraphale puts a hand to Crowley’s chest and pushes him towards the door. “Just run along to bed, Hans, and go back to sleep. And for being such a good boy, such a responsible young man, I’ve brought presents for you and your family. You may open them in the morning.”

“Oh thank you, Saint Nicholas!” Hans cries, jumping up and down with a joy that overwhelms his fear. “Thank you so much!”

“And remember!” Crowley calls after him. “Don’t tell a soul you saw us! Or I’ll be back next year with the basket!”

“You’re a horrible demon!” Aziraphale says when the boy has squirreled himself away, back onto a straw-stuffed mattress with his mother and brother, a touch of angelic magic seeing him off to his best ever dreams, and a new thick wool blanket covering the three of them.

“Well, duh.” Crowley grabs Aziraphale’s sack, ties it at the top, and tosses it over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

***

Soho, Christmas 2019

“How do you like your present?” Crowley asks, pouring himself a glass of the rare red vintage Aziraphale acquired for him through less than angelic means.

The acquisition is an integral part of the gift.

Buying Crowley a bottle of his favorite wine isn’t any fun. He can do that for himself. Hiring an ex-member of a cartel to steal it from a local mob boss, just to have both gentlemen cornered in a dark alley and arrested seconds before they’re about to take one another out however?

That’s another story.

One that Crowley reads over and over with every glass he pours, every sip he savors.

“It’s lovely,” Aziraphale says, pushing wrapping paper aside and opening the book Crowley gave him. He flips through the pages, focusing mostly on the plates and not the words just this once. He stops on one page that Crowley had bookmarked with a red satin ribbon. The plate on this page features a lesser known painting by a famous 16th century artist, of Saint Nicholas and the demon Krampus, huddled by the dusty grey hearth of a creaky, hole-infested matchbox of a house, laughing over something the viewer may only speculate about. But unlike similar paintings of this stolen moment, it’s the demon that looks fondly on and the saint that seems to have a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. The painting is so finely rendered, so intricately detailed, it could be mistaken for a photograph if not for the handful of visible strokes signifying otherwise.

Aziraphale searches for the signature, his suspicions confirmed when he sees the name etched along the bottom in gold - Hans von Aachen.

“Absolutely gorgeous.” Aziraphale hovers delicate fingertips above the image – the first painting Hans ever sold. It rescued him, his mother, and his brother from that ragged shack, brought his whole town out of poverty. “But please, tell me one thing?”

“Anything.”

Aziraphale lifts the book, displaying the painting for Crowley to see. “How did that whole Don’t tell a soul you saw us or else! thing work out for you?”

“I’d say it worked out rather well …” Crowley slides onto the arm of the sofa, bumping his husband’s shoulder with his hip “… if it gives people hope. Faith. Something, anything, to believe in. Don’t you?”

Crowley leans down, lips puckered, fishing for a kiss, and Aziraphale, chuckling at his ridiculous, shaggy demon, lifts his chin to give it. “I guess I can’t disagree.”

#Good Omens #ineffable husbands #Potterheadandsherlocked #goodomenssecretsanta #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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imastrangeone98 · 5 years ago

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Lost and Found - Chapter 10: Adam and Eve

(A/N: hello my non-existent fans! I think my writing quality is getting better so hopefully I can feel more confident in my writing. how was the last chapter you definitely didn’t read?)

The mountain seemed much bigger in person. It didn’t help to ease their worries, which had only grown stronger with Dante’s theory.

As they stared up at the peak, Dante began to shiver.

“What’s wrong?”

“It stinks,” he replied, rubbing his nose. “It already did, but it smells worse up close.” He gazed at the mountain, searching for any sign for a source of the smell. The faint scent of lotuses hung in the air, giving him a brief moment of respite.

“Do you think we’ll have to climb it?” Lady asked as she studied their surroundings. “If so, I don’t have much hope that we’ll make it to her in time.”

“We will. And besides, I don’t think we’ll be climbing.” He pointed to a small crack just at the base, which pulsated with light.

Lady stood next to him to look. “Well, would you look at that. A free ticket.”

“Yeah.” His eyes narrowed, and he placed a hand on Rebellion’s hilt. “You can’t have a party without some crashers.”

And with that, they slinked in.

Dante’s nose immediately scrunched up; he sneezed.

“God, it smells like death in here.” The only thing that made it better was that the familiar lotus scent grew just a tad stronger.

Lady stared down the dark, humid tunnel. “What do you think’s at the end of this?”

“Faith,” he responded immediately. “And, uh, other stuff.”

She rolled her eyes, but the tiniest of smiles emerged from the corner of her lip.

The tunnel twisted and turned at every corner, and the ground became slick with humidity, forcing them to watch their every step.

“Why does it feel like we snuck in too easily?” Lady wondered. “There was hardly any defense when we got in.”

“Probably because they didn’t anticipate anything,” Dante replied. “Our attacks did nothing, so why would they be afraid of us? And besides, I don’t think any old human would be able to find this place so easily.”

“And maybe because this is their defense system?”

He looked up and almost got blinded by the powerful light.

The inside had, somehow, been completely hollowed out. A lush garden took its place, filled with meadows of grass cut through with rivers of clear water, blooming flowers of varying colors, and trees laden with fragrant fruit. The roof of the cavern had all but disappeared, replaced with a bright blue sky, complete with fluffy white clouds and a shining sun.

But all of that dulled in comparison to the two massive trees that stood in the center. They grew tall and proud, with strong, sturdy branches and fruit in multiple colors. Dante almost got a creak in his neck from gazing at it.

“Beautiful, is it not?”

Two figures emerged from the foliage of the trees; a boy and a girl, seemingly around their early teens. Vines and branches curled around their bodies, and flowers bloomed in their hair. Aside from the girl having longer hair, they would’ve easily been mistaken as twins.

“Welcome,” the girl said, a gentle smile on her face, “to the garden of Eden.”

Dante’s fingers brushed against Ebony. “And who are you?”

“The very first in existence,” the boy replied. “The founders of all creation. I am Adam.”

“I am Eve,” his partner added. “We would be more than happy to give you a proper welcome, but I am afraid that we are currently undergoing... renovations.”

Their bodies began to twitch, then violently spasm. The vines that covered them pierced through their skin, pumping golden liquid into them. They screeched in unison, sending chills down Dante’s spine.

And he watched as they began to grow- from preteens to young adults. And with them, the garden seemed to pop even more in color.

Lady shuddered next to him. “Talk about puberty hitting hard.”

After a few seconds, the twitching stopped. Adam and Eve straightened, their brown eyes shining with a golden glow.

“Our evolution has begun,” Eve murmured in a dreamlike daze.

In an identical voice, Adam continued, “We must now ask you to leave at once. Humans are no longer welcome in our garden.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Dante grumbled, shipping out his pistols, “but we got an appointment with your higher-ups; wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, now, would we?”

“Besides,” Lady muttered, “we’re on a tight schedule.”

Eve lifted her hand, and a flaming sword roared to life from it. “I am afraid we cannot let you pass.”

Adam raised his palms, and vines erupted from the ground. “We cannot afford mere humans interrupting our most holiest ceremony-“

A rocket blast disrupted his speech.

Lady readjusted the Kalina Ann. “I said,” she hissed, “we’re on a tight schedule!”

She fired again. A vine deflected it into a nearby meadow where it exploded, sending bits and pieces of dirt and flowers into the air.”

“My garden!” Eve wailed. “You will pay for your destruction!” She lunged forward, flaming sword raised high in the air.

Dante intercepted it with Rebellion, and for a split second, the two were face-to-face. The smell of smoke, turned earth, and corpses clogged his nose.

“Get out of the way!” he growled, swinging his sword. It met the other with a sharp clang.

She swung again. He dodged.

He parried. She blocked.

When he swung just a tad too low, he sliced off a rosebud.

“YOU MONSTER!” Eve lunged forward and sliced wildly. Dante managed to keep up with blocks and jabs of his own.

She gets pissed when her garden gets damaged, he realized. That’s when she gets sloppy.

Turning sharply on his heel, he sprinted further into the meadow, firing bullets at any form of life he saw. A howl from behind him; the snapping of branches, and light footsteps came from behind him.

That tree’s probably her source. Keep her away from it, and I might stand a chance.

He turned around with Rebellion at the ready-

And found a flaming sword piercing his chest.

Ignoring the pain was easy. Swinging a sword at the angel wasn’t. The blade slipped through her head.

Crap.

“Angels fight with their hearts on their sleeves,” Faith had explained. “We don’t always need to use swords and guns like you do; we use our emotions. Our joy. Our pain.”

His eyes widened.

Faith.

He focused on the pounding in his heart. The ache in his chest. The burns on his skin.

He focused on how much it hurt.

“BEGONE-“

SLASH!

Eve didn’t speak again. Her head toppled to the ground, golden blood seeping into a nearby river.

“EVE!” A voice cried from across the green. Adam.

Dante removed the sharp blade from his chest, now devoid of flames, and tossed it aside.

Flying towards him at breakneck speed was the other angel. More vines burst through the ground, wrapping themselves around his wrists and ankles.

“MURDERER!” the angel screamed, a hardened spear-like vine raised high in the air.

Dante glanced behind him. He smirked.

The vine came down-

BOOM!

Adam’s face twisted in pain. He fell. Lady strode over, lightly nudging the angel with her foot.

“Sorry,” she said with a smug grin, “but you were seriously starting to piss me off.”

Adam gurgled, his mouth filled with golden blood.

“Come on, Lady,” Dante grumbled, snapping off the vines on his body with ease. “You missed. He’s still alive; look at him!”

They crouched over the dying angel. Dante turned him over on his back and they watched as he spit out more blood.

“We... are not... the only ones,” Adam croaked.

“I don’t care about the rest,” Dante said. “I wanna know where Faith is. You’d better tell me now, or I’ll start breaking your arms.”

“Faith...?”

“The nephilim,” Lady suggested. “Your ‘buddies’ brought her here a few hours ago. Where is she?”

“Oh... Her. She is... being prepared for- for the ceremony.” He erupted into hacking coughs. Blood stained his chest.

“What ceremony?”

“The ceremony... of purification. Soon, this- this unclean world... will be clean... once more.”

“How?”

He backed out more blood, and bared his teeth in a gruesome smile. “See... for yourself. The girl... You will fail... in saving her. You... have already failed.”

His body glowed, and he dissolved into gold dust. For a while, they just stared at the pile of gold in silence.

Dante stood. “Let’s go. We’re running out of time.”

“What do you think he meant-?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped as he made way towards the large doorway materializing into existence. Lady rushed to keep up. “We won’t fail this time.”

...I won’t fail you again...

———————————————————————

A/N: I finally updated! Yaaaaaaaaaay sorry it’s such shit tho

Edit: read chapter 11! :D

#devil may cry 3 #dmc dante #dmc lady #dmc oc #lost and found

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patricianandclerk · 5 years ago

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In The Beginning

Roleswaps though…

Raphael, one of the four remaining central Archangels – they were down one, since the war – felt… nervous. There was no reason to be nervous. It had been a lovely day so far, and a lovely existence all around; the Garden of Eden was flourishing, and Adam and Eve seemed very happily set in their places; there were a great many animals and plants, and—

He liked plants. He really liked plants.

He hadn’t expected to, as much as he did, but he really did: he liked to reach out to them and see their beautiful, green leaves, and all the fruit they bore, and oh, the flowers, the flowers! How beautiful they were…

But being in amongst the plants only soothed the nervousness a little bit.

He didn’t know why he felt anxious. He often did, that was all.

And Upstairs, as of recent, she was being… She was smiling more. It was never a good thing, when she smiled that much, and she was answering even fewer questions than usual. He hated it when she wouldn’t answer questions, and he hated how the questions just seemed to bloom up in his head, the way they flourished and blossomed and then died and just… Seemed to bud even more questions.

“And how— How fare ye, er, great angel, Raphael?”

Raphael pressed his lips together to keep from bursting out laughing as he looked at the Principality on the Eastern Gate. She had been hastily stuffed into her vessel, so it seemed, and her eyes shone with golden light as she looked up at Raphael.

“We can lose all that,” he said. “How are you doing, Daniel?”

“Er,” she said, leaning from one foot onto the other. “Well, there’s— There’s some trouble, that’s all. There’s this— There’s this demon, just, just hanging around.”

“Hanging around?” Raphael repeated. “Well,” he murmured, uncomfortable with the words even as he said them, “Uriel’s taught you what to do with them, right? Just a quick one-two and snickersnack with the, um, the sword.”

“Snickersnack, Raphael?”

“Or something like it.”

“It’s just— He didn’t strike me as very susceptible to snickersnacking, or even snickering and snackering in separation.”

“Oh. That is a problem. When did you see him last?”

“He’s here now,” Daniel said, and pointed.

–

The demon Sanfte sat in the dust and sand, some ways away from the great wall about Eden. It was, he felt, a dreadfully funny thing to put about a garden, not that he’d ever known a garden before, except for the one that had been up in Heaven. There was something about a garden, he felt, that ought grow outward, and a wall seemed rather to get in the way.

And there was the general inconvenience of the thing. The wall wasn’t something he wanted to have any go at climbing, and flying over the top had gotten some dashed angry angels fussing over him, with their flaming arrows and their angry little words.

Bless them.

No sense of narrative convenience, but that was angels for you.

But then, this was… You know, it wasn’t his business to worry about that sort of thing. Some things, Sanfte supposed, were ineffable. The big wall was all part of God’s big plan, or what have you, and given that Sanfte had Fallen (rather a long way, at that…), it wasn’t really his problem anymore. Ineffability and all its trappings could quite comfortably pass him by.

In Sanfte’s arms coiled a snake that had slipped out through a crack in the wall, and been coaxed easily into his lap. Animals loved Sanfte. They thought he was soft and warm and comfortable, and they liked to curl about his arms and the plush thighs of his vessel, or to slide up and sleep against his neck. Foolish things, really. They had no idea what was holding them.

Animals—

Yes, animals, he thought, they were a very good idea.

Even a wrong clock was right twice a day, he supposed – not that clocks had been invented yet, but you get the drift.

“Oy!” said a rather angry voice. Sanfte looked up, and beheld in his glory the archangel Raphael. The black hood of his robes had been thrown back, and about his head flamed a halo of fiery red hair, sparks flickering from some of the red curls and catching on the air. Sanfte had seen this business in Heaven, of course, albeit usually from quite the distance.

“Hello, dear,” Sanfte said mildly, with a little smile. His blue eyes were uncomfortably glittery, twinkling like they were full of stars, and Raphael was forced to suppress the instinct to look away from them. “Care to sit down?”

Raphael stared at him.

“What are you doing here, fiend?” Raphael demanded, trying to make his voice seem big and loud and commanding, the way Michael seemed to do it. It didn’t much work – or if it did, it didn’t work on this demon.

“Enjoying the warm weather,” Sanfte said pleasantly. “Don’t you think it’s a lovely day?”

“All the days have been nice so far,” Raphael said, and he glanced down to the snake in Sanfte’s arms, coiling about his arms and hissing softly. It had laid its chin upon the soft, warm flesh of Sanfte’s wrist, and was dozing with its yellow eyes open. Its scales looked beautiful, shining in the light, and Raphael reached out to touch—

But the snake hissed and pulled away, curling more tightly about Sanfte’s arm and hiding in his armpit.

“Oh, no,” Sanfte said, and the sympathy sounded real, but it was bordered with an agonisingly cutting edge, like real honey with razorblades in. “Don’t animals like you, Raphael?”

“It’s the hair,” Raphael muttered, withdrawing his hand and sliding it into his other hand’s sleeve, his lips pressing tightly together. It was actually… It was rather endearing, Sanfte thought. Sweet, it was. Sweet little angel… But then, not that little. Raphael had a good foot on Sanfte’s height. “They think I’ll burn them. Anyway, you shouldn’t be here, demon. Get thee hence.”

“But hence to whence, dearest?”

There was a lovely bit of colour in Raphael’s cheeks, now, burning them almost to match his hair. “I don’t care! Just… go.”

A pause spanned between them, and Sanfte watched Raphael for a long moment. “Rather impotent, that, wasn’t it?”

Glancing back in the direction of Daniel, Raphael hesitated a moment, and then he reached in, and grabbed Sanfte by the white-robed arm. Reality shifted around them with a sudden pop, and Sanfte released a giggle. They were away from the gate, now, and away, too, from Eden: they were out in the midst of the desert, where angels didn’t even patrol.

“Oh, you beastly thing of virtue,” Sanfte chimed, soothing the serpent in his arms. “That tickled most dreadfully. Won’t you do it again?”

“Look,” Raphael said, kneeling in the sands before him, and Sanfte raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t it— doesn’t it seem weird to you?”

“Weird?” Sanfte repeated. “Being taken out to the middle of the desert by a handsome archangel? Rather. Why, how weird would you like us to get?”

“What? No, no, I just mean… The wall. The wall, doesn’t it seem— Well, a beautiful garden like that, it’s meant to grow, to expand, and there’s— There’s a big wall about it.”

Sanfte raised his head slightly, looking at Raphael thoughtfully, and he tilted his head. “Well… Yes, I did think it was a little odd. But you know, it’s… It’s ineffable.”

“Ineffable?” Raphael repeated, leaning in closer. His hair flamed, and Sanfte wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through it. Would it burn him? Was it holy fire, the holiest of holies?

“You know,” Sanfte said. “Ineffable, my dear boy: inexpressible, unutterable, inconceivable. The Divine Plan. Hardly for the likes of me to know the reasons why. I’m a demon. I just do what feels good.”

Raphael blinked. “Is that— Is that why you’re here? Because it feels good?”

Sanfte smiled. “Of course,” he lied sweetly. “Don’t you like the sun on your face?”

“Er, well,” Raphael said, leaning back on his heels, and glancing up toward the sky. Sanfte watched as his fingers reached up to brush his face, his knuckles touching over a dreadfully handsome cheek, up to a cheekbone so sharp one could nearly cut oneself on it. “I— I suppose it does feel nice. Yes. No!”

“No?”

“You tempter!”

“Me?” Sanfte asked, with injected innocence.

Raphael exhaled hard, and he stood to his feet, putting his hands on his hips. “I just— I’m just worried, that’s all. I’m just worried that it’s… That something’s going to go wrong.”

“Oh, you dear thing,” Sanfte said, reaching out and gently patting Raphael’s bare, beautifully brown calf where his robe bared the skin. Raphael shivered. “Why, nothing’s going to go wrong.”

“Right,” Raphael said, swallowing. “Right, yes. You’re right. And I don’t need your comfort, demon!”

“No, dear, of course not.”

“Right,” Raphael said. “Right.”

And he put them back.

–

Such a dreadful palaver, Sanfte mused as he watched Adam and Eve rush over the sands, out into the desert proper. His serpent had slinked, most obediently – as a personal favour to a friend, you understand – back in through the crack in the wall, and had passed on a message to poor Eve.

The girl was—

Not that Sanfte felt guilty.

He didn’t know that he ought feel guilty, really, being a demon. But he didn’t much like the sight of her, shivering in the cold, and her belly already had a swell to it, already pregnant. She was struggling to keep up with Adam.

And that small angel – Daniel, Raphael had called her – had rushed off—

And forgotten her sword.

Bless.

Such little things as get forgotten…

Sanfte leaned down, holding it by its golden hilt between thumb and forefinger. It didn’t half sting, and he let out a little hiss of noise as he held it at arm’s length, but then flickered across the sands[1]. “Hello?” he called out, and the pair looked to him. “You poor things, it’s going to get dashed cold, you know, when the sun finishes going down. Here, have this.”

Adam took the sword in hand, and wielded it high: flames lit their three faces, and for just a moment, Eve saw the Sanfte beneath, and gasped, tugging Adam back slightly.

“Do keep warm,” Sanfte murmured softly, and took his leave.

That was probably rather a nice thing to do, he thought, nicer than a demon ought, but then, he was a demon, and demons, he felt, could do whatever they liked. If it brought him pleasure to be nice, then he ought be nice – there was a little hedonism.

Oh, and look.

“Cooey,” Sanfte said as he took lazy step back toward the Gate. “Lost something?”

“My sword!” Daniel said fitfully, digging through the sands. “I’ve lost it, oh, my sword, my sword—”

“Goodness,” Sanfte said, with amused disapproval. “You’ll forget your own head, next.”

[1] Sanfte hated to run. He made a point of avoiding the awful practice.

My Ask | My Ko-Fi | My Ao3 | Requests always welcome!

#as defined by dictionary #crowley #aziraphale #good omens #fanfic #raphael #sanfte

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ineffably-good · 5 years ago

Text

I Will Follow You Into The Dark (9/10) (GO Fics)

Go read the whole thing on AO3 - it’s done!

Summary: In which Crowley returns triumphant, Freddy gets his I-told-you-so moment, and an archangel has a task to perform.

Anathema leapt to her feet with a look of sheer relief when Crowley appeared in the bedroom door upon returning from Heaven.

“His fever broke,” she announced. “Just a little bit ago. He’s not awake yet, but he’s improving.” She noticed Michael standing behind him and got a strange look on her face. “Oh, hello. I didn’t see you there.”

Michael nodded solemnly. “Do you know who I am?”

“No,” Anathema said carefully. “But I can tell that you’re powerful.”

“Good,” Michael said, dismissively. “We need to see the angel. Step aside.”

Sorry, Crowley mouthed at her, rolling his eyes.

The two of them approached the bed. Crowley sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress and laid a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek. It was true, the heat from his fever was gone, and his skin was returning to its usual flush rather than the sickly gray it had been. He was breathing evenly and not appearing in any type of real distress.

Crowley hadn’t fully believed it until he saw it, no matter what he had been told. He sagged in relief.

“Step aside, demon,” Michael said, officiously but not unkindly. “I will administer it.”

“Administer what?” Anathema asked from the side of the room, refusing to be cowed.

“Holy water,” Crowley said. “The holiest. Straight from the source.”

Michael took out a small vial and cradled Aziraphale’s head to her chest while she brought the bottle to his lips. She tipped it up and he swallowed it easily. She recapped it, then stood aside and let Crowley resume his position.

“Aziraphale,” he called softly, taking his hand. “Wake up for me. Come on.”

The room fell into a hush for a long beat, then another, then one more, and then finally – finally – Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hello, love,” he said quietly. “What’s going on?”

Crowley let out a strangled sob and pulled the angel to his chest. Michael and Anathema stepped back to give them space for a moment.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said in a dramatic stage whisper. “WHY IS MICHAEL HERE?”

The demon laughed. “That is a very long story, my love. I will fill you in, I promise.”

Aziraphale looked him deeply in the eye, and ultimately finding nothing but love and trust, decided it wasn’t worth worrying over right now. He yawned and stretched.

“How long have I been sleeping?”

“Off and on for three or four days,” Crowley said. “Mostly on, the last 48 hours.”

Aziraphale laid a hand on Crowley’s cheek. “Oh my dear,” he said, “I can see how worried you’ve been. But I feel right as rain now! Peckish, maybe.” He looked around hopefully for a snack.

“Snacks can wait,” Crowley said. “There’s something I want you to do for me, first.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Anything, my dear. What is it?”

“Marry me,” Crowley said.

“I am, silly,” Aziraphale said, weakly pulling his hand with the engagement ring out from under the covers and wiggling it at the demon. “Remember?”

“No,” Crowley said. “I mean marry me right now. I don’t want to wait another minute. Michael can officiate, right Michael?”

Michael cleared her throat. “This is most irregular –” she began.

“I think we can agree it’s been a most irregular day,” Crowley said. “Will you do it?”

“Will you let me go home if I do?”

“Yes.”

Michael sighed. “Fine, then.”

Aziraphale’s eyes went back and forth between the two of them, watching this exchange without understanding most of it. “Crowley, what’s going on?” he asked again.

“Michael has been ordered to give us whatever help we need,” he said. “And what I need now is to be married to you, immediately.”

“But,” Aziraphale said, “August 13th… and Kew Gardens… and the cake…”

“I don’t give a flying you-know-what about any of that,” Crowley said. “I care about you and nothing else.”

“You can care about the cake a little, dear, I won’t mind,” Aziraphale chided, a smile beginning to bloom on his face.

Crowley grinned back. “So? Is that a yes?”

Aziraphale beamed. “Of course it is, my dear. You know I never cared about any of the trappings of it to begin with.”

The demon helped Aziraphale up into a sitting position at the edge of the bed and sat down next to him. Anathema and Newt volunteered to be witnesses, and a bemused-looking archangel made short work of walking them through an abbreviated wedding ceremony. There was no sermon. There was no reading.

What there was, in overwhelming quantities, was love.

“Do you, Crowley, take this angel Aziraphale to be your lawful wedded husband, to love and to cherish for as long as you both shall live?” Michael asked. “And let me remind you that, in your case, this is a very long time, so please be certain.”

Crowley smiled tremulously at Aziraphale, feeling almost overcome by the moment. “I do.”

“Do you, Aziraphale, take this demon Crowley to be your lawful wedded husband, to love and to cherish for as long as you both shall live? Same addendum.” Michael asked.

Aziraphale’s eyes were wet and he looked impossibly soft, yet completely sure of himself. “I do,” he replied.

“Do you have rings?” the archangel asked.

They looked at each other for a moment, not having thought of that detail yet, and then by unspoken agreement they each removed their engagement rings and exchanged them.

“Repeat after me.” Michael said to Crowley.

“No,” Crowley said, “I’ve got this part. Don’t need to repeat anything.”

He took Aziraphale’s hand and slid the smoky quartz ring back onto his finger, where it belonged. He looked up to find the angel staring at him with intense devotion, and the words just came.

“With this ring, I marry you and bind my life to yours. I give you this ring as a symbol of my eternal love, my everlasting friendship, and a promise of all our tomorrows.”

Aziraphale, hands shaking, reached for Crowley’s hand. He slid Crowley’s platinum ring back onto his fourth finger, then looked up, blue eyes intense.

“With this ring, I marry you and bind my life to yours. I give you this ring as a symbol of my eternal love, my everlasting friendship, and a promise of all our tomorrows.”

“By the power vested in me by, well, God herself,” Michael said, “I pronounce you husbands in the eyes of God and man, Heaven and Hell.”

“And now we get to kiss,” Crowley said, leaning in and planting a tender kiss on Aziraphale’s lips.

He heard Michael sigh and step backwards, washing her hands of this whole sordid affair. Only Anathema noticed a look of slight affection in her eyes, before she disappeared back to Heaven.

Shortly thereafter, Aziraphale shooed everyone but Crowley out. They took a moment just to sit, heads together, enjoying the glow of having found themselves married so suddenly.

“You have the best ideas, my dear,” Aziraphale said, nuzzling against his shoulder.

Crowley tipped the angel’s head up for a kiss. “I just had to,” he said softly. “Almost lost you, angel. Makes you realize what actually matters, you know?”

Aziraphale kissed back, his face glowing with happiness. “I do,” he said, enjoying the echo from a few minutes ago.

The angel decided he needed a quick shower to freshen up before joining their guests. Crowley hovered by nervously, all but handing him the soap each time he needed it, and wrapped him in a towel as soon as he came out.

“I’m fine, love,” the angel said to him. “Really. All my blood is back in place, my fever is gone. I feel a little weak, maybe, but I’m perfectly all right.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Crowley muttered, planting a kiss on the angel’s shoulder as he combed out his hair in the mirror.

“Husband,” Aziraphale said softly, catching his eye in the mirror.

Crowley swallowed, the feelings almost too big to process, before burying his face in the angel’s shoulder with a mumbled sound that was mostly consonants. He felt rather than heard the angel’s affectionate laughter.

They headed downstairs a few minutes later, where Anathema and Newt were waiting.

“Are you ever going to tell me about what you did today?” Anathema asked Crowley, while Newt and Aziraphale went off to the kitchen to see what kind of food was around.

“I will,” Crowley said. “But not until I can explain it all to Aziraphale first.”

Anathema nodded. “I understand. Looks like it must be a really good story, though,” she said.

Crowley looked at her, wondering what she could sense from looking at him. Had his aura changed? Did he look different? He hoped it wasn’t immediately apparent as he was hoping to ease the angel into the full knowledge of what he’d done.

“Don’t worry,” Anathema said, reading him a bit to easily for comfort. “Whatever it is, he’ll accept it.”

“You’re a little scary, sometimes, book girl,” Crowley said, one corner of his mouth turned up into a half a grin. “I’m not used to having friends. You know. Other than Aziraphale.”

She smiled. “Well now you have two. You better start getting used to it.”

“Look everyone, we found cake!” Aziraphale said, bringing out the tray from earlier in the week, which still contained several slices of cake samples which had miraculously stayed fresh as new over the events of the last few days.

Crowley counted and realized Aziraphale had augmented the leftover slices with at least a half dozen new specimens, and he thanked his lucky stars that Aziraphale had seen fit to do this himself, rather than hint around for Crowley to magic up some cake for them.

“Oh, I’m starving,” Anathema groaned. “I hadn’t realized!”

Crowley pulled chairs around the coffee table and ushered Anathema and Newt into good seats before going off to the kitchen to dig into the champagne reserves they always kept on hand. He came back out with four goblets and a bottle of old, expertly aged champagne.

“Let’s have a toast,” he said, popping the cork with practiced ease and pouring them each a glass. “To Aziraphale’s recovery.”

“And to your marriage,” Newt added. “May it be long and happy.”

Everyone raised their glasses and quickly set into their feast of cake and bubbles.

An hour later, after Newt and Anathema had hugged them both and offered their congratulations and accepted their thanks, Crowley and Aziraphale collapsed onto the couch in the office and officially took a breath.

Aziraphale leaned back tiredly. “It’s been quite a week, hasn’t it?”

Crowley sighed. “Definitely. Let’s not do this again anytime soon.”

“I am sorry, though,” Aziraphale said, “about the wedding. I know how much you were looking forward to all of it. And you’d been working so hard!”

Crowley waved a hand. “It’s nothing, Aziraphale, just bells and whistles.” He paused, struck by a thought. “Although…”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Why don’t we just keep all the bookings? And instead of doing a wedding, we’ll just throw ourselves a big ‘hey we got married’ party? We can still do it at the gardens and keep the cake and the flowers and the food – we just won’t need a ceremony. We can dance.”

Aziraphale grinned. “That,” he said, “is an excellent idea! I love it.”

“Well I am a bit of a genius,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale eased himself up to his feet and picked up the crumb-covered tray to take back to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Crowley said. “You’re still recuperating. Sit down.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t care,” Crowley said stubbornly. “Give it to me or I’m going to wrestle it out of your hands. And I’ll make some tea while I’m in there. The old-fashioned way.”

The angel gave up, not wanting to argue about anything so pointless right now.

Crowley took things to the kitchen and set about boiling water in the kettle and putting a simple tea tray together with all of their favorites. As an afterthought, he added an extra saucer and went out to pick up Frederick on his way back into the office.

Crowley crouched down next to Frederick’s cage, which was currently in the back room next to a heat lamp.

“Hi there,” he said, curious if he would still be able to hear the snake’s thoughts. “Can you say something to me, please?”

WHAT, DO YOU THINK I’VE FORGOTTEN HOW TO SPEAK, YOU RIDICULOUS POINTY IDIOT? Frederick shrieked.

Crowley broke into a grin. Thank whoever. Apparently his communication with the snake relied on Frederick’s psychic abilities and their shared DNA, and not his own powers.

HOW IS HE? the snake yelled.

Crowley blinked. “You mean Aziraphale?”

YES I MEAN AZIRAPHALE – ARE YOU JUST SLOW? HE’S SICK, RIGHT? I MEAN NO ONE HAS VISITED ME FOR DAYS AND DAYS!

“He’s better!” Crowley said. “I’ll take you to see him, all right?”

YOU LOOK DIFFERENT, Frederick added.

“Now you hush up about that,” Crowley admonished. “I’ll tell him, but not right now.”

FINE WHATEVER. I DON’T HAVE THE PANTOMINE SKILLS TO SPELL IT OUT FOR THE FLUFFY MORON ANYWAYS.

Crowley was too pleased to be offended.

“Frederick!” Aziraphale said with delight when Crowley reappeared. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks!”

Frederick did his best not to break into the snake version of a smile – he had a reputation to uphold, after all. But he did accept being handled by his fluffy friend and coiled around his arm, sniffing carefully, and the slithered up to his neck where he scented again.

HE SMELLS BETTER NOW, Frederick hissed to Crowley.

“What? What do you mean?” Crowley said.

HE WAS SICK BEFORE. I TRIED TO TELL YOU, YOU BLOCKHEAD. SMELLED WRONG.

Crowley closed his eyes. Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did he ever listen to anyone? Freddy had known before he did that something was wrong with the angel, and when he tried to tell him, he just put him back in his cage like an idiot.

“What’s going on?” Aziraphale asked mildly.

“Freddy knew you were sick, the other day in the kitchen. He tried to tell me. I thought he was complaining about the smell of the pancakes when he was talking about the fact that you smelled wrong.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale said, running a finger down the snake’s scales in a way he knew Frederick liked. “Aren’t you a clever little snake,” he cooed. “Such a smart boy.”

Frederick flicked his tongue out at Crowley and looked almost unbearably smug.

“Dearest,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You are going to tell me about what happened when I was sick, aren’t you?”

Crowley swallowed and threaded their hands together and squeezed. “I am,” he said. “I promise. But please, can we just take a day or two to enjoy being married first?”

Aziraphale squeezed back and let it slide for now.

The next few days passed slowly and peacefully, with Aziraphale continuing to need a little extra rest but looking better and better with each day that passed. He had moved straight from illness into love-drunk mode, just radiating contentment on their new situation in every moment of the day. Crowley found himself the beneficiary of innumerable sudden hugs, passing touches, and lovely little niceties like being handed a glass of really excellent wine right as he was just beginning to realize he wanted one or finding a blanket being tucked around his lap just as he started to notice he was cold. There was nothing, he thought, in the world better than a happy angel.

Crowley, for his part, spent his time doting on his new husband as much as he could, often with a ridiculous smile on his face, and also beginning to take a barometer reading on his new situation when he was alone.

He was, as predicted, powerless. Oddly enough, though, he couldn’t say he really minded all that much. He was surprised to find himself without resentment about the change; he had chosen it freely, after all, and he couldn’t begin to make himself regret the trade. A few magic tricks for Aziraphale’s life. It would never not be worth it.

It was, however, surprising how often he found himself having to change his routines as a result. For one thing, he was now finding it almost impossible to get his usual black leather trousers on and off. He’d never had to put them on manually before, preferring to just snap his fingers and materialize them into (and out of) place. Trying to snug his feet through those tight legs and pull them up now, without powers, was next to impossible. How did humans do this? He suspected there must be some kind of device like a shoe horn, but devised for trousers, that fashionable men with slim-fit jeans were using and which he didn’t know anything about.

Mental note, he told himself, look up “trouser-horn” on the internet at the next opportunity.

He had also quickly noted that he now needed to charge his phone instead of just willing it to work perfectly forever. This required a quick trip to a local electronics shop to purchase a charger, as he’d long since thrown his own out. And the prospect of a quick trip to the shop required him to consider whether he actually knew how to drive his car without powers. In the end, he caught a cab instead, after apologizing to the Bentley and explaining the situation.

He started taking the Bentley out for very short trips while he re-learned how all the controls worked, manually. And instead of protecting it from parking violations, he took to simply plucking them off every morning before Aziraphale could see them and shoving them in a box in the back corner of the spare room. He would deal with those later.

It was inconvenient, and it was annoying, but it was worth it. But as the days passed he became very aware that he needed to get around to the conversation with Aziraphale, and soon.

Aziraphale, ever the clever one, beat him to the punch. He looked up at breakfast, on day four since the wedding, and cleared his throat meaningfully.

“My dear,” he said, “I think it’s time we had that talk you promised. I can see it’s eating at you.”

Crowley hid his initial reaction between a long swallow of his cappuccino, and quickly ran through his options for a response. More than anything, though, he knew the angel was right. They couldn’t put this off any longer.

“Finish your tea,” he said, “and I’ll tell you everything.”

Crowley did his best to run the angel through the entire past week, everything he did, everyone he spoke to. All that he missed. When he got to the encounter with God, he could feel Aziraphale’s intensity focused on him laser bright. He skipped over the message God had left for the angel for the moment, aware that in just a minute Aziraphale was going to be rather distracted.

He brought the story to a rapid close with the terms of his bargain with God and then… he just sat. Fidgeting and looking anywhere but at his husband.

“You did what?” Aziraphale said, deceptively calm. “I can’t have heard that right.”

“I’m not sorry,” Crowley said, belligerently.

“You gave away your powers? All of them?” the angel repeated, torn between fury and numbness. Oh good lord, the guilt was crushing. “ALL of them?”

“Angel,” Crowley said. “It was my choice. I chose it freely. I would do it again in the blink of an eye.”

The angel leapt to his feet, hands balled in fists.

“Why would you do such a foolish, ridiculous thing?” Aziraphale shouted. “There had to have been another way!”

“Because you were DYING,” Crowley shouted back, standing up to face him squarely. “And there WAS no other way. I tried everything. Anathema tried everything she knew too. There was no way I was going to let that happen if I could stop it.”

“But… to bargain your life away like that…” Aziraphale stopped, panting with emotion.

“My powers, angel, not my life,” Crowley said. “It’s inconvenient, but it’s nothing compared to losing you.”

“Crowley –” the angel breathed. “I don’t know whether to hug you or kill you.”

“Why not both?” Crowley quipped.

Aziraphale eyed him balefully. It was apparently too early for jokes.

“What are you left with?” he asked, uncurling his fists and relaxing a tad. “Do you still have wings?”

“Of course I still have wings. They’re part of my corporation and I’m still a demon.” Crowley concentrated and pulled them through. They look a little patchy, not quite as glossy black as usual, but they were there. Aziraphale nodded, satisfied, and he tucked them away. “I can still hear Freddy, which is nice – I was worried about that one, but apparently that’s based on his psychic powers and not mine.”

“Can you turn into a snake anymore?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

“No,” Crowley admitted. That one hurt. “But I’m immortal. We will still have millennia together, angel. It’s not so bad.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were shining with tears. “I’m so, so angry at you,” he said. “And I’m so sad for you. And I don’t know what to do about either of those things.”

Crowley nodded. “I know, angel.”

Aziraphale’s mind was roiling. He was trying to not give into the terrible guilt he was feeling. Crowley, who loved nothing more than performing a miracle, gave up his gifts, for him, like they were just a meaningless trifle. It defied imagination.

“You’d have done the same for me,” Crowley said softly, stepping towards him. “You know you would have.”

“Oh of course I would have,” Aziraphale sighed. “I know that too. Wouldn’t have even had to think about it.”

“I don’t resent it, angel,” Crowley said, “and I won’t. Not ever. It’s just – an adjustment.”

Aziraphale looked into his demon’s eyes, searching for a hint of doubt, of turbulence, and saw none.

“I love you,” the angel said, grabbing the demon by the shoulders and giving him a gentle shake that rippled with underlying power. “So very much. And I’m going to find a way to fix this for you, I promise.”

“Okay, that would be great! I hope you do.” Crowley projected sincerity with every ounce of his being, looking into the angel’s eyes. “But if you don’t, we’ll figure it out, okay?”

Aziraphale pulled him in for a hug and tried to remember how to breathe.

#good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #archangel michael is a little bit less of an ass than the others #anathema and newt #wake up aziraphale #wedding

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cinanamon · 6 years ago

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tainted by sin — zcl

pairing | chenle x reader

genre | angst, angel!au, demon!au

word count | 1.9K

synopsis | Chenle was the purest of angels, and that’s why he became a prized target of yours, a demon. You just wanted to watch the heavens fall.

warning | crying, threats, fall from grace, despair

Heaven was the holiest place on earth; everyone knew. It was beautiful, with clouds to step upon and pillars to admire, jeweled walls and golden streets; everything glowing, everything alive. Just being there you feel light on your feet, and a radiance so bright emitted from the throne, encasing all of the paradise.

And in this place lied angels and pure souls and saints, people of such good will and righteousness. All serving of the lord, and all brimming with praise. All nine orders of the servants of God, the first being the closest to the throne and so on down the line it went.

The last order of the servants was angels; and yet, in the lowest category, was the purest soul; Chenle. He didn’t mind his lowest rank, still seeing it as an honor to serve, taking any chance he has to help and guide and learn. So kind and helpful, so naive and innocent; he was the definition of angelic, the epitome of divinity.

And so he became your prize.

You and Chenle lived two completely different lives; heaven and hell, angel and demon, good and bad. You could not have one without the other, it seemed, and it fascinated you that you could know so much and he could know so little.

You wondered why they’d let such a perfect angel wander with such little protection, such little knowledge; it made it too easy for you to want to taint him.

Because what a victory it would be to turn the best of the angels dark; to turn the cleanest of white wings black, a sickening graying effect. It sent a thrill of excitement through you whenever he left the heaven’s gates by himself.

But you knew better; maybe the one virtue that stuck with you was patience, or maybe it’s centuries in hell that accustomed you to the use of self-control, even if all that meant to demons was indulgence and vengeance.

And so you’d wait and observe; watch his routine, his objectives, what seemed to distract him; what he cared about most. And you felt like things were finally falling into place when he was assigned a baby to guard. Most angels were guardian angels after all; it was about time he’d have a safekeep human to look after, protect and guide and nurture. Chenle had seemed overjoyed by the prospect; and in a way, you were too. Now you had a means of leverage.

And so like the snake in the garden of Eden, you prowled and waited for a chance to strike. Months passed but to you it didn’t matter; the long-term reward would be better than making yourself apparent before you were sure of your success. And one cold night you watched Chenle slip through the child’s window, like the breeze himself he was airy and light as he gracefully made his entrance; and it felt right in that moment, to follow. To spark your efforts into action.

Like a shadow compared to him, you stalked your way towards the house, willed the door to unlock without lifting a finger. You made your way past the child’s sleeping parents, seeing as they were not the object of your attention at the moment, not until after your mission was completed. Thankfully the child’s door was open, and so you glided into the doorway with ease, stopping to lean on the threshold as a smirk began to play on your lips.

Oh how easy this really seemed.

You had never once questioned the beauty and grace of angels; never once doubted how celestial Chenle himself was. With pale, clear skin and soft features, long lashes and curly blonde hair, clothed in a white toga, and you could never fail to mention his magnificent, ivory wings; the trademark of angels, what marked them as a servant of the Lord.

And in the moonlight, he shone. The shadows curved over the contours of his face, the highlights accenting his purity; and you admired him at his peak of virtue, the most innocent he will ever be when you’re done with him. As if sensing a change in the atmosphere, his eyes lowered from the moon outside, shifting to your place by the door and he froze.

He stood from his place by the crib quickly, standing protectively in front of the infant. “State your business.” His voice was soft but firm, gentle and yet unafraid.

But you were not here to fight; you were here so he would walk right into the palm of your hand.

You pushed off the doorway, moving into the moonlight so he could gaze upon your grand, dark wings and beautiful yet daring face. “Here I am,” your tone was smooth, but the edge was unmistakable. Chenle stiffened, his eyes never leaving the trademark of demons that protruded from your shoulder blades. “I am here to visit.”

“A demon has no need to visit a mortal household,” Your lips curled when he moved to be at the forefront of your vision, so your watchful eyes couldn’t take in the sight of his guardian child. “I think it would be best if you left.”

“Before I’ve even gotten to say my hellos?” You feigned a look of hurt, pressing a cold hand to your chest. “I thought angels were more chivalrous then so.”

“And I know demons are only ever up to no good,” His eyes darted between your hand and eyes, looking for any signs of trouble. “So please forgive me if I seem rude.”

“Not at all.” You dropped the act, narrowing your eyes as you stalked closer, enjoying how his breathing caught in his throat and he took a few steps backwards, realizing that he was not in control in this situation, that he was, in a way, at your mercy.

And in such an event, you remembered delightfully that he was indeed naive; he had never been in contact with a demon, never dealt with grief or pain or loss just yet, and it sent shivers down your spine that you’d be the first to introduce him to each kind.

“Tell me,” he looked up at your words, his eyes wide yet jaw clenched, and you could almost read the dread in his eyes. “Would my touch alone hurt you?”

He looked to your raised hand hesitantly, tensing when it landed on the side of the crib, and it sent fear through him; terrible waves that made his stomach churn. “No,” he swallowed. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sound very confident,” You taunted. “But very well. Do you think if I touched her it would affect her?” And power had never felt so good in your hands; you could see the desperation clinging to his form as he forcibly turned to you, and yet his apprehension of your touch kept him at bay. Your hand lowered down the wall of the crib, drawing closer to the infant’s side. “Do you think just one graze of my nail would do?”

“Don’t touch her,” but his voice shook, and his hand hovered just above yours, poised to knock your palm away at any second but you could sense that he was afraid. “What do you need with this innocent child? Why must you taunt me?”

“Too afraid of my touch still?” You laugh, but it was filled with little mirth. “Too little faith in your God, do you think? Don’t trust him enough to save and protect you from me?”

And questioning his faith must have hit a chord, because his expression hardened and his hand enclosed around your wrist tightly, ripping your figure away from the sleeping child. And what you didn’t expect was his touch to be scorching. His heavenly influence burned away at your flesh, the skin hardened by the fires of hell. And in a sick way, you almost enjoyed the pain, admiring the bracelet of red encircling your wrist.

But you weren’t the only one scathed by the flames. You heard a sharp cry, only to look up and witness Chenle gripping at his own arm, doubling over from the sudden pain. He was whimpering, falling to his knees as he trembled. You wondered if it hurt more to be touched by darkness than it was to be touched by light.

And when he managed to release his hold on his wrist, your assumption was proven correct.

Because darkness can taint you, but the light can never bring you back.

And a ring around his hand, like a chain, were the red burns that matched yours, but what captivated you was the underlying black traces that were foreign to angels, only known too well to demons.

“Thought my touch wouldn’t do anything?” you jeered, but he didn’t seem to hear you, his lip quivering as he slowly raised his hand to stare in terror at the growing mark. “It has stripped you of your love from God.”

“No,” he shook his head and looked at you, tears beginning to crest over the curve of his cheeks, falling down to stain his robe much like the fallen angels had darkened the earth. “No, I’m—I’m a follower of God, I would do anything to serve him.”

“It doesn’t seem to matter,” You smiled cruelly, kneeling in front of him. You placed a hand on his knee and he flinched, pushing back like he would be burnt again but he wasn’t; he had already begun the process, and so your touch could no longer hurt. And yet you knew that wasn’t the only reason; he was disgusted, in you and himself. You lowered your face closer to his ear, your voice barely audible, dare even sultry, as you purred, “You won’t feel like that in a little while.”

And he shook his head again, wildly, denying the fact that he has no control over what would happen to him. And he didn’t do anything wrong, at least, not for any wrong cause. His process of turning dark seemed to grow quicker, overtaking his arm and crawling up to his shoulder, stripping him of his natural golden glow, instead smearing him the crisp silvery gray of the fallen. More sobs began to spill from his lips, and he couldn't maintain eye-contact with you, his eyes dropping in a cold state of defeat.

Guilt naturally tried to take you in its grasp, make you repent for such a cruel action against an angel; you were sure it was God trying to make you answer for such a sin. But you let it run over you like water, shriveling on your skin before you could absorb the feeling. And from your experience as a demon, it had become easy to ignore the call of morality.

What hit Chenle the hardest was when his wings went from a glowing white to an ashy gray, his efforts renewed as he grasped at the feathers, crumbling away in his grasp, speckled by sin. He curled them around his frame, his whole body convulsing from grief as the graying tips completed the process, his golden halo dimming and perishing. You gently stroked his wings, enjoying their featherlight touch, humming as a means to comfort him, but only to better help him transition.

And as he continued to cry and shake, his hair messy and skin dull, wings gray and eyes glassy, the moonlight still held him gently in its clutch, still shone on him gracefully. In the darkest of ways, you were mesmerized.

Because even now that he was one of the fallen, he couldn’t have looked more like an angel.

#dreamiesnetwork #smtownnetwork #nctwriters #nct #nct fanfiction #chenle #nct angst #nct scenario #chenle angst #chenle scenario #angst #chenle fanfiction #chenle x reader #cinanamon #tainted by sin #angel!nct dream #merry christmas you all wanted angst so

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smolllittlebean · 7 years ago

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A Home of My Own; Gabriel Hiraeth

A Home of My Own; Gabriel

Summary: Gabriel reminisces about a simpler time, and is conflicted on where home really is.

Prompt: Hiraeth, A Welsh word that is quite difficult to translate into English. Homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, or for a home which may have never been; an intense form of longing or nostalgia, wistfulness; the grief for the lost places of your past.

Word Count: 1,378

Author’s Note: I'm really cutting it close but I managed to type this up in 24 hours. My first submission for this blog. A bit rushed but I liked it. It's kind of all over the place. It's kind of long so I put a cut in it.

@gabriel-monthly-challenge, @lacqueluster, @archangel-with-a-shotgun, @archangelsanonymous, @revwinchester

“Have you or have you not been plotting against the holiest army? And do you deny conspiring with the unholy beings kept away in God’s enclosure?”

Lucifer sighed loudly, leaning against one of the marble desks he should have been sitting behind. “I deny,” he said, his tone bored.

Michael's eyes narrowed considerably. He bristled beneath the large judge's robes he had decided to put on himself. “So you deny being down in the enclosures after sending away all of the guards, and then speaking to the prisoners?”

Lucifer shifted his weight to his other foot, crossing his arms and gazing up at the ceiling. “Oh, no; I didn't deny that. I said I didn't conspire. Talking with some prisoners doesn't mean I conspired with them.”

“But only a few hours later, after you ‘talked' to them, there was an uprising; all of our guards were killed as well as a few civilians! And then, those same prisoners escaped to Earth, where they forcefully entered a vessel by some unholy magic!” Michael snapped, standing up angrily.

Lucifer eyed him with a bored gaze. “Don't get your tunic in a twist,” he drawled. Michael bared his teeth but sat back down, begrudgingly at that.

Finally, Lucifer pushed off the desk, turning to face the jury with a clever look in his eye. “Gentlemen and ladies of the jury, what fault is it of mine that these deranged souls, in a dark and miserable enclosure, have acted out. Did we not know before that they were dangerous, and as such, put them in enclosure in the first place? It was a mere coincidence that I happened to speak to some of them, the same dark night when they attacked. I believe the prosecutor is choosing to accuse me because of a personal grudge, and as such, has ignored the fact that he does not have much support for his claim.? He turned to Michael and sneered. “Therefore, I declare this case closed.”

He didn't bother waiting for anyone’s response before sauntering out of the room, bumping into someone who was just passing by the front of the building.

“Gabriel!” Lucifer exclaimed, not bothering to help him up as he stood waiting. Gabriel pushed himself up, dusting off the bottom of his tunic. “Oh, hello Lucifer,” he greeted.

“You weren't at this week's meeting. Happens every week, you know. What will Michael accuse me of next?” He laughed but it wasn't real.

Gabriel didn't bother to laugh as he shifted from one foot to another. “I didn't want to come,” he admitted, not looking him in the eye. “You know I don't like these trials.” Lucifer shrugged, patting him on the shoulder. “No one does, little brother, but it's better to roll with the times.” He patted him again and walked away.

Gabriel’s shoulders slumped as soon as Lucifer turned the corner. He looked up at the looming court building, with all of its Greek architectural glory. He knew that he should’ve gone to the trial; he had to set an example for all the other angels. He was an archangel, afterall. He just....

He just missed how things used to be. This was the same Heaven; same people, same buildings, same landscapes. He knew everything was the same; well, looked the same. But it didn’t feel the same. The air...the air was different. And the atmosphere was different. People acted different. Maybe not in the way they talked but in the way that they looked at him. The way they held themselves.

Lucifer was still friendly towards him; despite his seemingly endless feud with Michael (that had been getting worse lately). He still said hello and would sometimes train with him in the armoury. But for some reason, it just felt different.

He shook himself out of his wistful state, knowing that he must look odd standing in front of a court building. People had started filing out and they looked at him; judging him.

Sighing, Gabriel turned away from the court building and began to walk down the cobblestone path. Heaven seemed isolated, and Gabriel felt like he was in a giant glass dome. He knew that he could fly out right now, not look back and forget about everyone, but he didn't want to. The fledglings in the nursery were his anchor, and he'd be damned if he left them to fend for themselves; those awful angels fighting over who would turn them into Michael's personal soldiers.

The cobblestone path slowly turned into a dirt path, worn down from the thousands and thousands of tiny feet that had come down it. Gabriel often took the fledglings this way whenever it was time for flight-training. It was isolated from the larger angels, but in a cozy, comforting way.

The fledglings stopped coming once they grew up, but Gabriel could never not come here. It was the only thing that hadn't been affected by the turmoil of politics.

The dirt path ended in the middle of a fairly sized clearing. The green grass was healthy and untouched; Gabriel made sure the children didn't crush it. Whenever they got here, the only rule was that you couldn't touch the ground. It was the fledglings´ favorite game. Only Gabriel could walk in the field, and he did so carefully, paying attention to each and every step he made. This was his place; his secret.

Now, the clearing was empty. Fledgling training had ended for this year and the new fledglings wouldn't be ready for another few months. Gabriel felt a bit lonely, but not anymore than usual. The total silence helped him think, and he needed that right now.

He found a spot to sit on the side of a fallen oak tree. It had been there for years, and the grass and weeds had climbed up its trunk and covered it completely. It was soft and warm from the sun beaming down on it. It was never nighttime in Heaven; no rest, no sleep. Just work.

He leaned against it, closing his eyes and sighing. He missed being at peace. It had been all hustle and bustle for the last few years now. Michael and Lucifer might have acted civilized at court, but their fights outside of central Heaven were savage. Gabriel had tried to step in the first few times; he had the scars to prove it.

Now he had stopped; stopped stepping in, stopped defending them, stopped healing them after their battles, stopped trying to convince them that this was pointless. Gabriel was tired, more tired than anyone. And he was done with their bull.

He decided that, right there. On the trunk of that tree, watching the grass sway in the wind. He looked around and frowned; there was no life here. It might look beautiful, because it was, but Heaven was lifeless. His Father had created it, to be as lovely as possible, but it was heartless. It wasn't like Earth, where nature was a force of its own. Everything was meticulously controlled.

He couldn't find comfort in the one place where he used to love.

Suddenly everything felt disgusting. The tree trunk was like sharp rocks prodding at his back. The grass was artificial and prickly. Hell, even the sunlight just felt fake.

Gabriel stood up so quickly he made his head hurt. He began to back away from the tree, the grass, the meadow, the forest. This wasn't his home; it was a prison. And he couldn't stay here. He had to find home. Somewhere else. It wasn't in Heaven. Heaven didn't have what he needed.

He didn't know what exactly he was looking for. But he did know that when he saw it or felt it, he would find it. He was out of the woods and at the edge of the city where he could look down at the Earth.

There. It was there somewhere. What he wanted. He could feel it pulling at him from all the way up there. Home. He needed to find home.

Without a glance back, Gabriel spread his wings, flexing them in the ever-shining sun. With a running start, he pushed off the ground and went soaring into the sky. And so his search began.

#gabriel monthly challenge #spn #gabriel #supernatural #archangel gabriel #lucifer #michael #archangel #fandom history #spn family #spn gabriel #spn michael #spn lucifer #my writing

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this-darkness-light · 7 years ago

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Pretzal the Swamp Wyrm

Pairing: Samifer Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Word count: 1,921

Summary: Sam’s new Bad Dragon toy comes in the mail. Lucifer and Castiel find it first. Surprisingly SFW! Wow, I can write something that’s not porn LOL.

Tags/warnings: spnrareshipcc, Sam/Lucifer, Samifer, humor, sex toys, implied bottom!Lucifer, implied top!Sam, established relationship, Lucifer in the bunker, some mild OOCness, coarse language

Tagging: @rareshipcreationschallenge

Link to the toy:

-.-.-.-.-

Sam sighs, closing the large book of lore he’s been reading for way too long and squishes his eyes with his fingers until gold, red, and green fireworks erupt behind his eyelids. It kind of relieves the pressure of staring at dusty old pages for hours and hours and hours. All by himself. Because of course Dean would never sit his ass in an actual chair and read an actual book in the actual library and actually help Sam when he’s off doing whatever he’s doing, wherever he’s doing it.

Loud gurgling fills the library. Sam snaps his eyes open and jerks his head around, reaching for his knife as he mentally shuffles through every creature and monster and mean supernatural thingy that makes gurgley noises and might possibly be invisible. He comes up with nothing. Then the gurgle comes back, louder and accompanied by a pang in his gut, and Sam realizes sheepishly that it’s his own stomach, which is apparently so empty it’s started gnawing on his spine and groaning in agony.

Massaging his middle, Sam turns back to the book. He could seriously use a break. Besides, the research is going nowhere. If he has to spend one more second squinting at faint, decades-old handwriting and decipher what it means just to find out it means nothing useful, his eyes are going to explode and dribble down his face in thick globs of white goo.

Deciding that it can wait for some other time, or some other day, or some other…never…(never sounds good), Sam accidentally-on-purposefully forgets to mark his place before slamming the book shut and cramming it back on the shelf and hauling ass out of the library like there’s a posse of clowns on his six.

He’s almost to the kitchen, visions of salads and protein smoothies and other healthy snacks dancing in his head, when he hears the voices of angels.

“You know more about these human things, Castiel. What do you think it is?” Lucifer asks.

“I do not know,” Castiel says solemnly, like he’s pronouncing a death sentence on a condemned prisoner. “Let us inspect it together.”

Sam pauses just outside the entrance and smiles softly to himself. It’s so good to hear them getting along, acting like brothers. Castiel was naturally on edge after Lucifer showed up at the bunker, dehydrated and half-starved and Graceless, but by no means human. But now that Lucifer is back inside Nick and is apparently there to stay, he and Castiel have slowly mended their brotherly relationship and have been getting along better than Sam ever expected.

Hell, Sam and Lucifer have been getting along better than Sam expected. Like, way better. Explaining that to Dean had been fun. For some reason he didn’t buy their “we just sorta fell into the bed at the same time and whoops! we fucked, huh, how ’bout that” story. But Sam’s pretty sure Dean will be having nightmares for the rest of his life about walking in on his little brother pounding literal actual Satan into the mattress, so. Silver linings and all that.

Something vaguely plastic-y crinkles in kitchen, drawing Sam from his thoughts. Two deep hums of analytical curiosity follow.

“It is very long,” Castiel observes.

“And thick,” Lucifer adds.

Sam smirks to himself. Whatever it is, both angels are probably doing that angel head tilt of confusion thing. He can see it now.

“It is also quite bendy,” Castiel says.

And then Sam’s research-fried brain adds all three together and comes up with ‘oh shit.’

He practically leaps inside to see Castiel thwacking the tip of Sam’s new Bad Dragon toy, Pretzal the Swamp Worm, back and forth like some kind of demented metronome.

Oblivious to Sam’s presence, Lucifer watches Castiel with one arm crossed over his chest and his chin propped on the other fist. “May I try?” he asks, holding out his chin hand for the toy. Castiel graciously hands it over. Taking it gingerly from his younger brother, Lucifer tilts it so the shaft of the dildo is parallel with the ground, then shakes it, making the plastic dick do an obscene wobble-flap thing that has Sam blushing a bright tomato red.

Castiel watches Lucifer’s experimental gesture intently. “Hmm. Perhaps it goes back and forth?” Lucifer obliges him, thrusting the toy in the air, and now it’s officially time to put an end to Angel Brother Bonding Time.

“H-hey guys, um…where did you get that?” Sam asks, drawing the angels’ attention to himself.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel says in that chewing-gravel voice at the same time Lucifer’s face brightens like a beam of sunlight breaking through overcast skies.

“Sammy!” he says. “Hey, do you happen to know what this is?” He gives the dildo a helpful waggle. As if Sam could possibly not know what he means by “this.”

“Uhh…” Shit. Sam reaches up and rubs the back of his neck.

“It came in a box with your name on it,” Castiel says, saving Sam from coming up with some reasonable and marginally believable crock of bullshit he can feed them.

“You were busy, so we opened it for you,” Lucifer says, looking like a proud kitten that has dropped a dead mouse at his human’s feet and is expecting praise.

Sam sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, acting like he’s frustrated when really he’s relieved to have such a convenient conversational re-direct. “We’ve talked about this, guys. If your name isn’t on the box…”

The angels exchange looks and then roll their eyes in tandem. “Don’t open it,” they chorus in flat, unenthusiastic voices.

“But we never get mail,” Lucifer says, sounding like the whiney hallucination incarnation of himself that haunted Sam’s every waking hour a few years back.

“We apologize for opening your mail to give ourselves the vicarious experience of receiving our own packages,” Castiel says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “But now that we have opened it, we would like to know what it is.”

Trust Castiel to hang onto the “what is it” question like a dog with a bone. Sam chews his bottom lip. “Um.” God. This situation can’t get any worse.

“Hey Sam,” Dean says, wandering in from wherever he was doing whatever he was doing that wasn’t helping Sam in the library.

Aaaand it officially got worse. Sam would like to die now, please.

“Got a minute? I wanted to —” But Sam doesn’t ever get to find out what Dean wanted, because at that moment he sees the dildo in Lucifer’s hands and his eyes and lips bug out in a picture perfect imitation of a goldfish.

Dean crooks a finger at the dildo. “What the fuck is that?” Lucifer ever so helpfully holds it up so Dean can get a better look at it. Never in his life has Sam wanted to bitchslap the Devil as much as he does in that moment. Dean jerks his head back in thinly disguised what-the-fuck, and Sam can hear the gears turning in his porn-addicted brother’s mind and knows he’ll figure out any second now.

Sam gives him the best puppy eyes he’s ever used on him, silently willing him to make like Elsa and let it go. No, Dean. No. Just shut up and don’t say anything, just shut up…

“Why do the angels have a dildo?”

Sam smacks his face with his palm. Of course Dean can’t just ever shut up. He should have known that.

“What’s a dildo?” Castiel and Lucifer ask at the same time, turning expectant, curious faces up at Dean.

Apparently even Dean Winchester can’t bring himself to explain sex toys to two of the holiest creatures in existence, even if one of them was technically once evil incarnate. “Uh, you wanna take this one Sam?”

Sam throws him an epic bitchface and flips him off just before two expectantly curious angel faces swivel his way, eyes bright with curiosity and expectation.

But Dean started this, and fuck if Sam isn’t gonna make him finish it.

“Oh no, Dean, you're doing a fantastic job all by yourself of ruining everything. Please, continue. You couldn't possibly make it any worse.”

The angels do a simultaneous head-tilt of confusion at Sam. He twirls a finger to indicate they should look to Dean for all the answers to life, the universe, and everything dildo related. They share a look and then turn back to Dean like a pair of synchronized swimmers trapped on dry land.

By now Sam should have known not to tempt Fate and declare that something couldn’t get worse than it it, because Dean very much makes it worse by explaining, in very graphic detail, exactly what dildos are for.

Castiel squints at the dildo like he doesn’t quite believe Dean’s explanation. “If I understand correctly, this is supposed to go inside one’s anal cavity?”

Dean pokes his tongue into his cheek and presses a fist to his mouth to hold back the laugh brewing in his eyes. Sam just glowers, because this is all just fantastic.

“Uh, yeah, Cas, that’s basically how it works,” Dean says in a strangled voice. Castiel nods slowly and continues staring at the toy like a cop sweating a suspect in the interrogation room.

And now Sam is Well and Truly Done. “Okay. Since we’ve all established that this is a dildo, and that it came in a box with my name on it, that means it’s my dildo. So hand it here.” He holds out his hand expectantly, just wanting this whole kerfuffle over with.

Dean snerks. “Dude, you bought a dildo? Why?”

Sam gives him a fake smile laced with heavy undertones of ‘I hate you.’ “Do you really want to know?” he asks in a syrupy sweet voice, looking pointedly at Lucifer and then back at Dean.

Dean blanches and gags. “Yeah, TMI Sam. C’mon Cas, let’s go…anywhere else but here.” Grabbing Castiel’s shoulder, Dean steers him out of the kitchen without giving him time to protest or ask why.

As soon as they’re gone Sam crosses his arms and turns to Lucifer, who’s scuffing his shoe on the floor and staring up at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen in his billions of years of existence.

Sighing, Sam takes the dildo from Lucifer’s unresisting hands. “Dude…this was supposed to be a surprise. It was for us, and now Dean knows about it and ugh...I'm never gonna hear the end of this.”

Lucifer winces and finally looks up at him with those big blue eyes of his. “Sorry?”

He looks so much like a five-year-old getting scolded for stealing a cookie right before dinner time that Sam just can’t stay mad at him.

Huffing to himself, he waggles the dildo at Lucifer like an admonishing finger. “You know what this means, right?”

Lucifer cants his head to the side. “What?”

Sam smirks at him and juts out his chin. “I’m gonna have to punish you for this.”

Lucifer blinks, then takes a step closer to Sam, licking his lips. “Well, I suppose I earned it,” he purrs.

Sam laughs. “Understatement.” Smiling, he holds out his hand. Lucifer takes it, and together they head for Sam’s bedroom to give Pretzal the Swamp Wyrm a proper welcome.

-.-.-.-.-

#spnrareshipcc #samifer #spn #humor #this-darkness-writes #sam winchester #lucifer #dean winchester #castiel #first spn fic

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nice--is--a--four--letter--word · 5 years ago

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Good Omens

Episode 1

You’re an angel I don’t think you can do the wrong thing - Az looks so genuinely happy at that and they’ve literally just met

A demon can get in to a lot of trouble for doing the right thing

If I did the good thing and you did the bad one. No. It wouldn’t be funny at all

I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter

Most of the great triumphs and tragedy in human history are caused not by people being fundamentally good or fundamentally bad but people being fundamentally people

Everyone knows the best place for a clandestine meeting in London is and always has been st James’s Park. They say the ducks are so used to being fed by secret agents that they’ve developed pavolvian reactions to them. The Russian cultural attaché’s black bread is particularly sought after by the more discerning duck.

When they’re crossing the road Crowley does the thanks wave to the car that stopped

Godfathers. Well I’ll be damned

It’s not that bad when you get used to it *glowing smirk* Az’s face just drops

Az might have taught warlock sign

No one’ll notice anything. It’s reality angel

So the humans beat me to it, that’s not my fault

Crowley knows what Az smells like, Az has a new cologne that his barber suggested

Would I lie to you. You’re a demon it’s what you do

Episode 2

You can’t have a war without War

What he does is put the fear of god in to them. More accurately the fear of Crowley.

Crowley’s very bendy, all long and thin and sauntering

Hey this is Anthony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style

He stands by the phone letting it go to voicemail and picks up when he hear it’s Az

What do you mean it feels loved

I like spooky, big spooky fan me

Guns in the right hands give weight to a moral argument

Az says hell at they real guns

You know Crowley I’ve always said deep down you really are a nice

Shut it. I’m a demon I’m not nice. I’m never nice nice is a four letter word I will not have -

Excuse me gentlemen, sorry to break up an intimate moment. Can I help you

Excuse me ma’am we’re just two supernatural entities looking for the notorious son of Satan. Wonder if you might help us with out enquiries

You’ll wake having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best

Angels aren’t occult we’re ethereal

Az can feel that the areas different, Crowley can’t, Love

Get in angel

They both have a human network, they’re just shadwell

Bebop - The velvet underground, if you lined up everyone in the world and asked them to describe it not one of them would say

Episode 3

Eden - Aziraphale, angel of the eastern gate

3004 bc Mesopotamia

Crowley looks more shocked about the flood than Az, he trying to justify it

Not the kids, you can’t kill the kids. Mmhmm. That’s more like something my side would do

Are you going to say ineffable

That unicorns going to make a run for it. Oh you’ve still got one of them

Rainbow invented

33 ad Golgotha

Crawly -> Crowley

Bit too squirming at your feet ish

Crowley gave Jesus a tour of the world and looks sympathetic at the nails

8 years later Rome

What kind of questions that still a demon what else am I going to be an aardvark

Crowley has little sunglasses

Crowley’s working, Az is trying a new restaurant - Crowley’s never eaten an oyster, Az looks shocked

Oh well let me tempt you oh I guess that’s your job isn’t it

Wessex 537

Knights, Az is part of the round table, Crowley is the black knight spreading forment of discord, Az is formenting peace and they’re working in damp places cancelling each other out

Crowley says they should just pretend they’ve done it and stay home, Az is against it

Globe theatre 1601

Az likes grapes

No one wants to see hamlet

Shakespeare wants the audience to interact and make the actors feel appreciated

Oh he’s not my friend we don’t know each other we’ve never met before

Shakespeare nicks a line from Crowley

No rest for the well good

They’re both going to Edinburgh to do little things so they toss for it so only one has to go - They’ve done it dozens of times before - the arrangement in a little sing song voice - Az doesn’t want to talk about it

It’s take a miracle to make anyone come and see Hamlet. Yes alright I’ll do that one my treat

1793 Paris

Az really doesn’t speak french

Az was supposed to be openingbg the bookshop and he did but he was peckish and came to France to get crepes looking like that

Az was reprimanded for too many frivolous miracles so he figured he’d just stay there and let himself get discorperated the idiot

My lot do not send rude notes

1862 St James Park

Sauntered vaguely downwards

Stay out of each other’s way, lend a hand when needed

Asking for holy water - for if it all goes pear shaped, I like pears - walls have ears no trees have ears ducks have ears do ducks have ears must do that’s how they hear other ducks

Az thinks the holy water would be a suicide pill

Fraternising - Crowley is betrayed

I don’t need you. And the feeling is mutual obviously.

1941 London

Az was trying to double cross the nazis and got triple crossed back - Crowley knows, someone knows how, and steps on consecrated ground to come save him

You can’t kill me. There’ll be paperwork

You don’t like it ? No I didn’t say that, I’ll get used to it. What does the j stand for. Nothing it’s just a j

You won’t enjoy dying. Definitely won’t enjoy what comes after

You’re wasting your valuable running away them - Kill them, they are very irritating

Probably where Crowley gets he idea for nicking holy water from a church

That was very kind of you. Oh shut up. No paperwork for a start

1967 Soho London

Shadwell was in prison and got taught lock breaking

Crowley’s definitely got contacts - Az ‘hears things’

You told me what you think. A hundred and five years ago.

I can’t have you risking your life. Even for something dangerous

“The holiest”

Should I say thank you. Better not.

Az is so trying to push him

Maybe one day we could go for a picnic, dine at the ritz

You go to fast for me Crowley - double meaning

Crowley really fits the time.

Dog tried to scare a cat with the red eyes and the cat went for him

This is going to sound so stupid but I lost my book and it all just got a bit much

School is a repressive tool of the state

When Az is up trying to report the missing Antichrist he pretty much throws Crowley under the bus, he ends up not telling them who he is but they don’t care and just want the war to happen

Az doesn’t remember which of their rendezvous points are which code

Az is an awful liar

Great postulant mangled bullocks to the great plan

Unforgivable that’s what I am

I’m not personally up for killing kids. You’re the demon I’m the nice one. Crowley’s trying to convince Az to kill the boy

Crowley wants to go off together - Az looks kinda hopeful but he shuts him down

Friends we’re not friends. We have nothing whatsoever in common I don’t even like you

We’re on our side. There is no our side not anymore it’s over

Crowley is way more in love than Az

Az’s voice is breaking but Crowley’s the one that’s hurt

Episode 4

Az is talking like twice as many steps as Gabriel with the jogging

Az has to catch his breath after ‘jogging’ for a couple of hundred meters

But there doesn’t have to be a war

Of course there does how else would we win it

Tie up stuff down here, report back to active service and ... lose the gut. Come on you’re a lean mean fighting machine, what are you

.... I’m ... soft

Now don’t think of it as dying. Think of it as leaving early to avoid the rush

Fight outside bookshop with gay guy at end - it’s all Az’s fault. Crowley loves him

Episode 5

Somebody’s killed my best friend. Bastards

I shouldn’t litter should I - No ones keeping score anymore

Pathetic excuse for an angel

There are celestial wages

“It’s on fire or something”

Right now that’s somebody else’s problem

Dog is just as scared as the kids

Episode 6

Ninety years and not a scratch now look at you

I am having a moment here - Crowley’s mourning the Bentley -You were a good car - I need to get over the car thing

We are here to lick some serious butt. Kick Aziraphale it’s kick butt for heavens sake eugh I can’t believe I just said that

Negative, like black holes. I don’t think they’re exactly human

They’re saying it’s the end of the world. Yes I can hear that

He is not what he says he is

I believe in peace bitch

I believe in food and a healthy lunch. Famine puts up the biggest fight

Tougher. Smarter. More dangerous

Book girl - like who

Crowley the traitor. That’s not a nice word. All the other words I have for you are worse

Dads don’t wait till you’re eleven to say hello

You don’t have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We’re on our own side now

Even if he didn’t know why I was in trouble I would

Dick Turpin was a famous highwayman. Everywhere it goes it holds up traffic Oh I regret asking

The holiest yes

It’s not that we don’t trust you Michael but obviously we don’t trust you

How many nipples you got ?

Don’t talk to me about the greater good sunshine I’m the archangel fucking Gabriel

Shut your stupid mouth and die already

I don’t suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of hell there’s any such thing as a rubber duck

There never was an apple in Adams opinion that wasn’t worth the trouble you got in to for eating it

They’re all domestic and happy

Heaven and hell against... humanity

Right, time to leave the garden

I like to think that none of this wouldn’t have worked out if you weren’t at heart just a little bit of a good person

And if you weren’t deep down just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing

There were angels dining at the Ritz

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glittership · 7 years ago

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Episode #48 -- "Circus Boy Without A Safety Net" by Craig Laurance Gidney

Download this episode (right click and save)

And here’s the RSS feed: http://glittership.podbean.com/feed/

Episode 48 is part of the Summer 2017 issue!

Support GlitterShip by picking up your copy here: http://www.glittership.com/buy/

Circus Boy Without A Safety Net

by Craig Laurance Gidney

Lucifer came to him in drag. He was disguised as Lena Horne.

C.B. went to see The Wiz with his family. The movie was pretty cool, by his standards, even though he thought Diana Ross was a little too old to be playing Dorothy. But the sets were amazing–the recasting of the Emerald City as downtown Manhattan, the Wicked Witch’s sweatshop, the trashcan monsters in the subway. The songs sometimes lasted a little too long, but they were offset by Michael Jackson’s flashy spin-dancing. But it was the image of Lena Horne as Glinda the Good Witch that would follow him.

She appeared in the next to last scene in a silver dress. Her hair was captured in a net of stars, and she was surrounded by a constellation of babies, all wrapped in clouds, their adorable faces peering out like living chocolate kisses. He fell in love. Ms. Horne was undeniably beautiful, with her creamy, golden skin, and mellow, birdlike features. Her movements during the song “Home” were passionate. They were at odds with shimmering, ethereal-blur in which she was filmed. Indeed, she could not be of this earth. In all of his life in Willow Creek, NC, C.B. had not seen anything like this before.

[Full transcript after the cut.]

Hello! Welcome to GlitterShip Episode 48 for September 26, 2017. This is your host, Keffy, and I’m super excited to be sharing this story with you. Our story for today is a reprint of “Circus Boy Without A Safety Net” by Craig Laurance Gidney. Potential background dog noises are unintended, but provided by Rey, Finn, and Heidi.

Content warning for slurs, homophobic bullying, and descriptions of porn.

Craig Laurance Gidney is the author of the collections Sea, Swallow Me & Other Stories (Lethe Press, 2008), Skin Deep Magic (Rebel Satori Press, 2014), the Young Adult novel Bereft (Tiny Satchel Press, 2013), and The Nectar of Nightmares (Dim Shores, 2015). He lives in his native Washington, DC. Website: craiglaurancegidney.com. Instagram, Tumblr & Twitter: ethereallad.

Circus Boy Without A Safety Net

by Craig Laurance Gidney

Lucifer came to him in drag. He was disguised as Lena Horne.

He was in love, all right. He researched her in libraries, finding old issues of Ebony and Jet; he watched old movies that she’d appeared in, like Cabin in the Sky. He collected some of her records; his 8-track of “Stormy Weather” was so worn, he had to buy another copy.

But in the weeks afterwards, he began to sense that this love of his wasn’t quite right. His brother and his father would tease him about his “girlfriend,” who was 70 years old, and about how, when he came of an age to marry, she would be even older than that. Of how he could never have children. His brother was particularly mean: he imagined a wedding, held at Lena’s hospital bed, with her in an iron lung, exhaling an “I Do” as ominous as Darth Vader’s last breath. But C.B. wanted to explain that it wasn’t like that at all. He couldn’t quite put it into words.

Lena wasn’t an object of desire, someone who he wanted to kiss or hold hands with. She was something more. She was a goddess of Beauty, an ideal. She was something beyond anything he’d ever known. She hovered above Willow Creek, an angel, looking down on its box houses that were the color of orange sherbet, lemonade, and his own robin’s-egg-blue house. She wasn’t someone to sleep with; she was someone to be like.

C.B. made a bedroom shrine to his goddess. Old pictures of her, protected in cellophane, marched up his wall. But the ultimate treasure lay unseen. In the unused chest of drawers in the back of his closet, he hid a Barbie doll, bought at a flea market and transformed into her likeness: painted skin, eyes blackened with a pen, stolen hair dye darkening the blond tresses. And he sprinkled lots of glitter on her dress, so it would be silver, like hers was in The Wiz. (This had involved experiments with several doll’s dresses. There was a measure of discretion; he came up with a story about how his sick sister collected Barbie dresses, so that the store clerks wouldn’t think he was strange. He ended up dunking a powder-blue dress in Elmer’s glue, and dredging it in silver glitter. He learned it by imitating his mother, when she made fried chicken: first the eggwash, then the seasoned flour).

But buried treasure sends out signals. Especially to mothers.

She zeroed in on the spot. Oh, there was some excuse about her wanting to check out the chest, so that she could sell it at the church bazaar. Lena was exposed. His mother and father met him at the kitchen table one day after school, holding his creation in their hands. When C.B. saw them, looking as solemn as they did when they watched reruns of King’s historic speech, he knew something was wrong. He thought he was going to get a lecture on idolatry. Instead, he was told, in the calmest tones they could muster, that he was not to play with dolls ever again. That was that. His mother stood up, and started making dinner. His father left the room, his head hung in shame.

C.B. felt strange. They were treating him as if he were diseased. As if they’d discovered that he was freak of some kind. (“When your child reaches the age of twelve, his eyes will grow to the size of grapefruits…”). It was his brother that laid it out for him. He’d been listening in on the conversation.

“They think you’re a faggot.”

When he got to his room, the walls had been stripped. Everything of Lena was gone. The walls looked like he felt: exposed.

He didn’t eat dinner that night. They didn’t call him to the table.

He popped an 8-track of The Wiz into the player, and put the giant earmuff headphones on. Lena sang softly: “If you believe in yourself…”

C.B. snatched the tape out of the player. He unspooled the brown ribbon, until it lay in curls on the floor around him.

C.B. had a Voice. That’s what everybody at the church choir said. He felt it, too. His chest would fill with warmth, the spirit of sound. And when he opened his mouth, all of that warm feeling would come sliding out, like a stream of maple syrup, rich and sweet. It would circle over the church. He could feel it soaring like an angel, over Willow Creek, notes raining down on the box houses the colors of mint-green, bubblegum pink, and pastel violet.

He convinced himself that he was singing to God. All of the ladies with their wiry hats would come up to tell him what a wonderful gift he had. For a while, he gained the pride and trust of his parents. Sort of. At least of his mother.

His father grudgingly gave him respect for his voice; but his father must’ve known that singing didn’t really undo all of embarrassment he’d caused when he failed at various sports. Having a musician son was a poor substitute for having a normal one; but it would have to do.

Within the tiny whitewashed church, he was safe from the worst of himself. The Devil—or Lena—was imprisoned, locked away. Her smoky vocals couldn’t slip in between the glorious notes of hymns. Her fabulous gowns were safely replaced by neutral choir robes.

He jumped through a hoop, pleasing the Lord. C.B. thought of God as a great ringmaster, and Heaven as a circus-dream of angels and tamed beasts. The dead could trapeze through the stars, and see the little marble that was Earth below. But first, you had prove yourself worthy. Jump through this hoop, ringed with razors. Now through this circle of fire… C.B. knew that his life would be a dazzling and dangerous tightrope performance from now on. One slip and he’d fall into a Hell of naked boys and show-tunes. The church was his safety net.

Another bonus of singing was the admiration of the congregation.

C.B. was an average student. He struggled through math and science, tolerated history and English. He didn’t have any friends. Regular kids tended to avoid religious kids. Since that was his disguise, he was a loner. He avoided the actually religious kids himself—he felt that if anyone could see through his charade, they could. They would sniff it out like bloodhounds. Everyone was at a safe distance. And the holiest of music surrounded him like a shield.

He felt the most secure, when the Devil heard him sing.

He came in the form of the music and drama teacher, Mr. P. Mr. P traipsed into town in loud colors. He wore banana yellow jackets, pink shirts, and bow ties as large and comical as a clown’s. In a way, he matched the colors of Willow Creek’s houses. His skin was dark and smooth, like a Special Dark candy bar. He had large glasses that magnified his sad-clown brown eyes. And his hair was a mass of wild and wet Jericurls. His lisp reminded C.B of Snagglepuss, the cartoon lion. Like Snagglepuss, Mr. P was prissy and aristocratic, given to fey and archaic phrases.

Word got around school that C.B. could sing. He’d fastidiously avoided anything to do with the drama and music department. First of all, he reasoned, they played secular music. He sang for the glory of the Almighty. But the real reason was Mr. P. A whiff of his spicy cologne in the crowded school hall made him cringe; Mr. P’s loud, theatrical laugh when he was a lunch hall monitor could set his teeth gnashing.

It was around January when he was approached. He left the lunchroom, walking right by Mr. P. (who wore a suit of lime-green, with an electric blue bow tie), when he was stopped.

Mr. P. spoke his name.

“Yes, sir?”

“I heard that you can sing, child. How come you haven’t been around the chorus?”

“I… I guess that I’ve been too busy. With school. And church.” He invested the last word with an emphasis he hoped wasn’t lost on Mr. P.

But Mr. P flounced right by the Meaning, with a pass-me-my-smelling-salts flick of his wrists. “Nonsense. I would just love to hear you sing. Can you stop by the music room sometime this week?”

“No, sir. My course load is pretty full…”

“Any study halls?” (His sss’s grated on him).

“Not this semester,” C.B. lied.

“How bout after school? Just 15 minutes or so.”

“Uh, this week’s not too good, cause I, uh, have to help my dad with some chores.”

Mr. P smiled, revealing gums as pink as deviled ham. He touched C.B. on the shoulder.

When he left the cafeteria, the nutmeg smell of the cologne tickled his nose. It wouldn’t leave him all day.

That Sunday he was to sing a solo section of the hymn, “His Eye is on the Sparrow” during the distribution of the Host. Before he walked out on stage with the rest of the choir, he did a customary scan of the audience. Mr. P was there, in the pew behind his mother. His heart leapt into throat. But then, of course Mr. P would show up. The Devil can’t resist stirring up souls in turmoil.

In the church basement, over fizzy punch and stale cookies, Mr. P lavished praise over C.B.’s voice, how pure it was. His mother was beaming beside him.

“Why, Mrs. Bertram—”

“Imogene, please.”

“Imogene, when I heard that he had a Voice, I just had to investigate. It exceeded my wildest expectations.”

C.B. kept his eyes firmly trained on the linoleum.

Snagglepuss continued: “I am casting parts for the spring musical. I’d like your son to try out.”

His mother clapped her hands.

“I can’t act,” C. B. interrupted. He could see where this going; he had to cut it at the source.

“You don’t have to act,” (darling, he heard Mr. P add subliminally) “you just have to perform. And you’ve got that down pat.” (Honeychile).

His mother pestered him into trying out for the spring musical, which was The Music Man. C.B. had enjoyed the movie, and found that he couldn’t resist the temptation. It was too much. He felt Lena stirring in him. She whispered in his sleep. One night she came to him. She wore her sparkling fairy queen dress. Her chocolate star babies were grinning behind her. The only thing different about her this time was that she was in black-and-white. She’d occasionally ripple and sputter out of existence, like an image on an old television set. He took this as her blessing.

I won’t give up going to church, so I’ll be safe.

He landed the role of Professor Harold Hill.

The play ran four nights and a Saturday matinee. It was a success. The last performance earned him a standing ovation.

But in the back of his mind, there was always the issue of Mr. P. The jocks and class clowns of the school would always be whispering about him. They called him the Black Liberace. “Hand me the candelabra,” they’d say when he passed them in the hall, or “I wish my brother George was here,” in mincing voices. C.B. felt himself slipping. Movie posters of West Side Story, The Fantasticks, and The Sound of Music competed with the camouflage of his mother’s hand-stitched prayer samplers and collected Willow Creek football bulletins.

The worst was gym class. He refused to take showers. But that didn’t stop the boys from making fun of him. As they emerged glistening and nude from the showers, they would faux caress and grasp one another.

“Yeah baby, push it in harder!”

“Stab that shit, sweetie.”

“Oh daddy, be my butt-pirate tonight.”

He knew they were directed at him.

Summer came, and C.B. immersed himself in church activities. He became an aide for the church-sponsored camp for kids. He sang every Sunday, declining solo parts. It was a sacrifice that God might notice.

For the fall assembly, Mr. P put together a show comprised of songs from musicals. C.B. sang lead for “New York, New York,” and “Send in the Clowns.” He bought the house down. Basking in the light of adulation, he was mindful of the rot that hid behind and beneath Willow Creek’s façade of cheerful acceptance: a hate that corroded the aluminum siding covered in pastel icing.

Church ladies in floral hats: “Mr. P, he’s so, you know, theatrical. You know them theater folks.”

And the antics of the locker-room boys.

Mr. P approached him for the lead in the spring play.

“I think you’d be perfect as the Cowardly Lion in The Wiz!”

C.B. told Mr. P he’d consider it. That night, Lena and her entourage appeared before him. And he was Icarus, tempted by her beauty. If he flew too high, she would supernova, and scorch his soul as black as the void surrounding her cherubs. He was a tightrope walker, and Lena was the spirit who watched over him, waiting to push him off, waiting for him to fall.

He could not ignore the sign that God had sent him. This was temptation.

He declined Mr. P’s offer, claiming that he had to focus on his grades that semester, if he was to go to college.

C.B. did the right thing. But there was no sense of liberation.

Danger lurked, a phantom image just behind his eyes when he slept at night. He imagined Glinda turning into the Witch, snarling in frustration.

Manhattan spread out before him, glitzy, dirty, and labyrinthine. The architecture was as alien to C.B. as the Emerald City was to Dorothy. He was thrilled and terrified at the same time. There was no warmth, no open spaces like there was in Willow Creek. The buildings were naked and thin, and met the challenges of gravity head-on. The houses of Willow Creek were humble—modestly clothed in cheerful fabrics. C.B. wasn’t so sure that he liked it. The crowds, the hurried pace, and the anorexic qualities of the landscape rejected him. The unending gray color oppressed him.

The Willow Creek Community College glee club had performed in a drab little church just outside of Harlem. C.B. swore he could hear rats skittering around the eaves. The nasty hotel the glee club stayed in had water stains on the ceiling, and the beds were hard and tiny. There had been a drunk sleeping in one of the chairs in the hotel lobby, his overripe smell and loud snoring filling the space. The hotel staff didn’t seem to care.

Still, it had to be done. He had to test himself, to see once and for all if the Devil still lived in him. New York City was the perfect place to “experiment” without anyone knowing.

The first step was to ride the subway to Greenwich Village. He moved to the smelly hole in the ground. Its mouth was wide and yellow. He remembered the monsters in the subway in The Wiz. Trash cans with gnashing teeth, pillars that detached themselves from the ceiling and chased people around. What he found was a whole less interesting. The concrete floor in the subway was dirty, covered with gray lumps of long-forgotten chewing gum. He glanced down one of the platform tracks. Fearless brown and gray rats scuttled, each holding some treasure in their claws—a crust of Wonderbread, a squashed pink jellybean. C.B.’s skin crawled.

His train howled up to the platform, and the breaks squealed to a halt. He entered a drably lit car, with sour-faced people crushed next to him. He took a seat next to a blind man. The door clapped shut. His rattling trip began.

About three stops later, two men entered the subway together. Both of them wore black leather jackets, and had long beards, like ZZ Top. One man wore a tight leather cap on his head, while the other had chaps encasing his pants. When he turned away from C.B., he could see the two pockets of his ripped Levi’s spread out like countries on the globe of his butt.

C.B. felt excitement wash over him. He allowed himself this one night. He had to know what he was giving up for the Lord. He stepped off the tightrope and tumbled into space.

Christopher Street was his stop. C.B. spilled out of the train and into the warm spring night. The first thing he noticed was that the Village wasn’t as crowded and squashed together as downtown. There were no tall buildings. The sidewalks were thronged with people. Men, dressed like GQ models prowled the street. C.B. looked down. He made a decision; and looked up again. I’m tumbling.

He felt vertigo.

Cafes and bakeries spun past him. C.B. wandered into a bookstore. The atmosphere was thick with tension in here. Heads hunched over pornographic magazines glanced up then turned back to pictures of naked men spread-eagled and airbrushed on glossy pages. C.B. cautiously crept up to the magazine stand. He picked up a magazine, called Carnival of Men. He began trembling (tumbling).

The model’s face was vacant. His body glistened and reflected the studio lights. His genitalia were objects: huge, flesh-colored fruits. Hairless and smooth. C.B. flipped the pages of the magazines. He found another picture, where a model spread the cheeks of his buttocks wide open. In the valley he created, he revealed the puckered rosebud of his anus.

If C.B. had been white, he would have been flushed as pink as Snagglepuss.

This is what it felt like, to give into temptation. What his mother hoped to destroy with church, what his father wanted to suppress with sports. The ground of Hell was fast approaching; it seethed with naked men and serpents. C.B. stayed in the bookstore, looking at magazines, for at least an hour. He was tempted to buy one of the magazines—this might be the only chance he got for a long time. But, then there was the chance of discovery, like his shrine to Lena. And it would be a visible souvenir of his shame.

He left the store empty-handed. The sky above the street was the sludge of sepia and purple-black, with the stars erased. There was a hint of humidity in the air.

He wandered the streets for an hour or more, putting off his eventual goal. He saw sophisticated men and women dressed in black. There were people with hair in colors of mint-green, daffodil yellow, and bubblegum pink. They wore safety pins through their ears, and some of them had white makeup on their faces, and tattoos on their arms. They were the clowns of hell. C.B. tried walking by them without gawking. He saw a shop that sold sex toys. He was too chicken to go in, so he looked through the windows, staring at the various tools and instruments of pleasure.

Finally, C.B. steeled himself. A couple of blocks from the Christopher Street stop he’d exited, there was a bar where men swarmed like bees. The name of the bar was the Big Top. He took a deep breath, stepped inside.

It was dark and crowded. Men perched on stools, sipping drinks, or clung to walls, gripping the nozzles of their beers. It was the sort of aggressive, ridiculous stance that the boys in the locker room mimicked. Others prowled the spaces between in cutoffs and T-shirts, leaving trails of perfume behind. The walls of the bar were paneled with some dark wood and wainscoted in a thick, red vinyl with large buttons on it, like the inside of a coffin.

Willow Creek was a dry county, and his mother didn’t drink. His father did, but C.B. had little experience with alcohol. He went up to the bar, and asked for a rum and coke. The bartender wore an open vest. His chest was as smooth and built as those in the magazine C.B. had seen earlier. The bartender nodded sullenly, and gave him a full glass of rum, and colored it lightly with the soft drink.

C.B. looked at the drink doubtfully. He tipped the bartender, and wandered to the second room, which lay behind a black curtain.

He passed through, expecting a backroom, like he’d heard about. Darkness, smells of sweaty close bodies, groping hands. Instead, he slipped into wonder.

The room was decorated like his circus dream of Heaven. The walls were covered with paintings of elegant Harlequins and court jesters, their faces regal and dignified, not silly or sinister. One of the painted jesters wore a checkered garment of green and pink, and on the points of three-pronged hat were pansies, instead of the customary bells. There was a small stage at the end of the room. A circus dome capped the room, so you couldn’t see the ceiling. A silver balloon rose from the back of each chair.

A man in a tuxedo walked to the microphone set up in the center of the stage. He waved C.B. to a table. When he’d taken a seat, the MC spoke:

“Tonight at the Big Top, we are proud to present the vocal stylings of the beautiful Lena Flügelhorn!”

The lights dimmed to spectral blue as a figure made her way to the microphone. She wore a dress of stars, her hair pinned up in some gravity-defying coiffure. A single white spotlight pierced the stage. The golden skin was a miracle of foundation. The likeness was uncanny, save for a huge Adam’s apple. An invisible piano started the familiar chords to “Home.”

And C.B. tumbled, plummeting to the floor of Hell. But the voice—resolutely male and tenor, yet somehow imbued with the essence of Lena—came and blew his poor body upwards, towards the star-babies of Heaven. C.B. found himself singing.

As he fell (or rose), C.B. felt Lena swell with him in. She rose up and held his hand. Lucifer—or Lena was there for him, as God had never been. If this was Hell, it couldn’t be all that bad. It was beautiful here. A celestial circus of fallen stars. At once, C.B. recognized the anemic heaven he strove for, and rejected it.

Lena Flügelhorn’s song ended, and with it, a chapter of C.B.’s life.

END

“Circus Boy Without A Safety Net” was originally published in Spoonfed and is copyright Craig Laurance Gidney 2001.

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Thanks for listening, and we’ll be back soon with the first original story from the Autumn 2017 issue.

Episode #48 — “Circus Boy Without A Safety Net” by Craig Laurance Gidney was originally published on GlitterShip

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