#or the hum of gabriel's light weapons

[antlerpunk]

thoughts on sound design and Divinity in ultrakill

[syneilesis]

I started something with Gabriel from What in Hell is Bad? and in a game about devils and demons, I just had to latch onto the homicidal angel 😂 I don't know if I could finish this, so I'm posting what I already have. Warnings for religious sacrilege and dubcon. This is supposed to lead to revenge/hatesex, but I ran out of steam before it even happened lol. For reference, this is how Gabriel looks like. An incentive for me is that he's voiced by Tamamo Azul Tsumugi Amano Haru. Divider credit to @/cafekitsune.

There's something to be said about the pure and divine, tainted and in chains. It's the control, perhaps. The power over one that is seen as untouchable, grander. Superior. That blinding radiance—smudged into ambiguity. Doubt. Beauty in the sullied.

Gabriel looks at you with incandescent hostility in his crystal-glass eyes, and a frisson of thrill runs down your spine. You bite your lip to keep the grin threatening to escape at bay.

“Child of Solomon,” he proclaims, still proud despite his tattered armor, despite his enchained limbs. His bruise is a stark cloud on his cheek, and the blood on the corner of his mouth still drips. “The last thing you'll see before I kill you is the joy I'll feel striking you down. Remember that.”

You hum. “Just empty words from someone who can't even move his legs.”

Propped against the wall, arms raised and shackled, Gabriel remains beautifully defiant. He jerks against his restraints as if to lunge at you, but the only freedom he's afforded is the manic hatred fracturing his stubborn resistance. Almost mocking, you kneel, his hips between your legs, and trace the blood that lines his chin. When he moves to retaliate, you grab his jaw and hold him firmly, admonishing.

When he first appeared to you, long ago, Gabriel had said, in that melancholy voice of his, that your death is nothing personal. But now, his savage transformation lights the blood in your veins, the bright, acrid taste of his loathing, his current helplessness.

So you kiss him.

It's all teeth: unforgiving and merciless in the face of his rage. He attempts to bite you but your hand grips his face in warning.

He ignores it, and you growl, an iron-tang sting on your lower lip, which you lick off above his darkly crescent stare.

“The fact that you're here, captive, means that your God has abandoned you.”

He bares his bloody teeth like a beast.

That doesn't deter you; in fact, it elates you, that hot rush of satisfaction shooting through your veins. It makes you lean towards him, your lips a hair's breadth away from his own. And then you ghost along, upward, until you can whisper directly in his ear: “I am your God now.”

His fury almost destroys his chains, but you're assured of their strength, so you only move slightly backward to avoid his attempt at an attack.

You don't miss his full-body shudder before that.

He trembles under your palms, harsh twitches when your skin comes into contact with his, and you draw a line at his sternum, remembering how his weapon drew his own blood and marked you, his forever prey.

You tear at the remaining fabric of his clothing. The cacophony echoes his rasping breaths.

Between your legs, his arousal strains against his trousers.

[sqarletsworldlesswandering]

Silly thingy but, does the duo have any artistic talent? What about Eden?

In fact, does any one of the Eclipsed Wanderers have any cool talents/ skills?

Hrmmmmm.

Well, now they do!

Aven has most of the skill for traditional art - sketching, painting, he loves it and can do some very impressive work. Post-Eden especially he gets a chance to really hone that skill, and sometimes runs a little booth at markets with some paintings and sketches. He's also quite a talented dancer, given the opportunity. (Put this man in a festival dance and he is a sight to behold, and also one of the best dance partners in existence.)

Edda is fairly good at sketching, since she loves observing and taking field notes on an area, but not as good at full rendering. Her talent lies more in music. She has a beautiful voice and excellent pitch and rang to boot (excellent in terms of Starfolk, mind, who already have very good pitch). Eventually, Aven coaxes her into doing some duets with an instrumentalist or two (*cough* instrumentalists below). Edda also enjoys writing quite a bit - helps her get her thoughts in order, and sometimes she writes little short stories.

Eden has a combination of both skillsets, amped up a little in some respects. Their voice in particular is gorgeous given that they are quite literally dueting themselves with their three to five layers of voice, which - as they discovered on accident when they sneezed - they can manipulate independently.

As for the other Wanderers, Aziel and The General are both very good with instruments!

The General is better with stringed instruments, and can actually create a harp analog by morphing her weapons (as a tidbit of lore: that harp was the original form of her summon. They only became her war scythe after the conflict started). The General can sing too, but she's pretty shy about it. If you can get her to sing, her voice is in the high tenor/dramatic contralto range and very smooth, but good luck getting her to do more than hum. Her other talents lie more in athletics and sports - acrobatics and competitive archery are her favorites. She's also a very good swimmer, and also absolutely whoops everyone in the triathlon, followed closely by Dark Paladin. The two have a friendly rivalry over sports events. (Dark Starfolk triathlons consist of swimming, running, and a grappling segment. Light Starfolk switch the swimming out for a hefty platforming section. I now have the strongest urge to write our quartet trying a wipeout course.)

Aziel has figured out how to morph his atlatl into a bowed instrument equivalent (sort of an upright bass), and also has a little... effectively a small theremin, that it can fold into, powered by channeling small amounts of lightning into it. Aziel also enjoys carving, something he got good at over time. He's best with wood, but he can do some good work with stone too, given time. His "magnum opus" so to speak is a malachite bracelet that turns into an armillary sphere. He also made a pair of twin pendants that send little pings to each other over distance - a simple "I miss you"/"I love you" for whatever occasion may demand it.

As a side note, all of the wanderers group together to sing little quartets, and quintets if they can convince Summum to join them. At one point Aziel got Edda, Angel, and Gabriel together for a quartet and the result was the second most beautiful thing anyone had heard since the fall of the Old World.

Another thought: After the initial Rebirth of Eden and the dust settled, the Starfolk all gathered to mourn the losses that happened during the Conflict. They all - every last one - began a Requiem for the Fallen as they constructed a monument. In tandem with the song, a new group of luminescent flowers sprung from the ground and twined themselves around the monument. Starfolk call it "Falling Star" for that reason, and they bloom every year beginning on that same day - one bloom for every fallen star.

The monument appears like a glowing spire, heavy with flowers.

[cherubchoirs]

First of all; your art style is absolutely gorgeous and I want to eat it /pos, second; I've seen a lot of cat-like mannerisms in your designs of the V units, and this may have already been shown in a drawing or two, but do they have the ability to create a sound similar to purring? Maybe the whirring of fans or buzzing of machinery to indicate contentment?

Third; A bit more of a specific one because I'm really curious- in one of your drawings (Caption "In the tomb of Saint Gabriel", the one in your banner.) he's shown attacking V1, however your other drawings show them on more friendly/affectionate terms. Did Gabriel briefly lose (or altogether lose) some of his memories after falling? Did he have to be reminded of said memories and/or rediscover them? Or was this drawing simply a standalone piece?

If you see and respond to this, thank you for sating my curiosity!

aaaaa thank you!!! i really do like to think the v-units have some equivalent to expressing joy with a soft little refrigerator hum - this can happen for a variety of reasons of course, but this "comfortable" hum doesn't involve their fans kicking on like they might when their systems are truly being taxed. it's just a little extra cooling coming on because the v-units were never meant to experience contentment, safety, or love. their computers have to work just a little harder at processing it, and so they make a small, gentle buzz when they're most content :]

as for the pieces i drew of the fight in gabriel's tomb, that is how i see v1 encountering fallen gabriel for the first time - when gabriel is first resurrected, he is disoriented and highly emotional, unable to control the overwhelming grief that consumes him immediately upon waking. and v1 is central to his fall, in the moment he sees it as the devastation that took away everything he was, the thing that tore the light out of him. this is, of course, the logic that heaven would want him to believe and he does eventually come to his senses, but he fully intends to kill v1 before he regains that control. i really see it as the last true fight against gabriel, where he takes on a strategy and brutality similar to that of the prime souls while fully reflecting the kind of emotion we see in heresy - he has been stripped of his weapons but given the full extent of his strength, angrily lamenting his death and his fall while knowing he can do nothing to regain his place in heaven.

[spencerreidswhore187]

Hymn for Her (4)

Ava x Beatrice (Warrior Nun) 

Summary: The discovery of a resurrected Ava, believed to be lost, sends ripples through Bea's reality, filling her heart with both joy and trepidation. However, the reunion takes a harrowing twist when Ava, transformed by otherworldly forces, becomes an unexpected adversary, unleashing violence upon the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Ava finds herself entangled in a relentless battle against the forces of darkness, the mystery behind her descent into darkness deepens. Meanwhile, Bea grapples with the conflicting emotions of love and despair, haunted by dreams that connect her to Ava's tortured soul.

T/W:  Descriptions of violence, blood and gore. Brief mentions of alcohol, guns and other weapons. Please let me know if I forgot to add something.

Word Count: 1.1k

Part One: An Unholy Darkness

Part Two: Echoes of Darkness

Part Three: Whispers in the Shadows

Part Four: Dance with Shadows

Part Five: Embrace of Light

Ava and Lilith materialised, shrouded in an eerie mist that seemed to whisper malevolence. A legion of tarasks, grotesque and otherworldly, formed a sinister backdrop. Their twisted forms, with jagged horns and eyes that glowed with an infernal light, emanated an aura of dread.

Lilith faced Mother Superion, “let’s relieve you of that little sword, shall we?"

Ava, caught in the malevolent dance, remained silent, her eyes betraying a flicker of conflict. The tarasks closed in with a symphony of guttural growls. Bea watched from afar, trying to decipher Ava’s plan. 

Bea needed to anticipate every move - if it came to it, would she be able to kill Ava if it meant protecting the sword. 

She already knew the answer: even if it resulted in the end of the world, Bea would choose Ava every time. 

At last, the tarasks attacked. the courtyard erupted into chaos as the order met the demonic onslaught. Nuns clashed with tarasks, the air humming with the crash of weapons that sought to repel the encroaching darkness.

In one corner, Sister Camila used divinium-tipped arrows to fend off a demon with leathery wings. In another, Sister Dora, a skilled shooter, unleashed a volley of bullets that found their mark amid a horde.

Meanwhile, Ava found herself ensnared in a confrontation with Mother Superion. Their fists clashed in a tempest of flesh, each strike echoing the history they shared. Ava, however, held back, a flicker of conflict in her eyes as she restrained herself from delivering a fatal blow. She refused to use the halo. 

The battle unfolded on multiple fronts, Sister Gabrielle faced a colossal demon with a hide like obsidian. However, her skilful strikes, honed through years of devotion, found no chinks in the creature's armour. Her blood-curdling scream reverberated across the courtyard as she was impaled by the serrated edge of the Tarask’s horn.

As the tide of the battle swayed, Ava and Lilith, backed by their demonic entourage, seized the opportunity to approach the central focus—the sacred sword. Mother Superior, however, stood defiant, her resolve unwavering.

Ava, torn between the shadows that sought to claim her and the echo of the light that lingered within, exchanged a glance with Lilith. In that silent communication, a subtle spark of resistance flickered within her.

While the battle raged on, Bea found herself ensnared in a deadly dance with a tarask wielding twin blades. The clash of weapons echoed in the air as Bea fought valiantly, her movements fuelled by a determination to protect the sword, the nuns she considered her family and, most importantly…Ava.

Bea couldn’t force her eyes away from her, she had to make sure Ava was safe. Suddenly, Lilith, noticing the opportunity, struck with swift precision. The dark blade of her weapon cut through the air, finding its mark deep within Bea's gut. She gasped, a searing pain radiating through her as Bea stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the ground. 

Ava watched in horror. The metallic scent of blood permeated the space, her eyes widened, pupils dilating as the realisation dawned on her—the love of her life, the person that kept her tethered, had been stabbed.

A guttural, otherworldly scream tore through the courtyard, echoing the anguish that gripped her soul. It wasn't just a scream; it was a desperate wail, a manifestation of the agony that surged through her being. Ava’s body convulsed as if the scream itself was trying to escape the confines of her flesh, reaching out into the void for something that was irrevocably lost. She could not lose Bea. 

Her hands, no longer under the influence of the dark force that had possessed her, trembled as they clutched at the sides of her head. The darkness, like a violent storm, began to unravel, releasing its hold on her with a chaotic fervour. Ava’s once vacant eyes now flickered with a mixture of terror and grief.

All that was left behind was a vulnerable and shattered girl. No one dared approach Ava, leaving her alone in the aftermath of tragedy. Ava’s sobs intertwined with the fading echoes of her screams, Without hesitation, she unleashed a pulse of energy from her halo, forcing everyone away from Bea.

"Nobody touches her!" Ava's voice rang out, a raw intensity in her words that echoed a fierce resolve.

Ava's instincts took over. Without pausing to consider the consequences, she engaged anyone who sought to harm Bea. The tarasks, momentarily confused by Ava's sudden shift, found themselves facing a force of unparalleled fury. 

Bleeding out onto unforgiving cobblestone ground, Beatrice lay lifeless, her gaze fixed on Ava, who fought with such uncanny ferocity. It was as if amidst the shadows of her once malevolent presence, a sliver of the girl Bea loved broke through.

The nuns, rallying around the fallen Beatrice, seized the opportunity to regroup. Mother Superion, torn between commanding the order and witnessing Ava's tumultuous transformation, observed with both concern and hope.

Lost in the maelstrom of battle, Ava fought with a singular focus—to protect Bea. The tarasks, formidable adversaries, stood no chance against the relentless force of Ava's love.

When she started to weaken, Ava’s eyes met the prone form of Beatrice, filled with both anguish and determination, she fought on.

Bea, on the verge of consciousness, clung to the belief that love could triumph over the encroaching shadows. She held onto the hope that the girl she loved might find her way back from the brink of darkness, even if she was no longer there to witness it.

The battle ended with Ava at its epicentre, the sacred sword slipped from her grasp, landing with a soft thud on the ground. The tarasks were dead, Lilith had vanished and the sword was safe. The battle ended with Ava at its epicentre, clutching the lifeless body of the only person she would ever love. 

A/N: Thank you for reading ◡̈

[cantuscorvi]

“Dammit… Who told you to hold it like that?” 

Gabriele was standing in front of his bedroom door, coming back from a quick shower after he had been out for the entire afternoon with Raum. The weather was pleasant but quite hot for a man in a suit, and he had needed to refresh himself before handling whatever Raum would want to do for the rest of the evening. Of course, curious like a cat, disobedient like an untrained dog, the blond couldn’t miss the occasion to snoop inside Gabriele’s belongings. When the bodyguard was back, he witnessed with concern the way Raum was playing with one of his butterfly knives. 

“You’re going to cut your pretty face if you keep swinging it that way.” He voiced again, as he knew that Raum should be pretty much aware of his presence by now, but still, he was still behaving like a spoiled kid who could do anything he wanted. Gabriele stepped forward, his gray robe rolled around his waist, a bit of his chest hair exposed, the rest of his body still pretty wet. Yet, it wouldn’t stop him from towering Raum from behind, as he placed his hand right onto his wrist to lower it. 

“Not like that.” Gabriele huffed, before his fingers eventually moved, but only to cup Raum’s arm and guided it differently. “You leave too much space between your chest and their hand, they can easily twist your wrist like that.” He illustrated his words by wrapping his hand strongly around his wrist, forcing Raum into a rather unpleasant position for a few seconds. “A butterfly knife is different from a dagger. It’s light, so you have to see it as the continuity of your finger.” He slid them to place the item correctly into his palm. For a moment, he only mimicked the motion, as he felt himself dangerously pressed against Raum’s back. He was still smelling like the sun of this warm afternoon… 

“It’s not made to stab. It’s made to cut and slice.” He whispered, his brown eyes falling on Raum’s pale features. He offered a carnal smile, the intensity of his irises focused on Raum’s reaction. “You only want to hurt and mutilate. You use it to pour blood and damage the skin. It’s a knife for revenge or petty intentions.” 

@distopea

Whenever he set foot in this room claimed by Gabriele, a strange kind of curiosity gave Raum the urge to poke into his belongings. Sometimes he wondered, what did Gabriele’s life look like before he belonged to the Weiss family? Was there ever something he wished to accomplish — some lifestyle he wanted to lead, an objective that he no longer hoped to complete? Of course, it wasn’t something he would find the answer to stashed in his bodyguard’s accoutrements. However… there was usually something here to capture his imagination regardless.

Although folded and discreet, the sleek black handle of the butterfly knife stood out to Raum like a jewel to a magpie. Blue eyes lit upon the shape of the weapon immediately, and he picked it up without a second thought if the owner would care. Carefully, he flipped it open to expose the silver blade. He knew that if it belonged to Gabriele it wasn’t for show — it would be sharp.

He heard the bodyguard’s voice just as he was giving the knife a few experimental flicks with his wrist. He paused for a moment, glancing into the doorway. His eyes lingered on Gabriele’s face, gradually watching a drop of water sneak it’s way down from his hair to his neck, and— shit, the little exposed section of his chest like that was criminal.

Quickly looking back at the blade in his hand, Raum scoffed.

“Nobody taught me,” he said, twirling the knife a little in his hand, a distraction. Nothing too dangerous — he’d toyed with one of these before, but it wasn’t something he was practiced at either. “In my teens, I spent a lot of time with го́пники. Delinquents. It’s how they would hold it, I suppose.”

You’re going to cut your pretty face if you keep swinging it that way.

Raum merely hummed in response, a smirk curling the corner of his lips as he turned the dual handles of the knife into his palm, holding it steady. While it seemed like he simply brushed off Gabriele’s concerns, rather, he was trying to ignore something else entirely. The way he had felt an odd change in the atmosphere when the other man came into the room; the way that Gabriele so casually calling him pretty made something horribly pleasant curl in his gut. The way that made him want to turn and lodge the blade in the older man’s throat for daring to cause it.

“Then, how would you hold it?” Raum asked, conspicuously neutral, inhaling slowly and concentrating when Gabriele took hold of his wrist. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard it before. Whether to mock him, to insult or to charm — these kind of words were meaningless. Forget it.

He certainly did when Gabriele twisted his wrist. Raum flinched with a subdued grunt of discomfort, almost dropping the knife. The hold was only for a few seconds but he could certainly see how it was effective; Raum wasn’t weak by any means, yet disgruntled at how easily a bit of training could change the whole game.

“Tsk. Warn me before you break my damn wrist.” He muttered testily, still strangely hooked at how Gabriele’s hand covered his around the handle. He could perceive that the other man had stepped closer to guide him with it, warmth seeping in where his chest brushed Raum’s back, voice close to his ear. He felt caged in that position, caught between Gabriele and the cabinet where he found the knife, hyper-aware of everywhere he was being touched, how he was spoken to, how he was being looked at.

Gabriele’s attention was suffocating; making the gears turn in Raum’s mind in that forbidden, perfect way. He controlled the situation with that patrimonial tone in his voice, and Raum both loathed and indulged in how it affected him. He wanted to escape that control — no, more than that, he wanted to show off — to flaunt in the face of it.

“Ah, now I understand.” He matched Gabriele’s tone, subtly leaning backwards against his chest. Heat suffused his body, and he could feel the other man’s heart beating, slow and steady. So sure of himself.

“Blood and petty intentions…” He echoed, relaxed in Gabriele’s shadow. “Sounds perfect.” With a little huffed laugh, Raum twisted Gabriele’s wrist with exactly the same move he’d just been shown, wrenching the knife from his grasp. He flicked it open, quickly turning around and pressing the edge of the blade delicately under Gabriele’s jaw.

He tilted his head, daring to catch those dark brown eyes with his own, toying with his earlier thoughts of causing harm for a moment. “Suits me, don’t you think?” Aware he could only keep the bodyguard on the hook for so long, the fingertips of Raum’s free hand lingered on the little exposed area of skin above the edge Gabriele’s robe, the touch openly provocative. He grinned.

“Mm… Then I’ll keep it.” A shove against Gabriele’s chest with his palm, and Raum folded the knife closed. Even just the little space he had created between them already made it feel like he could breathe and think more clearly. He slipped the weapon into his pocket, giving a last glance at the other man before he turned towards the doorway.

“The dinner is in an hour. I came to tell you to hurry up. Not for a lesson.”

[hymns-across-the-stars]

He does do that a bit now, doesn't he? And usually she'd lean back a little to maintain the distance they originally had. But maybe there's something about the lingering heaviness in the air, the ache of wanting to extend comfort and not entirely knowing how—because without particularly thinking, she shifts to bridge the gap.

The top of her head makes contact with his helmet with a gentle metallic plink. The motion's ultimately playful, something to brighten the mood—it really, truly was—but it takes no more than a half-second for a wave of embarrassment to wash over Mirage.

Of course, she pulls away just as quickly, tilting her head away to avert her gaze and making a noise in imitation of a cough.

"...sounds like something worth our while, then, right?"

Gabriel's reliable as ever for noticing useful things, too; renting rods would probably be an important first step—and usually, with rods come the presence of reels and lures and all such other things they might need. What else is there to than to pick up the volleyball (can't just leave the weapon there, could they?), hum her agreement, and prance their way on over?

And to come out of it with pretty much everything they need—and a bucket of dubious usefulness if they're just going to be catching and releasing—they're honestly pretty well-set! Assuming they could figure out how to set up everything, but that can't be that hard, can it? Put the lure on the line and cast in the water—there's not much more to fishing to that, probably. Just need to settle somewhere on the docks, which isn't too difficult in the end.

Waves crash against the supports. Sun's hot as ever. Careful eyes could occasionally catch little flashes of light on scales, hopefully a promise for good fishing.

...and Mirage also manages to tangle her fishing line almost immediately. Truly an amazing start—at least for her, though excessive haste did tend to throw wrenches into things. But that really doesn't seem a mood-dampener for her, at least, though she pauses to see how Gabriel's doing before starting up conversation again.

"You know, you keep managing to surprise me. Sure, not everyone gets the chance to fish, but I would've guessed you had some opportunity. Or just didn't want to because it... y'know."

She waggles a hook.

"...could harm the fish."

✞ " Ha-ha! Fair enough. " He gladly admits with a shrug of his hand. All the time in the world. A simple phrase that seemed to soothe what lingering edge remained in him. And he jests to himself that it was clever, to hold onto a debt until it was most aptly used, after all.

He gives them some time to consider, as he gingerly brushes the sand from his arms once again, accumulated from some particularly close calls where he had to make a dive to the ground to repel the ball. But when they make their suggestion he looks to them, and perhaps at the risk of being very unsurprising with how he has responded to everything thus far, and almost comically hesitant, as if growing self aware that he does this often, he leans to look into their light.

" ... I have always wanted to fish. "

Its true. There's something about fishing, isn't there? This tradition, an ancient hunting method, once a way to survive in hostile wilds, now purely a way to pass the time. Lots and lots of time. And think. And talk. Even the fish are often commanded to be returned unharmed, by law, all of it merely a game. Its almost more charming than sucking tadpoles. " Ah, yes, but how does one even begin... "

After a moment, he whips his head in the opposite direction they came, clasping his hands behind his back, light on his toes. " I believe... I saw offers to rent rods when we passed the docks! Does that sound like a start? "

[gay-destiel]

sabriel ~ twinkling stars / safe

pairing: sam winchester x gabriel

plot: gabe has a flashback from when asmodeus has him and sam is there to pull him back

word count: 567

a/n: i haven’t actually gotten up to gabe coming back (only up to s11) so forgive me if anything’s completely disfigured from canon, but enjoy!!

you ever felt like you can’t breathe? like the world is pressing in and your memories are reality and your mind is just slipping away? yeah.. not too fun, is it?

gabe sits on the roof, the silvery wind chilling him to the bone. twinkling stars shine above and rolling shadows below. he knows they’re there, his head tells him they’re there, but he can’t see them. 

all he sees are the walls of a prison. the emotionless eyes of the ones holding him. and he knows, he knows it’s not real, but it can’t stop his shaking, can’t stop him letting out an undignified moan of fear. the walls are closing in. the faceless demons are approaching, the pain is coming.

something’s calling to him, a near silent melody, but he can hardly hear it, let alone follow the traces.

he can’t move. his wings are bound, his grace chained. all he can do is watch, helpless, as they get closer. as they pick up the tools, the dark metals glinting in the dark, ruby light as they prepare the soul cleaving weapons.

the brush of skin on skin jars him. like a switch is turned on, a pathway opened. he needs to run, he needs to escape. but he can’t. so he does the only thing he can.

he screams. tries to thrash, to do anything, but the only thing that happens is the terrified, animalistic cry that rips itself out of his throat.

the noise- the hum is back, as if awakened by his yowl, and he clings to it, wrapping his grace, digging it in, to the thrumming purr. the walls flicker, a clearing in an ocean of panic, of hysteria. as he wraps it around himself, he catches a whiff of vanilla, of cedar, the scent lingering for a moment, letting the hum spread, gaining momentum. he squeezes his eyes shut, clinging to the shadow of hope with everything he has.

and it gets louder, overpowering the visions, the fear. i catch a glimpse of stars, of a quiet night sky, and the murmurs solidify into words, a deep throaty voice,

-it’s alright. i’m here. you’re not in there anymore. you’re here, on earth. with me. you escaped, remember? you’re safe. he can’t find you. i won’t let him take you.

he’s aware of a lanky body, dark hair. another glimpse of the sky. winking balls of energy.

he and his brothers had made most of them… michael and raph and- and lucifer.

the flash of an angel blade, his illusion tearing itself apart. a piercing pain in his chest, the gut wrenching realization-

hey. come back. you’re not there anymore.

please. 

you’re safe.

the voice again. suddenly he’s aware of his shuddering, of arms enveloping him. chocolate eyes, the window to an anxious, roiling soul.

but it’s familiar, enough to send him back the rest of the way.

sam.

a relieved smile, the arms encircling him tightening.

hey, gabe.

he relaxes into the embrace, not yet ready to let go. running his fingers through the long tawny hair, trying and failing to cease the tremors. he’s not there anymore. he’s on the roof, his face buried in sam’s jacket, unwilling to face the stars. the scent of vanilla and cedar is strong.

with sam’s arms pulling him in, cupping his head and securing his grace, he almost… he almost feels…

safe.

@aayo-whatt thought you might be interested in reading?

[indianamoonshine]

Girl Talk | Din Djarin x Reader | Oneshot

Summary: What does a gal do when she’s just been railed by the most notorious bounty hunter in The Galaxy? Call her best friend of course.

A/N: Just something to tide you over until the next installment of Strawberry! I have anxiety and I need to busy my hands without thinking too much! This takes place after season 2!

There’s a crackling on the other end of the receiver. The telegraph service majorly bites out here on Besiana, which has been dubbed “the trench of The Galaxy”. Getting connected to Gabriele at all is a miracle in itself, though not without exploiting a few (somewhat) illegal hacks by yours truly.

Hells, not even this shitty phoning service can put you in a sour mood.

When Gabriele’s voice sounds at the other end, it gives the air that he’s just awoken from a heavy sleep or he’s suffering a hangover. Probably both. “Now what the hell are you doing all the way out in butt-fucking-nowh…” he starts.

You’re quick to cut him off. “Take a guess.”

Gabriele groans and there’s a rummaging in the background. Something sounds as though it falls off a surface - his alarm clock, probably. He must be in the inner rim somewhere.

“Miss girl, I don’t have time to play these games with you. My head is pounding. Now tell me why you’re in the catacombs of The Galaxy’s ass and…”

Behind you, a body shuffles from outside the refresher door. Your heart thuds rambunctiously in your chest as you carefully peer through a crack of the opening. Din Djarin - The Galaxy’s most notorious Mandalorian- is taking a seat with his rifle in hand. You watch as he begins to disassemble it with great technical precision. Something about watching him take apart his weapon causes your stomach to flutter.

And your knees to weaken.

“I just had sex,” you tell him in a whisper.

Gabriele is silent on the other end for a moment and then lets out a sigh of great disappointment. “Congratulations. I’m going back to bed. Goodnight.”

“The best sex of my life.”

There’s another pause. “Oh?” His interest has piqued, voice more alert at the prospect of juicy gossip. After all, what were best friends for?

You let this linger in the air for a minute, just to marinate his curiosity, and then peek at Din again. He’s taking a rag and wiping the barrel of the rifle; if it weren’t for the helmet upon his head, you’d swear he was concentrating with furrowed and ascetic brow.

“Do you remember that Mandalorian who made a giant fuss a couple of years ago?” you inquire lowly, eyes unable to leave the steadiness of Din’s deft hands.

Those hands. You have to stop yourself from moaning at the recent memories. You swear you can still feel the ghostly sear they left in their wake. The naked skin upon your hips tingles at the sheer recollection, the slick still upon your thighs all-too prevalent.

“You’re lying,” is what Gabriele gasps, absolutely scandalized. You imagine him shooting up in bed and covering his mouth in awe. He was always so dramatic but you couldn’t blame him if he did. This was the exact reaction you were hoping for.

Din grabs another piece of his rifle and starts up again. You have to tear yourself away from looking at him and instead surmise yourself in the mirror. It isn’t very big in any sense of the word but it’ll do. You take a look at your face (blushed and bright) and then your eyes (dazed and dick-drunk). Hells, this man has ruined you.

“I know you have questions,” you reply, tapping at your cheeks. They feel softer somehow.

Gabriele squeaks a bit under his breath. “Did he take off his helmet?”

You shake your head, though he can’t see it. “No. And I think it awoken something in me.”

He tsks. “Damn. I wanna know what he looks like. Okay…”

“I know he’s a brunette,” you say slyly.

Gabriele shrieks at the other end and you have to angle the receiver away with a laugh. “Is it big?”

You recall the tactical consideration- albeit brief - it took to get his dick in your mouth. You did it though, ‘ole girl. You tap yourself on the shoulder with a proud grin.

“Oh, it is. It’s…it’s very nice.”

You find yourself looking out the door again. Din’s moved onto another gun - he’s already put together the last. You grow weary at the sight of his gloved hands alone, but when your eyes trail downwards you find yourself swallowing something thick in your throat. Which in turn, of course, reminds you of the tanginess still lingering upon your tongue.

“Gabriele,” you say seriously, voice so low you can barely hear yourself. “I came eight times.”

“Shut up. You did not.” Gabriele sounds more than just excited - now he sounds jealous. You can’t help but giggle.

You raise a hand to your chest in a show of honesty. “I mean it. Eight times. He went down on me for an hour.”

“I thought you said he didn’t take off his helmet?” Gabriele asks suspiciously.

You chuckle lowly. “Oh, that’s where it gets really good.”

Gabriele - one of the biggest sluts in The goddamned Galaxy - was no stranger to sex. So when you tell him that you were blindfolded during this portion of an absolute wild ride, you’re shocked to find him screeching once more.

You’re about to continue - to confide in him about the brutal rhythm of the ordeal - until a knock startles you. You press the receiver against your chest, still flushed and naked from the previous romp.

Din calls your name from the other side of the door. “Are you alright?”

You freeze, contemplating on everything you could say to this most bland of questions. “I’ll be out in a moment!” you decide, scolding yourself for being so timid. You were at the end of his dick a half-hour ago.

Din mumbles something and then departs. After he’s within a safe distance, you quickly raise the receiver and say, “I have to go. But I’ll tell you everything later.”

Gabriele gawks, “Was that him?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes. Now I really have to go.”

“Oh my gods, okay. Fine.”

You smile, clutching at the durasteel of the phone. “Promise. Love you.”

Your best friend sighs theatrically. “Love you too. Be safe, okay? I don’t even know who I’d call to go after him if something happened to you. No one would be stupid enough.”

The idea of Din doing anything to put you in harm’s way is inconceivable. You’ve only known him for a short amount of time - a couple of weeks at most - but you already trust him with your life.

“I’d die a happy woman,” you joke.

A short while later, you exit the refresher with sopping, clean hair and any traces of sex scrubbed away from between your legs. Din’s allowed you to wear one of his night shirts (an honor in itself) because your clothes had been soiled.

Din is placing his rifle upon its rack when you sneak by for the kitchen. You pour yourself a cup of Java - black, unfortunately, because of Din’s lack of sweet tooth. The liquid is steaming hot so you blow on it before bringing it to your lips.

“Do you want one?” you ask him, taking a sip. It burns. “Oof.”

Din turns, armor somehow so dexterous in its bulk. “No, thank you. But…”

In a surprising move, Din reaches for your hips and pulls you flush against him, ignoring the mug altogether. You shriek, worried it might spill, and set it upon the countertop, but he pays little to no mind.

“You took awhile,” he mumbles, hands grasping at the flesh of your hips. They’ve already been treated so roughly today, and now you were sure there’d be bruising. Good.

You chew at your bottom lip, desperate to know what his eyes might look like. You imagine he has dark eyes - like the color of the sky at nightfall. Maybe they became brighter in the light of the suns. Maybe they crinkled when he laughed - if he were capable of that, anyway. You’ve yet to hear such music.

“I didn’t realize you were waiting for me,” you confess, avoiding the steel gaze of his faceplate.

Din hums under his breath and taps your chin, lifting it just barely so that you can meet his stare. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You shrug, fluttering your lashes in a vain attempt to remain mysterious.

Din reaches for something behind you and reveals a scrap of fabric. “How about we try for nine?” The modulator of his helmet crackles a bit, causing his voice to sound more severe than what he may have liked.

But it does something to you.

You nod sweetly, a tiny grin threatening to sneak its way upon your face, before he takes you within his arms and lifts you upon the counter.

A shrieking, but playful, giggle bursts from your lips. “Din!” you chide, but tie the fabric around your eyes all the same.

The hiss of his helmet sounds, notifying you that he’s revealing himself to the elements now. You can hear his natural breath and feel the way it fans against your collarbones before he kisses you fiercely.

“Let me give you something to really talk about.”

[goldenraeofsun]

Enhanced Extraction Techniques

Also available at AO3

“Cas?”

Cas whirls around. If he was standing on a normal floor, his shoes would have squeaked with the abrupt turn. In the Empty, though, his feet don’t make a sound. “Dean?” he calls back, his heart soaring in his chest.

“Cas? Where are you, man?”

Cas spins in another circle, his eyes straining against the darkness. The oppressive blankness of nothing presses against his eyeballs like an almost tangible film. He tries again, “Dean?”

“Cas?”

“Dean!” Cas takes off in the direction of Dean’s voice.

“Are you there?”

 Cas walks faster, anticipation quickening his heels. “I’m coming!”

“I can’t find you!”

“I’m here!” Cas calls back desperately.

“I’m running out of time here, buddy! Spell’s not gonna last forever. Where the hell are you?”

Panicked, Cas breaks out into a run. “I’m coming, Dean!”

“Are you?”

Cas stops dead. If he was back on Earth, he would have fallen flat on his face with the momentum. He turns to his right, where Dean’s voice just came.

“Cas? You there?”

Dean’s voice definitely came from his left that time.

“I need you.”

Cas swallows. Dean’s voice is coming from directly in front of him now. Icy dread creeps up his spine, but he feels hot all over.

“You make it too easy, Castiel.”

Dean never calls him by his full name, not in more than a decade. He is not talking with Dean.

“Nobody is coming for you.”

Cas doesn’t respond. Shamed beyond reason, he just stands there because there is nothing else to do. He can’t hide from the Empty. The Empty is everywhere.

Black ooze, blacker than the surrounding darkness, bubbles up from the floor. The Empty resolves into Cas’s own face, to his surprise. He’d been expecting Dean.

It shrugs, a knowing smirk playing on its lips. “What can I say? If you’re determined to keep me awake, I might as well amuse myself.”

“Your sense of humor leaves much to be desired,” Cas says as tonelessly as he can manage.

The Empty crosses its arms over its chest. “My options are limited, aren’t they?” it says snidely. “I can’t put you to sleep, so I can’t sleep. I might as well make this experience as hellish for you as it is for me.”

Cas frowns. “You could always negate our deal. Send me back to Earth.”

The Empty laughs. “That’s not how it works. That was a one-way trip.”

Cas grinds his teeth. “Then it seems like we’re at an impasse.”

“An impasse requires two forces of equal power,” the Empty tuts. “And you, my little gnat, have no power in this equation. You are my plaything. What was it that Gabriel said? A thousand channels and nothing’s on. Except you.”

Before Cas can respond, the Empty disappears, dissolving into a tarry splatter and absorbing into whatever passes as the floor in this place. 

 * * *

Cas wanders. He used to sleep while he was bored, but the Empty truly reigns supreme in his dreams. Cas killed Naomi’s Dean facsimile a thousand times, a million times. He watched Dean rake leaves, Crowley whispering poisoned promises into his ear. He walked away as Dean hurts and rages silently behind him in the Bunker.

So Cas stays awake. He’s an angel. It isn’t hard.

Dean’s voice occasionally calls for him.

Cas ignores it.

He wanders for what seems like miles, like hundreds of miles. Nothing ever changes in the Empty. With every step forward, he meets the same bleak blackness. The closest comparison in his long memory is the fraction of a second before the Big Bang - there was emptiness then too, but it was filled with a pregnant sense of promise. In the Empty - nothing.

Until.

Dean is running towards him.

Cas blinks a few times to make sure, even though his vision is perfect.

“Cas,” Dean breaks the silence first, “I found you.”

“Dean,” Cas breathes - any louder, and Dean will hear the trembling. “You’re here.”

“The real deal, sweetheart,” Dean says with a wink. “Now, come on. We’re getting out of here.” He takes off in the direction he came from, glancing behind him to check on Cas.

“We are?” Cas asks, following.

Dean throws him a disbelieving look. “Of course, dude. Sam and Jack are prepping the spell to get us back to the Bunker. We got Chuck by the short and curlies, but we’re one power player short. So we gotta get a move on.”

“So you need me?” Cas asks.

“Your mojo is the ticket,” Dean says with a little grin. “Chuck wiped all the angels off the Earth except Michael. And that dick isn’t answering our prayers, so you’re our next best bet.”

The joy at seeing Dean wavers. “I am?” he asks haltingly.

Dean shrugs. “We gotta work with what we have. And we just remembered you were here, out of Chuck’s reach. Our own spare angel!”

Cas barely holds back his flinch. Hunching in on himself, he mutters, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean assures him, misreading his reaction completely. “We have a plan.”

Cas sighs. “Of course you do. What is it?”

“Sam found a spell,” Dean says. “It’ll rip Chuck apart, and, since Amara’s inside him - which, gross - it’ll maintain the balance when the spell takes her apart too.” 

Dean stops walking.

Cas looks around, but nothing sets aside this patch of emptiness from any other. No illuminated rift, no magic symbols, no X marking the spot - nothing.

“The catch is,” Dean says as he turns to Cas, his face regretful, “the spell needs an angel’s grace.”

In a blink of an eye, an angel blade drops into Dean’s palm.

Cas blinks. No beings but angels can manifest that particular weapon.

Dean raises the blade, fingers flexing on the handle. “You know,” he says conversationally, “Now that I think about it, we don’t actually need the angel himself - just the battery.”

Cas stands his ground, his eyes darting over Dean’s face, taking in every nuance and tell.

“I told you once,” Cas says warily, a horrible foreboding coming over him, “I’m always happy to bleed for the Winchesters.”

“Happy to hear that, Cas,” Dean says, his face impassive, “because you’re gonna bleed a lot, not gonna lie.” He shoves the blade in Cas’s chest, right above his heart.

Cas staggers back from the blow, pain and shock radiating out from the bloodless wound.

Dean raises his eyebrows, his mouth curling into a mocking smile as Cas meets his smug face. “What, were you expecting to go poof? We’re in the Empty,” he throws its hands wide, “everyone’s in stasis here, including you.”

Cas yanks the blade out of his chest, but it - and Dean - turns into black goo before he can stab anything with it.

 * * *

The Empty doesn’t mimic Dean next. Instead it takes Meg’s shape, Samandriel’s, Duma’s. Every one of the thousands of angels Cas killed up in heaven.

And there’s no escape. Cas can do his best not to listen, but if he retreats too far into himself, it almost counts as sleeping. With the Empty’s nudging, his thoughts will veer into his worst regrets, sooner or later. 

The Empty is in the middle of lecturing him in the form of Balthazar, when it explodes in a burst of light and sound.

Dean Winchester stands in the aftermath.

“Come on,” he says roughly. He strides forward to grab Cas’s hand and tug him in the other direction. “That bomb doesn’t last forever.”

“Dean?”

“Who else?” Dean yanks him sharply to the left. “This place didn’t turn your brains to scrambled eggs, did it?”

“I don’t think so,” Cas says shakily. “Dean are you really...”

“What?”

Cas can’t help looking down at their clasped hands. A fleeting thing, barely more than a glance. Still, Dean drops Cas’s hand like it burned him. “You good to run?” he asks shortly.

Cas barely nods before Dean takes off. They hurtle through the Empty, their rapid footsteps impossibly silent. Dean’s breath comes in sharp pants, and Cas’s useless wings ache, not for the first time, to fly them to their destination.

“Dean,” Cas starts, and Dean slows. “Where are we going?”

“Where I left my stuff,” Dean says shortly. “The spell to get us out of here needs a shit-ton of crap, and I couldn’t haul it all over this goddamn place while I was trying to find you.”

“How did you know your way back?”

The corners of Dean’s mouth lift in a faint smile. He points to the floor. “M&Ms.”

Cas squints at the ground, and, sure enough, they are following a trail of tiny candies. “Ingenious,” he murmurs.

“Hey, it worked with a Wendigo,” Dean says, shrugging. He directs them in a few more twists and turns before Cas sees Dean's duffle bag in the distance, topped with a bright yellow bag of M&Ms.

As they get closer, Dean pulls out an angel blade from inside his jacket.

Cas balks. 

Dean shoots him a puzzled look as he hands it to him. “It won’t kill anything here, obviously,” he says, unzipping his bag. He pulls out a copper bowl and bundles of herbs, “But having a weapon’s never a bad idea in unknown dimensions.”

“Yes, Dean.” Cas surveils their inky surroundings, already on high alert for any trespassers.

“Watch my back, okay?” Dean glances over his shoulder. Various ingredients get dropped into the bowl with outsized clangs and dribbles that seem to echo in the void around them.

Cas stays vigilant.

“This was easier than I thought it would be,” Dean mutters as the bowl’s contents start to smoke.

“Don’t jinx it,” Cas mutters out of the side of his mouth.

Dean chuckles under his breath. “I didn’t think angels believed in jinxes.”

It’s not like Cas has been especially angelic these past few years. He says shortly, “I’ve found you can never be too careful.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Need your blood for this part,” he says, shuffling over to make room. “Wait,” Dean says before Cas can press the blade againt his skin.

“Yes?”

“This is the last step,” Dean says seriously. “Once your blood goes in, it’s liftoff. So I wanted to get a couple things straight before we’re back in the Bunker.”

Cas doesn’t need to breathe, but if he did, his breath would have hitched in his chest at the closed-off look on Dean’s face. “Of course.” 

“What you said - what you told me,” Dean starts, his voice hard, “before you got sucked to this hellscape.” He drops his gaze to the bowl cradled in his hands, “That’s not me.”

Cas presses his lips together, struggling to keep his face impassive. Once he regains control of himself he says, “I did not expect you to reciprocate when I told you about my feelings for you.”

Dean actively recoils at the mention of feelings. He gives the bowl a little toss, and a few of the contents spill onto the floor. “Just, forget it,” he says brusquely, gathering everything up again.

“Dean-”

He turns to Cas, his eyes blazing. “But - you know what? I can’t forget it.”

Cas opens his mouth, but Dean is not done.

“How could you offload all that shit on me right before you fucked off to parts unknown?” he demands, voice rising in anger and volume. “Of all the goddamn things you could have said to me - that takes the fucking cake. You were my best friend -” he breaks off, shaking his head. “Worst moment of my goddamn life.”

Cas takes a step back, a sickly horror trickling down his spine. “I didn’t think-”

But Dean’s not listening. “I had serious doubts about coming here at all,” he continues, and the last Dean had stabbed him in the chest - how is this so much worse? “But Sam gave me those goddamn puppy dog eyes, and don’t even get me started on Jack-”

“I understand,” Cas interrupts stiffly. He inhales a deep breath he doesn’t need and continues, “Once we return to the Bunker, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Probably for the best,” Dean mutters.

Cas cuts his forearm, watching with perverse fascination as the blood wells up and drips into the bowl waiting below.

There’s a violent burst of light and sound.

In the aftermath, Cas can only make out Dean’s mocking laughter. Before Cas can say a word, it turns into Meg’s delighted giggles. And then Gabriel’s howls of mirth.

 * * *

Cas sleeps after getting deceived for the third time. Anything is better than seeing the smug face of the Empty, whether it’s wearing Dean’s face, Gadreel’s, or Ruby’s. 

He breaks the wall in Sam’s head.

He lets Lucifer possess him in a futile plan.

He beats Dean to a bloody mess for the Angel Tablet.

Occasionally, the Empty grants him release, and Cas gets to deliver a bad joke to Uriel in Mesopotamia or Dean calls him a baby in a trenchcoat in a diner.

Time passes. Cas has no idea how long. There’s no sun - no moon - no cycling of the heavens. Only emptiness.

He gets shaken awake.

Cas blinks up at a pair of very familiar green eyes. “Dean,” he says, more or less resigned.

“Jesus,” Dean says as he sits back on his heels, “Way to make a guy feel welcome. I’m here to save your sorry ass, in case you were wondering. A full week of tearing my hair out over how to get you outta here, and this is the thanks I get.”

Cas sits up. “My apologies,” he says tentatively as he studies Dean’s face. There’s no sign it isn’t really Dean.

Then again, none of the others showed signs either.

Cas gets to his feet, asking, “Are you alone?”

Dean glances around them warily. “Yeah, Sam and Jack are keeping the portal open in the Bunker. They wanted to come,” he says, his eyes raking over Cas’s face, drinking him in. “They’ll be over the fucking moon to see you again.”

Cas swallows. “And you?”

“I -” A dull flush comes over Dean’s cheeks. He looks away.

Cas’s face shutters. “Right,” he says as he stands in front of Dean. “Now what?”

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching out to grasp his left shoulder, a mirror of the mark Cas left on him so long ago and so recently. “I missed you too. You have to know that.”

Worst moment of my life.

Cas looks away, Dean’s own raised voice echoing in his head.

“Hey,” Dean says again, gentler this time. His green eyes bore into Cas’s face. “What’s going on in that celestial brain of yours?”

The words catch in Cas’s throat, a lump of embarrassment and fear keeping them there. Embarrassment that the Empty deceived him. Fear that the Empty was right.

“Look, I know we didn’t leave things on great terms,” Dean says awkwardly, “and maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it, but I’m so fucking happy to see you, man.” He chuckles ruefully. “’S making me lose my goddamn mind.”

Even if it’s only a facsimile of Dean - and there’s no way to tell for certain - seeing his face not contorted in anger or mockery is like a balm on Cas’s soul. If he had one, that was.

“About what you said before you got taken-” Dean starts.

Cas’s heart sinks.

“No,” Dean says, his voice low and gentle, “listen to me. I get that happiness for you might just be in the being, but for me-”

“It’s fine, Dean,” Cas interrupts. “I meant that, truly. You don’t have to-”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean says, smiling slightly, “You’re not making this easy are you?”

Cas bites his tongue to keep from contradicting Dean again.

“As I was saying,” Dean continues pointedly, his green eyes shining, “For me, happiness isn’t in the being - whatever the hell that means. It’s in the goddamn having.”

Cas bites his tongue harder, the pain hardly registering against the burst of hope fluttering wildly in his chest. “Dean,” he forces out, “You can’t mean…”

“Cas,” Dean starts, and Cas’s heart breaks - or mends. He can’t tell. He has no idea who he is talking to, and it’s, to borrow a phrase from the real Dean, an epic mindfuck.  

“Cas,” the Dean standing in front of him repeats, and Cas’s gaze automatically draws back to his face, “Good things do happen.”

Cas chuckles wetly. He has no choice but to say, “Not in my experience.”

Dean takes a step closer, far into the personal space he’d shown Cas so many years ago. Brows drawing together, he raises a hand to cup Cas’s face. “Someone told me a while ago that having faith was important. Seems you’re a little short there, buddy.”

Cas tries to duck his head, but Dean won’t let him. Eventually, he admits, “My faith has been tested recently.”

“But you didn’t give up, right?” Dean asks, leaning in close enough that Cas can feel the warmth of his breath in the air between them.

Cas shakes his head minutely. “No,” he murmurs, “not entirely.”

“Good,” Dean says, pausing just shy of Cas’s mouth. Waiting.

Cas steels himself and closes distance.

Just before their lips touch, Dean implodes in a burst of inky ooze.

 * * *

Cas breaks several knuckles on the floor of the Empty. There are no walls to punch, no blade to send heads rolling. Cas works with what he has.

The real Dean would probably approve.

Dean shows up again before too long. This Dean goes so far as to tell Cas he loves him.

Cas turns his back on Dean’s heartbroken face. He refuses to engage.

He wanders instead.

* * * 

Cas hears the footsteps before he sees his next Dean.

“Cas!” he pants, “Thank fuck. I thought I was never going to find you.”

Cas merely sighs.

Dean makes a face. “Way to roll out the welcome wagon,” he says, clearly offended. “I would’ve thought you were sick of this place by now.”

Cas purses his lips. “I am.”

“Shocker,” Dean says with a little smile. “Look, we don’t have a lot of time, so you gotta follow me.”

Cas doesn’t budge. He’d rather roam this place for eternity than suffer at the hands of another Dean facsimile. And he had thought he saw enough of them under Naomi’s tutelage. He’d been so naive.

Dean stares at him like Cas just stripped naked and danced the macarena. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not real,” Cas says bluntly.

Dean gapes. “Of course I’m real! Chuck’s de-powered, and Jack… well, it’s a long story. Bottom line: nobody’s pulling our strings but us.”

Cas lets out a derisive laugh.

Dean’s eyebrows rise, but he barrels on, “So it’s time to get a move on. Up and at ‘em, sunshine.” He jerks his head off to the right. 

Cas stays where he is. “No.”

“What the hell?” Dean has the gall to tug on Cas’s sleeve like he’s a wayward toddler. “Come on. You’re not making any sense.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Cas retorts. It’s not his best rejoinder, but he’s been very stressed lately.

Whatever Dean was about to say dies on his tongue as he stares at Cas in confusion. “What’s wrong with you?” He shakes his head before Cas can respond, saying, “Doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out later. But now, you’ve gotta come with me.”

Cas levels him a flat glare. This one is more stubborn than the last, more like the real Dean. “Why should I?”

“Because you don’t deserve to be stuck here?” Dean says, gesturing to the void around them. “You saved the world, Cas.” He swallows. “You saved me. Getting you out is the least we can do.”

“Because you need me to take on Chuck,” Cas says.

“No?” Dean says, his eyes narrowing. “I already told you, Chuck’s off the playing board.”

“Because you feel guilty about leaving me here.”

“No - wait, I do, but,” Dean breaks off, irritated, “you know what I mean.”

Cas doesn’t, so he continues in the same vein as before, “Because you love me.”

Dean hesitates. “I’m working on it.”

Cas snorts. At least the last Dean had the balls to say it. Many times. While crying.

“What?” Dean throws up his hands. “You just sprung it on me, dude! I didn’t even know angels could feel things like that, and it took me by surprise, okay? I’m only human, and sometimes we need time to get used to ideas. Like when we found out Snooki was a demon. Yeah, the signs were there, and it makes sense, but still - you sometimes need it spelled out for you.”

Cas pauses. None of the other Deans had referenced pop culture. “How long ago was this for you?”

“Since we summoned Snooki?” 

At Cas’s icy look of disdain, Dean hedges, “A month? Give or take.” He glares. “First we had to deal with Chuck, and it took a while to find a spell to get here. Remember, we didn’t even know this was a place before you died the last time. The Men of Letters weren’t a shit ton of help, for once.”

Cas crosses his arms over his chest.

“Just… hear me out,” Dean says. “There’s a portal to get us home. Sam and Jack can’t stall the Empty forever.”

That was new. “Jack and Sam aren’t in the Bunker?”

“No,” Dean says as he takes off in the opposite direction, all but forcing Cas to follow to find out more. “They’re up in Heaven.”

“Why?”

“Because the Empty can’t get to Earth without a summoning spell, which, as far as we can tell, doesn’t exist?” Dean says, checking over his shoulder to make sure Cas is still within earshot. “But you made that fucking stupid deal in Heaven, so we knew it could at least travel there. Jack zapped Sam to the Pearly Gates, and they’re hopefully making a distraction while I get you out.”

Still not entirely convinced, Cas asks begrudgingly, “And where are we going?”

“A portal,” Dean says confidently. “This place is a little like Purgatory, apparently. If it senses a human here, it’ll create a portal to spit them out again.” He flashes a grin over his shoulder. “So here I am, 100% genuine human to bail your ass out.”

“Thank you?”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean says with a wink.

Cas scowls. The first Dean had winked at him too.

“Jesus, tough crowd,” Dean mutters as they head further into the Empty.

Cas scans the ground, but there are no small candies lining the way. “How do you know where to go?”

“Turns out, Sam could find a spell for that,” Dean says as he holds up his left hand - clutching his amulet. The Empty must have really hunted around in his memories for that one, even more so than the Wendigo case. He hasn’t seen the real amulet in nearly five years. “It heats up when I’m on the right track towards the exit.”

“So no M&Ms?”

Dean turns to him. “I told you about that?”

Cas stares straight ahead, willing his face to fall into an expressionless mask. The real Dean had told him about the Wendigo over dinner with Sam and Mary while she was still alive, or the Empty wouldn’t be able to use it as inspiration now.

Dean shakes his head, smiling. “Man, I haven’t thought about that case in forever.” He glances at Cas, his face sobering. “You really don’t believe this is real?”

“No.”

He can’t. Not again.

Dean sighs as he steers them slightly to the right. “Come on, I’m almost getting third degree burns from this thing. We must be close.”

Sure enough, a blue swirling portal comes into view, a pinprick of light in the distance at first, elongating into an exact replica of the Purgatory exit as they approach. 

“Finally,” Dean mutters, his face impassive. He  turns to Cas. “Just… don’t stay behind,” he grimaces, “again.”

This version has been the most true to Dean - less callous than the first, more caring than the second, more guarded than the third. It will hurt the most when this one falls apart. Maybe it would be better if Cas heads it off at the pass instead of letting the whole painstaking ruse play out all the way through.

If the Empty could get it over with, Cas will go back to sleep. Anything is better than this torture.

Cas takes a step back, away from the portal. “This is pointless-”

“Jesus Christ, Cas!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “I don’t get it at all. You don’t think you deserve to be saved?”

Cas gapes at him.

Dean continues heatedly, “If an ex-demon with anger management problems and rap sheet a mile long deserved to be saved, I think a legit angel should get the same.”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m hardly a prime example of an angel anymore.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Have I ever cared about that?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Glad we can agree on something,” Dean cuts him off. “Now, are you going to go through the portal or am I gonna have to drag you? I’ll do it,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”

Cas wavers. Everything in him says to follow Dean. But this isn’t the real Dean - this is the Empty waiting for the glorious moment when it can yank the illusion away, leaving Cas a little more broken than before.

Dean’s eyes narrow. “Fuck you,” he spits, “You can’t trust me just a little-”

“Trust?” Cas echoes as he strides forward to grab the lapels of Dean’s jacket, his voice rising in a mixture of outrage, desperation, and heartache, “You want me to trust you? After you’ve lied to me, deceived me - after you stabbed me, after you told me I put you through the worst moment of your life the last time you saw me, after you made me think you returned my feelings only to - only to-”

Dean shakes his head slowly. “But I didn’t do any of that.”

“You did,” Cas says fervently, shaking Dean a little - or maybe that’s his trembling hands. “You did - you’ve been putting me through hell since I got here, and I’m sick of it. I’m sick of you.”

Dean’s expression hardens. “You don’t mean that.”

“Oh, I do,” Cas swears. “I’m done pretending.”

Dean his eyes flicking down to Cas’s mouth. “What do you know,” he breathes, “so am I.”

Cas freezes, waiting for Dean to dissolve into a puddle of goo in his hands.

Dean kisses him instead.

At the first touch of Dean’s lips to his, Cas jerks back in surprise and horror.

He falls straight into the portal. 

The Empty vanishes in a blur of too-bright light.

 * * *

Cas comes to in the middle of a field. The sun shines overhead. Noon, Cas registers distantly as he looks around. Dean’s sprawled on the prairie grasses next to him, already waking up judging by the groaning noises.

“Dean?”

Dean opens his eyes, glances at the sky, and closes them again. “Oh great, we made it.”

Cas tentatively picks his way closer to Dean’s side. He stands over him for a moment, shuffling to the side so he doesn’t block the sunlight falling on Dean’s face. “We’re on Earth.”

“Well, it’s sure as shit not Mars,” Dean grumbles, eyes still closed. “Are you watching me right now? I feel like you’re watching me right now.”

Cas stares around the field. “Not anymore,” he says, and a genuine breeze blows against his face. What a marvel.

“‘S okay,” Dean says as he wiggles a little on the grass, getting more comfortable, “’M used to it.”

Cas turns to him. “It’s really you.”

“The real deal, sweetheart,” Dean cracks his eyes open, one corner of his mouth lifting into a lopsided smile. “You believe me now?”

“This could be the most elaborate ruse yet.”

Dean lifts his head up. “Seriously? You dick, I did not haul ass all the way-”

“I don’t really believe that, however,” Cas says before Dean can work himself up too much.

“Good.” He meaningfully thumps the grass next to him. “Sit. You’re giving me serious Law & Order vibes.”

Cas’s brow furrows. “I don’t get that reference. I know about Law & Order-”

“And how does every episode of Law & Order start?” Dean interrupts, “With someone standing over a dead body in a field.”

Cas takes a seat. “Not always a field. Most episodes show corpses in urban areas, or, once, a yacht.”

“Pretty sure it was more than once. I hate procedural cop shows.”

“They are very formulaic,” Cas admits, stretching out his legs, “and lack the drama of soap operas.”

“I’m just saying, if a long lost sibling doesn’t pop out of the woodwork or if the main character isn’t killed off at least six times, is it really worth watching?”

Cas levels him a flat look. “Dean, all those things have happened to you.”

Dean snorts. “At least none of us got amnesia.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Speak for yourself.”

Dean turns his head to stare at him, a wide grin spreading across his face as he laughs. “Oh shit, you're right. How the hell did I forget?”

“Because of supreme irony, most likely.”

It takes Dean a moment to get it, but when he does, he laughs even louder.

Cas doesn’t have anything to add, so he lets the conversation peter off into silence, listening to Dean’s even breathing and the grass rustling in the gentle wind.

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” Dean says in an undertone.

Cas turns to him. Dean’s eyes are closed again, but everything else about him radiates a quiet tension Cas might’ve missed anywhere else. But here, in this field, nothing prevents Cas from honing on Dean’s whole being with everything he has. “What do you mean?” he asks carefully.

“I dunno,” Dean says, his face scrunching up, “I thought it would be more awkward. But… it doesn’t feel any different.”

Cas blinks. “Why should it?” he asks, and though he’s not definitively sure what Dean means by ‘it’, he has a very strong suspicion.

Dean shoots him a pointed look. “Because you don’t tell someone you love them and expect everything to be OK after.”

Cas lays down next to Dean. Staring up at the wispy clouds overhead, he says, “If it changes anything, I didn’t expect to be around for the after part.” Dean’s head turns to look at him, but Cas can’t bring himself to see whatever expression is on his face. “If you’d like for us to go our separate ways after this, I understand.”

“You stupid bastard,” Dean mutters vehemently, “for the last goddamn time, I did not piss off the immortal Blob just to tell you to go fuck yourself in person.”

Cas inhales a slow breath, breathing in the dirt, wildflowers growing nearby, and Dean. “You kissed me,” he says.

“You said you loved me,” Dean shoots back.

“Did you mean it?”

“Did you?”

Cas grimaces as he turns his head to face him. “I thought it was obvious.”

Dean swallows. “No, it wasn’t,” he says quietly, “but I’ve never been good at that stuff.”

Cas squints at him. “You are the most emotionally intelligent man I’ve ever met.”

“What?”

Cas rolls his eyes. “You expertly navigate and manipulate people’s emotions to get them to talk to you, open up to you, have sex with you,” he lists. “It’s extraordinary to witness.”

Dean makes a choking noise. “Dude,” he says, which tells Cas absolutely nothing. A few more clouds pass by before Dean speaks again. “I guess the signs were there - with you. But I didn’t want to put them together.”

“Why not?”

Dean shrugs, his shoulders scraping almost inaudibly against the soil and grass stems. “Just didn’t.”

“Then that’s why I didn’t tell you. But, Dean-” Cas breaks off. This part of the conversation, despite what Dean said earlier, does not feel the same as others between them. 

Dean’s eyes flick to his. “Yeah?”

“You kissed me.”

Dean inhales a sharp breath. “I did,” he says at last.

Cas waits, but Dean doesn’t elaborate. “Was it just a ploy to get me to leave the Empty?”

“No.”

Cas grimaces. Not for the first time, his life would be so much easier if Dean could communicate without speaking in riddles or hiding every third word he wanted to say. “Dean...”

“I told you I’m working on it,” Dean says defensively.

Cas closes his eyes. “What does that mean?” he asks, his voice strained.

“It means I’m working on it,” Dean says shortly. But before Cas can press him further, he lets out an explosive sigh. “It means I don’t want to hear any more goodbyes from you. It means - it means that kiss wasn’t too bad, right?”

“I thought you were a fake version of yourself created to torture me for eternity,” Cas says flatly.

Dean props himself up on his elbows. “So all I’m hearing is there’s room for improvement.”

Cas rolls his eyes as Dean scoots closer, peering down at him. “I suppose that’s one way you could look at it.”

“Would you wanna... do something like that again?” Dean asks, his expression confident while his voice is anything but.

“Only if you want to,” Cas says seriously.

Dean licks his lips. He nods once, the movement stilted.

“Should I sit up?” Cas asks, frowning, as he half-lifts his head. “Or do you want to lay back down-”

“Cas,” Dean says impatiently, “it’s kissing we’re talking about here, not Twister.”

“I have played that game before.”

“Yeah, I remember now,” Dean says, a tentative smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. “You ever do it naked?”

Cas frowns. “There was a strict policy against nudity in the psychiatric ward.”

Dean ducks his head, laughing silently. His forehead lands on Cas’s sternum, his breath warming Cas’s chest from the outside in.

“You were trying to say something arousing,” Cas says, a beat too late.

Dean shakes his head, grinning. “Something like that.”

“I would like to play naked Twister with you.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Glad to hear it,” he says as he leans over Cas. Cas goes a bit cross-eyed to keep him in view until Dean murmurs, “Relax. ‘S just me.”

In the instant before their lips meet, Cas half-expects the whole world around him to splatter apart in a tidal wave of black, otherworldly goo. But Dean is gloriously solid, gloriously human, as he cradles Cas’s half-raised head, his fingers tangling in his hair. 

The midday sun shines; the grass whispers in the wind; and Cas is saved.

[fandomandangstlover]

@deedra-posting

YAYAYAYAYAYYAY TYSM RUMBLE TIME

au name is Wings of Blood till further notice. btw ah never played Ultrakill, and might get some things wrong. please tell me if ah do.

okay so after Gabriel slaughtered the council and held their head over a sea of angels like in canon, he sorta. broke. he already kinda broke when he killed them all but the screams and anger of his people was kinda the last straw lmao. so uh... he massacred them all. like, All of them. laughing the whole time, because why not? he sorta have some sort of sanity left after he did so and man he's not having a fun time.

so uhh... something something he went into Hell to get away from what he did and sorta kinda just waited to have a fight with V1 again. he wandered of course, silently paying respect to the people who have fallen and those he wronged. he has realized what he has done wrong(to those in Hell, he already knows what he did to Heaven is fucked up) and man is that guilt eatin' him up like he's cotton candy in water. yippee

anyways he did get to, well, fight V1. he died by V1's hands. and he's fine with that, he would rather be of some sort of help before he died anyways, he was expecting it. he was gonna die anyways due to the Father's Light not being in him anymore.

he woke up at the campfire he pondered his thoughts of everything at. yes, he died, but he seems to somehow be in a weird purgatory-like space. the forest around him sometimes have people he recognizes(V1, the Ferry Man, etc) appear and if he ever tries to reach out to them in any way they'll run off. the campfire never goes out.

if he enters the forest, he'll always end up at the campfire. it's always night there, too.

he looks different too, idk how ah wanna do it yet but something something wings are Red, his body is strained with Red, and shattered stars. yeah.

yeah he's just there to ponder and probably drown in his guilt. that or if am plannin' on going with my tumblr blog route(i won't be unfortunately), askers are voices in his head. whatever they do is up to y'all lmao

sometimes he'll find himself in different places(could be aus or some former version of Hell, could be anywhere) and he would wander around. if anyone finds him, he wouldn't speak to them, maybe convinced he's in some sort of hallucination, no different then the ones in the forest. he would maybe hum or giggle, but that's about any noise you would hear from him. he'll invite them to dance, maybe. smoothly sliding along as he chuckles and if the person he invited doesn't know how, he'll gladly teach them.

maybe he gets to keep his weapons and if those in the odd places he end up in sometimes wants to fight him, they could. and he would gladly accept the fight. his giggles will turn into manic laughter and maybe you'll hear quiet "come on"s or "that's better!"s, but you would rarely hear him speak much else.

he knows the places he finds himself in won't stay for long, that he'll find himself back at the campfire in the cool air. so that's why he doesn't try to talk to any of them. he has tried before, and well, it didn't matter in the end.

something something Gabriel? is indifferent to the shenanigans of the forest and is annoyed at best. something something he loves dancing and has the most fun whenever he gets to dance or fight with someone. something something he hasn't forgave himself and probably never will. something something he's a masochist like in canon because of course he is. something something he's also very giggly because ah like his unhinged laughter.

... yeah that's all ah got. tysm for lettin' me rumble :DD

so uh i keep havin some thoughts about an au for ultrakill gabriel that keeps hold of my mind. does. does anyone wanna hear it

[purrincess-chat]

Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s Spite Playlist: Remix CH24

It’s here!!! I’m so excited to share it with you all. What was Marinette shouting about at the end of last chapter? Is Lisette going to get akumatized? Will Eliott? Find out below ;)

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Chapter 24: Dancing With Our Hands Tied

Marinette grabbed Lisette by the wrist and tugged her to the ground, narrowly dodging a blue beam of light. A large robot with an old computer for a head towered over the buildings, absorbing passing cars and bystanders. It scanned the movie theater, and the whole building vanished in a flash.

“Upload!”

“What is that thing?” Lisette gasped.

“Lisette!” Eliott raced to her side. “Lisette, are you okay?”

Her cheeks flushed pinker than her dress as Eliott looked her over.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” she said.

Adrien pulled Marinette in for a tight hug. “Nothing broken?”

“I’m fine.” Marinette assured him, leaning against his chest. There was no time to savor how good he smelled, even if Marinette wanted to. “We need to get out of here.”

“Marinette’s right, we shouldn’t stay here,” Macy said.

Eliott took Lisette’s hand, and their group darted up the street. Hawkmoth’s latest creation shot blue beams left and right, absorbing everything in its wake. Marinette needed to break away from the group, but Adrien’s tight grip on her hand told her she wasn’t getting away any time soon.

“Ah!” Lisette tripped on the pavement and stumbled forward, her cute white shoes clearly not made for running.

“Lisette!” Eliott stooped to help her up.

“Upload!” The akuma took aim, charging another beam.

In one swift motion, Eliott swapped places with Lisette, taking the hit. He vanished in a flash, the akuma absorbing him into its mainframe.

“Eliott!” Macy cried.

“No.” Lisette’s eyes watered.

“Macy…” Martin eyed the akuma as it charged another beam. “Move!”

He wasn’t quick enough, and the akuma took them both. Marinette’s jaw clenched. No one else was getting uploaded on her watch.

“We have to move.” She pulled Lisette to her feet.

“This way!” Adrien instructed, taking the lead.

They rounded the corner and started up the next block. Marinette drilled excuses to get away in her head, but to her relief, Adrien stopped at the end of the street where the road forked.

“We should split up. The akuma will have a harder time uploading us if we aren’t grouped together,” he said.

“Good idea.” Marinette added.

“But what about the others? Shouldn’t we do something?” Lisette’s eyebrows furrowed.

“There’s nothing we can do. We just have to wait for Ladybug and Chat Noir to defeat the akuma and bring them back,” Adrien said. “The best we can do is not get captured ourselves.”

Marinette placed a hand on Lisette’s shoulder. “I know it’s hard to run away, but Ladybug will bring Eliott back. I promise.”

Lisette searched her expression with a frown and nodded, pointing to the road straight ahead. “I’ll go this way. Be careful, you two.”

As she took off, Adrien pulled Marinette into his arms, leaning his head against hers and squeezing her shoulders.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he murmured.

Marinette wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling into his neck. She clung to his waist, breathing him in for one blissful, selfish moment. It wasn’t fair. When akumas attacked, everyone else got to hold their loved ones close until it was over. Why was she the only one who had to let go?

She pulled away and smiled up at Adrien. “See you when everything goes back to normal.”

Adrien kissed her forehead, brushing her cheek with his thumb. They turned their backs and ran in opposite directions up the street. Marinette’s face still tingled from his touch as her suit materialized. Her heart longed for the boy running away from her, but she couldn’t listen to it now. Paris needed Ladybug, and a good hero always listened to her head. She swallowed the ache, steeling her focus. There would be plenty of time for snuggling after they defeated Hawkmoth, and she had a fist or two with his name on it for all of these interruptions.

The akuma had made its way up the block by the time Ladybug looped around. André the ice cream man cowered behind his cart as the akuma closed in. Hooking her yoyo between light poles, Ladybug tugged her net tight as the akuma raised a leg to step. The threads of her yoyo tangled its feet, and it stumbled forward onto the concrete with a loud thud.

Civilians ran for cover while it was down, and Ladybug waved André on. He bowed gratefully before scurrying off with the rest of the bystanders.

“Aww, what a shame. I was hoping for a scoop of mint chocolate chip before we got started,” Chat Noir called from his perch atop the lamppost.

“We’ll just have to treat ourselves afterward,” Ladybug replied.

“Down, Ladybug. This cat’s got a date with another lady. You had your chance.” He winked, and Ladybug stifled a laugh.

“I’m just happy you’re not calling me m’lady anymore, though I do feel sorry for the poor girl that has to listen to you run your mouth,” she said.

“Joke’s on you. She loves when I mess around. She’s perfect,” Chat Noir said with a dreamy sigh.

“Just be sure she gets her brain scanned before your next date.” Ladybug giggled.

“Ha-ha.” He rolled his eyes, flicking his tail.

“Come on, kitty. Let’s make this battle quick. We don’t want to keep your dream girl waiting.” Not to mention, she was eager to get back to Adrien herself.

The robot rose to its feet, scanning the media van at the end of the block.

“Upgrade!” Its aura glowed, electricity sparking down its limbs. The clunky gray casing morphed into a thinner black model, reminding Ladybug of the computer her parents had when she was little.

“Something tells me that’s not good,” Chat Noir said.

Ladybug charged in again, brandishing her yoyo. She and Chat Noir took turns striking the monitor, but none of their blows seemed to deal much damage. Ladybug searched the mech high and low for an object where the akuma could be hiding, but everything was so streamlined.

“Any ideas on where the akuma is hiding?” Chat Noir asked when they landed to take a breath.

“I don’t think it’s on the outside. If only we could get inside…”

They dodged a sweeping arm. Ladybug tossed her yoyo, but the akuma caught it in one clawed hand. It swung her around, crashing her into Chat Noir and flinging them both across the city. They handed in a pile on a deserted street, their weapons clanking on the concrete beside them.

“It’s assimilating newer technology and increasing its power. I have a sneaking suspicion the akumatized person is inside the mech suit, probably with the object where the akuma is,” Ladybug said.

“Well, if you’ve got any ideas, I’m all ears. This Technobot is interrupting a very important date,” Chat Noir said.

Ladybug tapped her chin, palming her yoyo.

“Lucky Charm!” She caught the teacup as it materialized and turned it over in her hands.

“I don’t think now’s the best time for tea.” Chat Noir teased.

Ladybug hummed, studying the cup, and shook her head. “I need to go to Master Fu. We’re going to need some help for this battle.”

“What should I do in the meantime?”

“Give our little Technobot the runaround, and try not to get uploaded.” Ladybug instructed. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

Ladybug shot off toward Master Fu’s street, letting her transformation drop behind a parked car. Her footsteps pounded up the stairs to his flat, where her old mentor was drinking tea.

“Master, I need to borrow a Miraculous!”

Master Fu set his cup down and retrieved the Miracle Box from its hiding place. Small drawers opened on all sides, and Marinette pursed her lips. Malin’s illusions wouldn’t do them any good against a computer. Queen Bee’s venom might help, but she wasn’t sure where the akuma was hiding yet. The turtle might stop them from being uploaded temporarily, but it wouldn’t solve their problem. Plus, she didn’t know who to replace Carapace with yet. Today was Gabrielle’s day off, so Ladybug would be hard-pressed to get her to agree to be Tigress again. She needed something new. Something that could get past Technobot’s defenses and get inside. Something like…

“Good luck,” Master Fu said when she reached for the mouse.

“I’ll bring it back when I’m done.” Marinette winked before trotting off.

All of her friends had been uploaded by Technobot—all but one, and Ladybug had a feeling she’d be more than willing to help.

Lisette was sitting on the edge of the Seine when Ladybug found her. Her blonde buns bounced as she glanced up, brown eyes clouded with worry.

“Ladybug! Have you defeated the akuma yet?” she asked hopefully.

“Not yet,” Ladybug said, and Lisette deflated. “I need your help.”

“Me?” Lisette tilted her head to the side. “Why me?”

“Well, I heard that the akuma took someone important to you. How would you like to help me get him back?” Ladybug offered her hand.

“I dunno, Ladybug. I don’t think I’m cut-out to be a superhero.” Lisette lowered her gaze to her lap. “I can barely even get the boy I like to look at me.”

“He sacrificed himself to save you. I think he looks at you more than you know,” Ladybug said. “Trust me.”

Lisette searched her expression, taking a deep breath. “Okay. What do you need me to do?” Her eyes widened when Ladybug held out the small box.

“Lisette Auclair, this is the Miraculous of the mouse which grants you the power to multiply. You will use it for the greater good and return it to me once the mission is complete. Can I count on you?”

With a hesitant hand, Lisette took the box, wincing against the bright light as she opened it. She recoiled with a squeal when Mullo manifested, but Ladybug held up cautioning hands.

“It’s alright. This is your kwami, Mullo. He gives you your powers,” Ladybug assured her.

“To transform, just say, ‘Mullo, transform me!’ Your powers will let you shrink and multiply for a short period of time. All you have to say is, ‘Multitude!’” Mullo explained.

Lisette fastened the necklace around her neck and nodded.

“Mullo, transform me!”

When her transformation finished, Lisette examined her pink and grey suit with curious eyes. Ladybug beckoned her on.

“Come on. Let’s go save your friends,” she said.

Ladybug led the way through the rooftops, Lisette hot on her heels. Technobot had looped his way to the news station when they caught up to it. Chat Noir smiled as they touched down beside him.

“You sure kept him busy.” Ladybug commended.

“He’s heading for the news station. If he absorbs it, he will be even more powerful,” Chat Noir said. “What’s the plan?”

“We haven’t been able to spot the akuma object, which tells me it must be inside the casing like the hard-drive of a computer,” Ladybug said. “If we can get someone inside to take care of it, we can take it down.”

“I assume that’s where our little friend comes in.” Chat Noir winked at Lisette. “Hi, I’m Chat Noir.”

“Yeah, I know who you are,” Lisette said with a smile. “You can call me…Souris Rose.”

“Chat Noir, extend your staff between the buildings. Souris and I will try to trip him up like we did earlier. That should distract him long enough for Souris to slip inside and destroy the object where the akuma is hiding,” Ladybug said. “Whatever you do, don’t let him reach the news station.”

“Got it.” Her partners nodded.

Chat Noir charged ahead, dodging blasts. He planted his staff as directed, and Ladybug looped her yoyo around its arms. Souris swooped down, kicking him in the back, and Technobot stumbled forward, tripping over Chat Noir’s baton—a few meters shy of the news station.

“Yes!” Ladybug cheered.

“Upload!” It extended an arm and absorbed the news station in a blue beam.

Souris Rose and Chat Noir flanked Ladybug as Technobot rose to its feet. The dated black casing morphed into a sleeker design, and Technobot moved quicker with the lighter weight.

“I think we need a new plan,” Chat Noir said.

“Lucky Charm!” Ladybug summoned a can of soda, mask furrowing as she caught it.

“I know it’s a long trek to Master Fu’s, but I don’t think now is the time to rehydrate.” Chat Noir placed his hands on his hips.

Ladybug glanced between Technobot, the soda can, Souris Rose, and Chat Noir, then nodded.

“Got it.”

“Really?” Souris Rose blinked.

“I don’t question it at this point.” Chat Noir shrugged.

“Have you ever spilled soda on your keyboard?” Ladybug asked, handing the can to Souris Rose. “I need you to get inside that casing. Chat Noir and I will do what we can to distract him, so he doesn’t upload you. This should short-circuit his system long enough for Chat Noir to use his Cataclysm.” She placed a hand on Souris’s shoulder. “I know you can do it. Think about all the people you want to save.”

Souris pressed her lips together and nodded. Unwrapping her jump rope from around her waist, she issued the command, “Multitude!”

Ladybug scooped up her tiny copies and set them on her shoulder, readying her yoyo. She and Chat Noir charged in, hitting Technobot with their weapons. Souris Rose and her doppelgängers leaped from Ladybug’s shoulder onto the robot, crawling between the seams in the casing. Chat Noir and Ladybug took turns taking swings, keeping the akumas attention until smoke billowed and the monitor sparked.

“Cataclysm!” Chat Noir rushed in, scraping his claws down the body.

The mech rusted and crumbled to a pile of ash, and the operator fell to the ground. A small hard-drive stumbled from his lap, and Ladybug stomped it under her foot. A black butterfly fluttered from the rubble, and Ladybug readied her yoyo.

“No more evil-doing for you, little akuma.”

Tiny copies gathered together, reverting Souris Rose back to her original size. The three heroes touched their fists together, and Ladybug tossed the empty soda can into the air.

“Miraculous Ladybug!”

Chat Noir readied his staff, giving a two-finger salute. “Well, I’ve got a lady in waiting, so I’ll see you next time, LB.”

“Send her my condolences.” Ladybug waved as he shot off, turning to Souris Rose. “Right, let’s get you back to your lucky boy.”

Martin, Macy, and Eliott were back by the movie theater when they arrived. Eliott pushed to the front of their group when Ladybug and Souris Rose touched down.

“Ladybug! Have you seen Lisette? She’s about this tall, light blonde hair, the most beautiful warm brown eyes—I got zapped by the akuma, and now she’s missing, and I-”

“Your friend is safe.” Ladybug assured him, casting a sly grin in Souris’s direction. Her cheeks were pinker than the accents on her suit. “Tell you what. We’ll find her and tell her to meet you at the Trocadero. How does that sound?”

Eliott opened his mouth to protest, but Macy draped an arm over his shoulders.

“He’ll be there,” she said.

Souris Rose turned to follow Ladybug, but Eliott caught her wrist.

“Wait! I messed up earlier and let my nerves get the best of me. When you see Lisette, can you tell her I’m sorry?” he asked.

Souris Rose eyed him, a small smile curling on her lips. “I think it would mean more to her to hear it from you.”

“I guess…” He flicked his gaze to her necklace when it flashed. “Looks like you need to go.”

Eliott stepped back, but Souris remained in place, lips pursed.

“Between you and me, most girls will forgive anything if you buy them ice cream. If she really likes you, then I’m sure she’ll understand,” she said.

“Thanks, uh, Mouse…”

“Call me Souris Rose.” She corrected. “Good luck with your date.”

Ladybug wrapped an arm around Souris’s shoulders, tugging the slack on her yoyo, and the two heroines shot off into the rooftops.

♪♫♪ The Only Exception ♪♫♪

“Lisette!”

Taking a deep breath, Lisette turned over her shoulder as Eliott descended the stairs two at a time. Brown eyes clouded with worry, he pulled her into a crushing hug. Her heart fluttered, and she nuzzled against his shoulder, cheeks warm.

“I was worried something happened to you when the akuma attacked.” He pulled away and looked her over. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Ladybug and Chat Noir took care of everything. I was actually worried about you because you got uploaded by that monster.”

“Lisette…” Eliott pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I’m just not used to this, and it freaks me out.”

“Oh.”

“Not like that!” He waved his hands frantically. “I’ve just never felt this way, and it’s all new and scary and exciting. I lost my cool earlier, but only because I really like you.”

Lisette stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I like you too.”

Eliott touched the spot tenderly, a smile warming his face. “Let’s start over. We can go find André and get some ice cream if you want.”

Lisette bit back a smile, linking her arm through his and leaning her head against his shoulder.

“I do.”

♪♫♪ Lover ♪♫♪

“Aww, they’re so cute!” Macy squealed.

Martin, Macy, and Marinette had gathered to watch Eliott behind a column. Macy bounced excitedly as their friends headed up the steps together.

“Today was a success.” She declared.

A hand slipped into Marinette’s and tugged her away. Blond hair filled her vision, heart fluttering in her chest. When they were safely away from Martin and Macy, Adrien pulled her into his arms. How was it possible for anyone to smell this good? Hopefully, he didn’t notice how aggressively she was inhaling.

Behind them, a silver town car rolled up to the curb and honked its horn. Adrien’s grip tightened, shoulders heaving with a sigh.

“We keep getting separated today.” He remarked, touching his forehead to hers. “I always wish we had just a little more time together.”

“Me too,” Marinette said. She closed her eyes, gripping his hands tightly. “Let’s do something together soon. Just the two of us.”

“We still have to celebrate your designs for Clara. Don’t think I’ve forgotten, mon ange.” He winked. The car behind them honked again, and Adrien sighed. “Though with how busy my schedule stays, I’m probably going to be a terrible boyfriend.”

Marinette’s heart skipped. “It’s fay- okay! Fine. It’s fine.” She shook her head. “I’ll take any chance I can to see you, no matter how brief.”

Adrien leaned down with a smile, pressing his lips to her cheek. “Then I’ll see you as soon as I can, mon ange. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

She touched her cheek as he climbed into his town car, watching it pull away with a dreamy sigh. Her boyfriend Adrien. Her boyfriend Adrien! It was finally happening!

“Hey, Marinette!” Macy called from the top of the stairs. “We’re gonna go get some ice cream, you wanna come?”

Marinette turned, glancing over Macy’s shoulder at Martin. A smile curled on her lips, and she shook her head.

“Nah, I’m gonna head home. You two go together,” she said.

Martin’s cheeks flushed, and Macy sighed.

“Alright, suit yourself.” She turned and linked an arm through Martin’s, calling over her shoulder, “Congrats, by the way!”

Marinette giggled, skipping to the subway entrance. Her boyfriend Adrien. She liked the sound of that.

 ------------------------

You can see Souris Rose here!

[philliamwrites]

The Dawn Will Come [Chpt.2]

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Dimitri x Reader, Claude x Reader, Edelgard x Reader, Yuri x Reader, Edelgard x Byleth, lots of minor pairings

Tags: #gn reader, # platonic love byleth & reader, #reader is a tactical unit, #angst, #slow burn, #subplots, #unreliable narrator, #pining, #remporary amnesia, #reluctant herp, #canon divergence, #lost twin au, #many chapters, #original content

Words: 6.7k

Summary: Waking up in a forest without any knowledge of your past and who you are, you join the house leaders of the Officers Academy to search for a way to return your memories. Unfortunately, the church has different plans for you, and Fate places you in the centre of a cruel game with deadly stakes. It certainly doesn’t help to fall in love with a house leader who is doomed to be your demise.

Notes: Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Chapter 02: The Herald of Dawn

Hold me, O Night, with motherly affection, While the wan earth wakes with a misty yawn. By my blood will be born the Dawn and from my fleeting dream—the undying sun!

[Gabriele D’Annunzio]

    Hushed whispers wake you from the dark. The crackling of fire sweeps away the last remains of weary unconsciousness, and you blink at a tent's ceiling. Someone draped heavy blankets over you, and with every breath you exhale, puffy white clouds rise up. The shadows of a fire dance across the walls, their blurry movements flush another wave of dizziness over you, and as you sit up, you notice a tight feeling around your head. When you raise a hand to your forehead, there is a bandage sitting tightly wrapped around your head, covering your right eye. The pain has finally stopped, but it still feels dully raw, like an injury that hasn’t healed properly and serves now as a reminder of anguish.

    The memories from the battle rush back to you, the sound of metal hitting metal and heavy bodies dropping to the ground echo in your mind. Death was nothing new to the soldiers and mercenaries, so how come you don’t feel particularly sorry for the fallen? You’re no soldier, at least that’s what every fibre of your body tells you, so normalising killing isn’t right. You rebuild your surety of that, one shaky brick at a time.

    Once on your feet, you make your way outside, drawn in by the smell of cooked meat and quiet chatter. The sight of a small camp greets you: more tents build a row on this side of the camp, and in the centre, solders sit around a small fire, their voices barely audible. They lean over a steaming kettle, their weapons at their feet or beside tree trunks—laid down for the night but still within reach.

    “Heey, you’re finally back with us!” Claude’s voice rings through the camp, and several heads turn in your direction. As he waves for you to join him, you duck your head and move quickly to his side, wishing you could just merge with the ground and disappear from everyone’s attention. “Little one, you got us worried there,” he says. On his knees, he’s balancing a steaming wooden bowl, and the sight and smell reminds you how hungry you are. Your stomach agrees by providing a low growl.

    “How long have I been out?” You barely recognise your own voice, the sound rough from exhaustion. Claude hums in thought and gestures with one hand to a soldier to bring you food, while his other pats the ground beside him for you to sit down. “We managed to march a couple of hours after cleaning up the mess from the battle. Right now we’re near the edge of the forest. There should be only one more day of marching until we reach the monastery.”

    “And you guys are sure they can help me up there?” you wonder, watching the first group of soldiers get ready for the night watch. They’re frighteningly young, jostling and bumping into each other, laughing and stamping their feet against the cold snap that still lingers, the last gasp of winter before spring begins in earnest.

    “If not there, I’m not sure there’s anyone out there who can help you.”

    You glare at Claude. “Surely you must be the voice of confidence in this merry bunch, right?”

    He laughs. “I’m the closest you’ll get to an optimist around here.”

    “That’s reassuring.”

    “Reassuring is my second name.”

    “No, you said it’s von,” you mumble. Claude stares at you for a long minute, then bursts out laughing, the sound dark and rich. “No, that’s a noble prefix. You don’t even remember that?”

    You open your mouth, and close it like a fish, feeling your cheeks raise in temperature. He shouldn’t make you feel guilty for forgetting something like that, and yet the shame settles in your bones and you want to smack your head against something to help your brain remember.

    “Ah, but pardon my rudeness,” Claude purrs and gives you a mock bow. “I can tell you everything you want to know about nobility and how overrated it is. In fact, I might as well convince you to join the Alliance before Their Highnesses steal you to their side.”

    “I’m not going to be on anyone’s side,” you mumble, and steal Claude’s blanket as payback, relishing in his offended expression. “It has nothing to do with me.”

    Claude raises an eyebrow. “Ehh, I’m not so sure it’s that easy.”

    “It is,” you insist, unable to hide the sulk from your voice. “Because I say so.”

    Claude raises both eyebrows. “That’s not how it works.”

    “Watch me.”

    Something like a shadow flashes across his emerald eyes, but it disappears quickly enough for you to think it’s only the light from the campfire playing a trick on you. “We’ll see about that.” He scrapes the remaining contents from his bowl and lets out a satisfying yawn when he’s finished, stretching his long limbs like a cat getting comfortable. “Sooo,” he starts, unnecessarily dragging out the vowel and the sound of it locks up your shoulders into one tense muscle in preparation of what he’s going to say next. “Care to explain what happened back there?”

    You take a deep breath. “You mean when it felt like my eye was going to fall out of its socket?”

    “Actually I meant when you tripped over that one root after we found you.” He gives you a crooked grin. “But that’s interesting too, please go on.”

    “I thought no one saw that,” you mumble, and avoid his gaze as you remember that stupid root that nearly broke your neck. Well, Claude surely knows a thing or two about tricking someone into talking about exactly what he wants to hear.

    You thank the mercenary that brings you food, and notice it’s the one from the battle with the crooked nose. He gives you a just as crooked grin and limps back to his comrades. The stew warms your chilled bones, the rich flavour of meat and vegetables lifting your spirits and filling you with energy. As you eat, you drag out the minutes but Claude doesn’t even squirm as you let him wait, and starts whistling an off-key tune until you start to feel uncomfortable.

    “Well, if I knew, I wouldn’t be afraid that it might happen again,” you admit begrudgingly. “Because that was scary.”

    “Yeah, it didn’t really look like fun,” Claude agrees. “But what was it in the first place?”

    “I don’t know.” You start to become weary of those words. “But it hurt.”

    Claude gives you a sympathetic look, and goes silent, allowing you to eat, but you can’t shake off the feeling his mind is still trying to figure out what’s the deal with you. He can, for all you care. And once he’s done, he can write a report and hand it right to you so you’ll understand as well.

    Out of the corner of your eye you notice someone moving towards you. Dimitri approaches you with caution like you’re a small animal he might scare off with hasty movements. But the look he gives Claude is that of a disappointed father, and he shakes his head once he’s standing in front of him. “Claude, we were supposed to not disturb our guest,” Dimitri says sternly, then bows his head in your direction. “Apologies. We should let you rest.”

    “No, it’s okay,” you admit, and shuffle a little to the side to make room. “Please stay.”

    Both boys exchange a quick look, but then Dimitri sits down, minding a polite distance unlike Claude who only needs to stretch his legs for his feet touch your knee.

    “We were worried,” Dimitri starts. Just like Claude, he’s taken off most of his armour, and nothing about him stands out as a member of the royalty. He looks just like any other boy, and you’d never admit it out loud, but you already miss the blue tones on his uniform, the colour making his remarkably ice-blue eye stand out even more. “Luckily we could dispose of all bandits and return to a safe area. Byleth carried you here all by herself.”

    “Yeah, remind me not get on her bad side, okay?” Claude laughs, but you think you hear a slight nervous tremble in his voice. “She looks like she can decapitate me with a butter knife.”

    “She doesn’t look like it. She very certainly will behead you with a butter knife,” Dimitri provides with a pleasant smile as if he’s talking about the weather.

    “See, and that’s why she fits best in the Alliance,” Claude says, winking at you. “We’re always full of surprises.”

    Dimitri rolls his eyes and crosses his arms in front of his broad chest. “You might try it. I personally plan to convince her to join the Kingdom.”

    “I think you’re both too late for that,” you say as you look to the other side of the camp where Byleth and Edelgard are currently engaged in a deep conversation, their heads leaning close to each other. Claude groans miserably, but quickly recovers as he turns to you, his eyes brightening up with excitement. “It’s okay, because once my disarming charm has wrapped you around my little finger, I’ll have an impressive tactician on my side.”

    You almost choke on your next spoon of stew. “Tactician? I wouldn’t go that far.”

    Beside you, Dimitri clears his throat. “Though I have to question Claude’s way of persuasion, I must admit he isn’t wrong about the latter. What you did back there was impressive.”

    “I really didn’t do anything special,” you mumble at the same time Claude raises both hands leisurely and says, “Hey, it’s not my problem you think you’re immune to it, Your Princeliness.”

    Dimitri grumbles something in a foreign language under his breath. Grinning smugly, Claude turns to you, and nudges your side. “Have confidence, little one. They’ll teach you everything you need to know up there.” He points up towards a mountain where you’ll apparently be heading tomorrow. If you squint, you think you can make out lights in the horizon brightening the night sky.

    “That monastery,” you say, trying to ignore how Claude’s body radiates heat. “What exactly is that place? I’ve never heard of a monastery that holds a school. I think,” you quickly add, unsure what thoughts provided by your hazy mind are facts.

    “The Officers Academy is a facility where students learn the arts of warfare, magic, and leadership,” Dimitri explains. He’s very obviously trying not to look at Claude, which in return has Claude’s grin widening even more. “The lessons provide us with everything we need as upcoming heads of our families. Swordsmanship, sorcery, authority, the history of our continent. There is much to learn for everyone attending the classes.”

    “So it’s a death factory,” you translate, the sudden bitter taste in your mouth overshadowing the taste of the stew. “How can they just teach that stuff like it’s normal?”

    “You saw it yourself, didn’t you.” Claude stretches his long limbs and leans back until he props his body up on his elbows. “Bandits and thieves everywhere.”

    “And most students come from a noble house,” Dimitri adds. “They need to be taught how to take command, and about the responsibilities coming with leadership.”

    You blow a strand of hair away from your face, mood dropped now that you know where you’ll be from tomorrow on. “This doesn’t sound right.” Though you can’t really say how a school is supposed to be instead. This is a world with different rules, and you aren’t sure if it’ll be easy to accommodate to them.

    While the boys bicker how good the plot of the tale mentioned earlier really is, you see Byleth approaching. A bruise is forming on her left cheek, and she holds her arm as if bearing the pain from a wound. But nothing of that is portrayed on her face, as if her brain hasn’t registered she’s wounded yet and hence doesn’t need to express it.

    “How are you?” she asks, sending the boys a quick look. Dimitri and Claude climb to their feet and wish their good nights with a quick bow. They hurry to Edelgard and gang up on heir, probably interrogating her about the conversation she's had with Byleth.

    “I’m better,” you say, a little surprised you actually mean it. You feel refreshed and nourished, ready for another day of walking. Byleth sits down and watches the camp for a moment in silence. The chaos from before has settled into a quiet hum. Men and women sit together in little circles and tell their glorious battle stories with boisterous laughter, selling the illusion of a victorious life. But that might easily end the next day because of a hasty recklessness. No one thinks of that. Everyone is just celebrating, reaching for flasks and living in the moment. It’s a beautiful sight.

    As the buzzing sound of people chatting subsides and the first turn in for the night, Byleth turns towards you, her voice lowered. “What you did back there,” she starts, and for whatever reason remains silent as if she decided talking about it isn’t a good idea. Shadows from the weakened fire dance across her face, and again you’re flooded with the unfathomable feeling of familiarity. It’s in the sharp lines of her face, the way her eyes move and settle on something as she observes her surroundings. It’s almost a painful sense of nostalgia. Something about this woman just brings you an unusual amount of ease, like it doesn’t really matter who you are, and rather that you’re here that makes the difference.

    Before you can stop your brain, you’re already asking, “Do we know each other by chance?”

    Byleth looks at you for a long minute, then slowly shakes her head, and you try not to show your disappointment too much. “I’ve travelled a lot with my father,” she says. “We’ve come through many lands and villages. You may have seen me at some point, but we’ve never exchanged a word until yesterday.”

    You nod at the plausible explanation, but the feeling that this isn’t the right answer curls like a hook into your heart. “And your father hasn’t said anything about me as well?”

    “No.” Byleth’s eyes follow your hands as they set down the empty bowl. Seeing that you’ve finished everything, she nods in approval. “And he doesn’t forget a face.”

    “How do you all just … trust me,” you wonder, looking to where Jeralt is miserably leaning against a tree trunk as Alois keeps talking and talking. He looks like he wishes someone would take him down with an arrow.

    “He doesn’t,” Byleth says. “And he calls me a little whippersnapper for that. He hasn’t called me that in the five years.” At the sound of the smile in her voice you snap your head in Byleth’s direction, but when you look, she wears the same bland expression like before.

    “But you do,” you start carefully, not trusting your ears again, so you settle on staring at her until she gives another emotion. “Care to explain why?”

    “For now, you haven’t given me any reason not to,” she states as if it really were that simple. It couldn’t be. Up until now Byleth has been your only anchor that your meeting wasn’t purely coincidental—that the reason shrouding your memories would dissipate like the night once dawn breaks if you just stick to her side, and everything will be revealed in time. But now without anything to hold on to, you feel like you’re slipping deeper and deeper into an abyss from which you can’t ascend. This feeling is terror fizzing in your blood like poison, and you shudder at the thought that you’ll forever remain adrift.

    “Your powers,” Byleth continues, unaware of your mental breakdown right next to her. “They’re unusual, and if you learn to use them right, very dangerous.” Spoken by everyone else, this might sound like a threat, but Byleth says it like a simple statement, a fact, unaware how much she tilts your world with it. “What do you plan to do with them?”

    You don’t have to think long about it. “I won’t do anything. Whatever it was, it’s over,” you say and gesture at your bandaged eye. It’s true. Since you woke up, your eye has remained calm, no red veil or eery proclamation someone might step into the campfire and burn alive. The pounding has stopped, and the normalcy of it is like a soothing balm.

    Byleth studies you. You really wish she could give you more than her vacant expression. “You don’t know yet … your eye.” She takes your spoon and with the end of it, she draws a symbol on the ground. “Do you know what that is?”

    You look at it, but nothing comes to your mind. It’s just a four pointed star with two lines crossing the right and left tips. “No, I’ve never seen it.”

    Byleth holds your gaze as if she hopes to find a lie written between your eyes, and this time you don’t look away until she relents with a barely audible sigh.

    “Why do you ask?”

    “Because before you passed out, it appeared here.” She taps a finger against her closed, right eye, then points at you. Your body goes rigid. Immediately, your hands fly up to tear off the bandage, but Byleth catches your wrists and holds them down. “Not yet.”

    “I want to see it.” Your breath catches in your lungs. It sounds like you need air because you’re drowning. “I want it off. Take it off!”

    “I can’t show you, there are no mirrors,” Byleth says quietly, and throws a quick glance around the camp to see if your panic has alarmed anyone. You want to point out that you could use the reflection of her sword, but maybe Byleth has considered the same and thought it a bad idea, because she doesn’t know what else you might do with a weapon in your current state. Seeing that fighting against the vice grip she has on your hands is futile, you slump down, your arms falling slack back to your side. “Just what… what is happening. What is that?”

    “Edelgard said it might be a Crest, but none she or the others have seen before,” Byleth explains. “They told me there is a teacher at the monastery who studies Crests.” She gives your arms a barely noticeable squeeze before she lets go. “So it’s going to be okay.”

    “How can you say that?” you nearly sob, and wish you could hold onto her longer as she stands up and brushes dirt off her uniform. “How can you be so sure?”

    “I’m not,” Byleth says, giving you one last look. You want to tell yourself it’s something like worry you see in her eyes, but her expression remains blank, like a board that’s been wiped clean. “I can only hope.”

    The next morning, Jeralt and Alois set an unforgiving pace, determined to reach the monastery shortly after dawn broke. While everyone else couldn’t wait to reach their home as fast as possible, you feel worry grow with every step up the hill towards the walls and towers. The monastery looms like a stronghold, a building so tall and intimidating, built to make people feel small.

    You were allowed to take off the bandage, and there was nothing worse than knowing something was on your eye but you couldn’t see it. Unlike everyone else. They kept staring at you, mumbling to each other in quiet whispers, and more than once you considered telling them that just because your eye was different it didn’t mean you were blind. It was reason enough for you to put the bandage back on and stay away from the soldiers and mercenaries, leaving them to their superstitious rumours. Who could have thought that you’d grab someone else’s attention entirely with that revelation.

    Even before the first sunbeams broke through the budding branches, the wind carrying the smell of spring and new life, Edelgard stuck to you like a tick. It wasn’t hard to find out she was more interested in your Crest than you as a person, and every question you couldn’t answer fuelled her irritation. Still she was nothing but determined to squeeze the tiniest information out of you, and even though you tried to avoid her by either marching way too fast or way too slow, Edelgard didn’t relent and remained by your side. Fear is a little exaggerated to describe what you feel towards her, but it's close. Whenever her sharp eyes focus on you, unease takes hold of your brain and the words leave your mouth as nervous stammers. It certainly doesn’t help that you know she can easily hack off a grown man’s arm without so much as blinking. Or that the corners of her mouth curl up into the sweetest, rare smile.

    Once you’re on the trade road up to the monastery, pebble makes way to smooth cobblestone. Giant iron doors stand wide open, and as your group enters, a merchant’s cart rolls past you and greets the returning knights. After the first entrance point, the second waits in the form of a portcullis and more knights standing on guard. Past the second ring of walls, you enter a small forecourt. On both sides are stalls and booths with merchants screaming their prices and the sound of metal hammered into the right shape at the blacksmith’s. At the foot of wide stairs leading up into the first building, a man dressed in dark blue robes awaits you, his strong arms crossed behind his back.

    “Welcome back,” he greets Alois and the students. “Your messenger bird has reached us yesterday late into the evening, and preparations have been made.” To Jeralt, he says, “My name is Seteth. I am an adviser to the archbishop. Lady Rhea awaits you.” Jeralt nods but he looks a lot more cautious since you’ve entered the monastery grounds. At the mention of that name, his posture visibly tenses, but he gestures to Byleth and you to follow him nonetheless.

    “We shall return to our respectable classes for now and make known we are unscathed,” Dimitri says. “Please, Byleth, and you too, if things have calmed down, meet the other students as well, won’t you?”

    “Ohh, good idea. You have to go around and introduce yourself as our great saviours.” Claude winks at you with both thumbs up. Edelgard slaps his hands back down.

    “We’ll be standing here until evening if we don’t get going," she says. "Please give Lady Rhea our regards. We’ll report to her once everything is sorted out about you.” She eyes you sideways, then ushers the boys down another hall like a mother hen. You exchange a quick look with Byleth who already looks very exasperated with the student’s antics.

    Seteth leads you into the Audience Chamber, a rectangular room with statues decorating the walls, and asks for you to wait. The moment he leaves the room, you turn towards Jeralt and Byleth and ask, “Who is this Lady Rhea?”

    “I’m aware Byleth doesn’t know much about her, I haven’t taught her he teachings of Seiros, but you—” He stops mid sentence seeing the way you look at him, and clears his throat. “Lady Rhea is the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. She’s commanding the knights and sees that the people don’t do anything stupid in the name of Seiros.”

    “Seiros?” you ask, turning the name in your head. Nope, nothing.

    “You know, the one who defeated the King of Liberation and founded the Church of Seiros?” When you just shrug, Jeralt scratches his beard and hums in thought. “Well, I sure won’t be the one preaching what you should know or not. But maybe don’t make it all too obvious you aren’t a follower.”

    Or what, you want to ask, but Seteth returns and he isn’t alone. The woman walking ahead of him looks like she belongs on the portrait of a saint. It isn’t much that she walks towards you, but rather strides in grateful steps to the middle of the room, her chin raised high and shoulders squared. And yet when she looks at your little assembly, her eyes are soft and kind, her expression open and friendly.

    “I welcome you into these sacred halls,” she says, her voice like soothing velvet on your skin. “Alois informed me of what happened, and I thank every one of you for saving the students.” Lady Rhea smiles at you all separately. Her eyes linger on you, and she titles her head slightly. “I've also heard about the wondrous things that happened to you. Please, be so kind and remove the bandage. Let me take a look at this Crest.”

    You hesitate, your fingers playing with the hem of your shirt. But Rhea waits patiently and raises a delicate hand when her advisor Seteth flinches to repeat her request. Slowly, you take the bandage off, barely able to imagine how the symbol or Crest as they call it looks upon your eye. When you meet Rhea's gaze again, her smile freezes, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her lips part slightly, then stretch into an ecstatic smile. Beside her, Seteth inhales sharply. “This is impossible,” he breathes, growing pale. You start to panic.

    “Why, what's wrong with me? What is impossible?”

    “Nothing, nothing is wrong,” Rhea quickly reassures you, but it's hard to believe when Seteth looks like he's seen a ghost. “A fortunate day indeed. Not only does one of the strongest knights to have ever walked these halls return, but it also seems that a new chapter of history dawns upon us.”

    All eyes land on her, one more puzzled than the other. Even Seteth doesn’t look like he fully comprehends what’s happening. “Lady Rhea?” he asks cautiously at the same time as Jeralt demands, “What are you talking about?”

    The archbishop ignores them both, and the longer she gives you that pleasant smile, the more unsettled you feel. “When Alois wrote about a Crest appearing on your body, I was not sure what to think of it. But now, I cannot hide my joy at the return of a Crest that we thought was lost to history.”

    “I—I don’t know why I have it,” you quickly say, feeling you have to defend yourself before they accuse you of stealing it. Can Crests be stolen in the first place? “I don’t remember why I have it.”

    Lady Rhea nods, her solemn expression making way to worry. “Of that Alois informed me as well. You may stay here until your memories return. Allow me for now to tell you about the Crest. Maybe that will dissipate some of the darkness shrouding your mind.”

    You nod, and brace yourself for whatever she’ll reveal. It certainly helps that Byleth stands close to you, her mere presence a standing stone you can hold onto for now without drifting away.

    “It is a Crest most uncommon,” Lady Rhea explains, her hands gracefully crossed in front of her. “For there was only one person who bore it. This Crest belonged to the very one who served our Lady Seiros against the evil powers that threatened Fódlan thousands of years ago. He was known as Seiros’ Champion. The Herald of Dawn.”

    She allows those words to sink into you, and how deep they sink. Now that they’re out here, you feel like they pull you down, deeper down into a dark sea from which you can’t surface. The only result is drowning.

    “Herald of … you don’t think. You can’t think—” Your thoughts move way too fast, you can’t grasp any to sort them.

    “What I think means nothing in light of what has transpired and therefore is reality. You are chosen by the Goddess herself to bring hope to the people of Fódlan. You are the Herald of Dawn.”

    You feel sick. It may be phantom pain, but you could swear your right eye starts hurting again, as if the Crest is reacting to the revelation, the call of its true nature. You dig your trembling fingers into the fabric of your jacket, considering for the tiniest second to gouge your eye out. Can’t be anyone’s champion or Herald without the Crest, right? “So, you’re saying … am I the one from back then? This Champion?” If you were really the same person, how were you still alive after a thousands of years? The prospect of finally having an identity is great, but you aren’t sure you’re ready to pay the price that comes with it. And this one seems to carry a very heavy price.

    “That seems quite impossible.” This time Seteth speaks up. He looks just as unnerved by this revelation as you feel. “The Herald appeared when Saint Seiros was in dire need, and once his duty was fulfilled, he vanished. ”

    “But now, another Herald has come, and with you the promise of suffering and hardships,” Rhea explains, her expression now strict and foreboding. “The task of giving hope is the most difficult to ask of a person. But that is the path the Goddess has chosen for you.”

    “No, no, you’re wrong. I’m no Herald … and certainly no Champion of anyone. I can’t give people hope, I don’t even know what to give them hope for!” Your voice borders on hysteric, but you’ve never been more determined to plead your case. “I’m not the right person. I’m really not.”

    “Then how come you bear the Crest of Seiros’ Champion, my child?” Lady Rhea asks, and you notice the tiny shift in her voice. The kindness grows thiner and thiner, and in its place austerity and even coldness settle—the voice of authority and undeniable command. “It is Our Goddess’ will. The Church of Seiros needs you. The people of Fódlan need you. You cannot turn away from your Fate.”

    You want to argue that yes, you can; you’ll turn around and leave this place filled with crazy people and their fanatic beliefs. One look from Byleth stops your thoughts. Lady Rhea interprets this silence as compliance, and nods, visibly pleased. “We have waited for this opportunity for so long,” she continues, now smiling again. “There shall be festivities today. As a welcome to our Herald, and the return of Blade Breaker Jeralt. For you, his daughter, we have also thought of a task that will greatly help Garreg Mach.”

    Jeralt grunts, clearly unhappy, but Byleth only cocks her head to one side. You’re astonished that after everything, she’s still awfully calm and collected.

    “A teaching position has become free as of yesterday,” Lady Rhea explains to Byleth. “By Alois' recommendation, you are to take that position and teach one of the Houses here at the Officers Academy. Your colleagues will provide you with further information. As for you,” and you flinch when she turns to you, afraid what else she has in store, “you too shall teach the students the course of leadership and command. Seiros’ Champion was a great tactician. He honed Saint Macuil’s abilities. I would not be surprised if you too show an unparallelled gift for strategy.”

    “Well,” you start, but the hesitation is clear, and Lady Rhea smiles like she knows what you can do once the Crest is activated. “Whereas you are to choose one house,” she tells Byleth, “the Herald will hold seminars. As a servant of the Church, you cannot call in favourites.”

    “I don’t even know what to teach,” you mumble weakly. “How to teach.”

    “Me neither,” Byleth says, the first time she’s spoken since entering the Audience Chamber. The amusement glinting in Lady Rhea’s eyes is like the sun reflected on a purling river. “Do not worry,” she says. “You will learn in time. And we are here to help you as well.”

    On your lips lie the words that they certainly didn’t help you. You came here so they could help to search for a way to return your memory.

    Instead, they made everything worse.

    The ceremonial robes hang heavy over your shoulders. The feast hasn’t started yet, but you’re already sweating and panting with the weight of the golden embroidery and the head piece decorating your forehead. When Seteth brought everything in a couple of hours ago, he was grumbling something unintelligible under his breath, at his side a little girl who, unlike him, was happy to meet you and to see that you’d take on the role as the Herald. You wanted to tell Flayn there was a difference between want and have to, but she was already focused on helping you dress and prepare for the festivities. Servants handled the remaining tasks of making you presentable, and now you’re standing in front of a giant mirror, observing yourself.

    It was scary how things changed so fast. Not even 24 hours ago, you were a nobody, a nameless figure roaming the woods, and now there is a name that isn’t your own—no, not a name. A title. A title that will all but replace your name. History won’t remember you as a person, they will remember the deeds that you’ve done, the mistakes that you’ll commit. Lady Rhea spoke of honour like it’s a crown on your head, but you see the noose that it really is around your throat. The head piece feels too heavy, and the golden necklace sitting on your neck reminds you more of a dog collar.

    There’s a knock on your door. Seteth said that someone would get you before everything starts, and you don’t even try to hide the relieved sob when Byleth enters the room. She examines you from head to toes, and leans her head to the side, one finger on her chin. “You look … different,” she says.

    “You mean ridiculous.” You move your arms, demonstrating how the wide sleeves flap uselessly at your side. “I wish we could do this all without me looking like a sack of potatoes.”

    “I had to think of cabbages, but you aren’t wrong either.” She crosses the room and looks outside the window. You can already hear the masses as they enter the Cathedral, and it does nothing to calm your haywire nerves. Byleth seems to notice as much. She turns to you, and asks, “How are you holding up?”

    “Do you want the real answer or the one I prepared for Lady Rhea?”

    Byleth raises a brow.

    “Not good. I’m just … how could this happen?” You throw up your hands in frustration, and the robes give a dangerous tearing sound. Your arms fall immediately down, the thought of damaging a hundreds of years old ceremonial robe the last thing you need today. “Of all the things, how could I suddenly become some figure of the Church.”

    “Is it so hard to believe that the Goddess of Fódlan has lead you to this path?” Byleth crosses her ams and leans against the wall next to the window, eyeing you curiously.

    “I don’t even believe in this Goddess,” you groan, flopping on your bed. The chambers chosen for you overlook the bridge leading to the Cathedral where people swarm inside like little ants returning to their anthill. It was a small room equipped with all necessities for comfort but no additional expenses on luxury. A bed, a dresser, a simple table and chair, a mirror, and a shelf take up all the space. Not that you could have brought anything with you.

    You look up at Byleth and dread the next question. “Do you believe in it?” you ask. “That I’m someone chosen?”

    “Hmm.” Byleth casts one last glance outside, then pushes off the wall, gesturing you to follow her. You sigh, and mentally prepare yourself for what will happen in the Cathedral. Before you leave the room, Byleth rests her hand on the door handle and looks back at you over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Where I’m from, belief doesn’t save you from the sword of a thief. Only deeds and actions. It’s the reason my father and I are still alive.” She considers you for a moment, and when you blink you imagine you see the tiniest smile on her face. “What you did yesterday was very much real to me. Maybe a Goddess guided you, maybe it was just lucky instinct. But you saved my life, and that certainly is something I can rely on.”

    She doesn’t wait for an answer, and swings the door open. You quickly follow, your steps feeling a lot lighter than before. “I guess I’m just frustrated,” you admit, carefully paying attention your voice isn’t too loud. “That they think there’s someone who can just decide how my life is going to be. Like this herald business suddenly defies who I am.”

    “As long as you don’t forget who you are, does it matter?” Byleth wonders aloud, turning down another corridor that ends in stairs leading down. “As long as there is just one person who doesn’t forget, does it really matter?”

    Maybe not to her, but for some inexplicable reason, it means a great deal to you. So you answer with a grumble, and Byleth hums like she knows she’s right. To change the subject, you ask, “What about you? How can you just follow along with being a teacher here?”

    “Truth be told, I’m not happy,” Byleth says, nodding to the knights standing on guard in the first floor that leads outside. “But at the same time I can see Lady Rhea’s reasoning. Those students need someone who teaches them not to be stupid on the real battlefield. Especially when they are to be future rulers of Fódlan. If I’m the one shaping those little whippersnappers, I can rest at ease.”

    You follow her down the hallways, staying silent until, “Whippersnapper is such a weird word,” you say.

    Byleth gives a huff of air that barely passes as a chuckle. “It is.”

    Together you leave the living quarters and enter the Cathedral at the backside where everything is closed off for the rest of the people. Lady Rhea and Seteth are already waiting for you, both dressed in equally complicated robes as you.

    “Thank you, Professor.” Lady Rhea nods towards Byleth, who nods back and joins the other teachers. “And now, Herald, it is time to meet the sheep you shall shepherd from today on. Please, follow me.”

    She doesn’t give you time to prepare for the crowd waiting for you, and glancing at Seteth for help doesn’t do anything either as he just crudely nods towards Lady Rhea, telling you to go along. You square your shoulders and hope for the best.

    The Cathedral has been decorated with candles and tapestry showing the banner of the Church of Seiros and above it the Crest of the Herald. A platform has been built for your entrance, and stepping on it, your gaze roams over all the assembled students, clergy, and knights. Seeing them, you feel terror seize your body, locking up all muscles. The masses look at you with hunger in their eyes, ready to devour you like you’re the last piece of bread on the table. “Herald, Herald! ” they cry, and each time they open their mouths, the noose tightens around your neck. Saint and Martyr vaguely dance at the edges of your mind, beyond your grasp, mocking how you know them but don’t understand their very being. This is bigger than you. This is far bigger than you can manage, and you want to run away and hide from their greedy eyes.

    Scanning the crowd, you notice the house leaders in the far back. Edelgard looks unpleased, her mouth set into a grim line, while Dimitri claps politely with the rest, and Claude raises a golden cup in mocking salute. You really want to break down and cry. The only solid point is Byleth, has always been Byleth up until now, at the other end of the room, holding your gaze steadfast like a pillow of strength in troubled waters.

[thekillingjoke-haha]

Beauty Sleep

Marvel and Supernatural bingo

Square:Sleeping Beauty

Castiel x Archangel!Reader

Warning?: Reader seems bad, Twist on Sleeping Beauty/Snow White, Poisoning, Wicked Father,ect.

A/n: [This text is a memory]

Tag: @thisismysecrethappyplace

The loud clap of a book dropping on the table startled the brothers for their own research. "What the hell,Cas." The eldest said more then likely woken up for his half sleep mind set. "I found it." He said as he pointed to the thick book.

"Found the weapon that can restore balance." He explained further causing them to grow intrigued. It was the weapon they were looking for that could keep Angels in heaven,demons in hell,and other supernatural in purgatory. The one thing that can fix everything."Perfect where do we get it?" Sam asked as he pulled the book three times thicker then the largest dictionary towards him. "Where do we find her you mean." Castiel said making the Winchester's look at him confused.

Dean cleared his throat and dragged his hand down his face. "Her? The weapon is a person?!" He asked. "Not exactly. She was the first Archangel made by both God and Amare. Legend has it she's more powerful then both of them she could create life with ease and equally wipe it without so much as a single thought. Because of this she had to be put to rest." The angel explained further.

"If she's so powerful how is she "put to rest" can't she wake herself up?" Dean asked as he looked over his brother's shoulder at the book. "Apparently her prison has hex symbols that takes away and returns her grace in a constant loop to keep her weak yet alive." The younger brother explained pointing out the drawing of the three symbols on the page. "So a real life sleeping beauty? Sweet! I always fit the role of prince charming ya know?" Dean said cockily posing victoriously.

The angel rolled his eyes. "There's a catch,Dean. It says once we break those symbols all of heaven and hell will feel it. The creations that she made will hunt her down...all things supernatural will come for her,but once she's back in full power she'll be able to cloak herself." Cas said as he paced slightly. If she was a powerful as legend had it she could fix it all for them. "Her creations? She made the monsters we hunt?! I thought that was Eve." Dean exclaimed as he ran a hand through his hair. "That's a common misconception the apple she ate gave he knowledge that only three beings knew. That special apple was made from her grace." That's when the angel paused as his words raked over him. "Her garden was never just a place it was her prison."

"The garden of Eden. What's this Angel's name?" Sam asked as he flipped through the book and tried to find a name,but all he saw was angel of light and darkness,the perfect balance. "God was nice enough to name it after her. Eden the first Archangel,but she's gone by many names before." He said.

Dean looked at the book with Sam. "Where do we find the magical garden? No book supernatural or not ever gave a location." The eldest asked and it was a good question. "The garden never stays in the same place for to long it moves often. One day it could be in a forest the next in a mountain." Cas said with a sigh it was impossible to find the prison with out a bit of her grace to track the source.

"Her grace is strong even a little can help us. Even if a millennia has gone by and it's became one with the elements it can help." Cas explained. "Cain" The name fell from Dean's lips as he numbly rubbed where the mark once was. "Cain is the son of Adam and Eve. Eve had that grace in her system she must have pasted it to him!" With that the boys packed up and were heading to Cains house to use him as a tracking device. The day long drive dragged on and with those time Sam continued to ask questions.

Most of the questions the angel had no answer to until one made him freeze up. "How did it happen in the first place? Was she casted out of heaven like Lucifer?" The younger Winchester asked. "I think Chuck poisoned her. She was like Lucifer she questioned a lot of things it was a new angelic trait, curiosity, except she loved all creatures and things Chuck made so when he makes something new she was the first to see and that was the last time any angel has seen her." The vivid memory came to mind.

The giggle of the young fledglings filled the air. A girl with H/c hair dragged a younger version of himself around. "My little raven come look! Father has created such beautiful things." She said as she showed him the flowers in her hand each different from the other. "What are they called?" He asked tilting his head. "Father said I can name them,but I can't think of anything...come help me plant them on earth there we can name them!" She said using her three pairs of large F/c wings to bring them to earth before humans were even thought about.

The soil on the ground was dark and it was vastly different from the sand surrounding it. With gentle hands she planted all of the flowers and together the angels named them. "Hmmm..." The girl hummed. "What is it Y/n?" He asked her. "We need something to keep them growing in numbers, raven." She said using a stick to draw on the dirt. "What should it look like?" Y/n asked him as she was going to go to her father to create it.

"Um...give it wings and make it the color of those sunflower over there." Castiel suggested. The drowning at took a couple tries,but as the kept adding and removing things they got what they wanted. Without realizing that the archangel just made multiple winged creatures on a whim and she wasn't even trying. God saw it all a d it scared him,but he couldn't do anything about it when his sister along with his other archangels would be there to stop him. He had to wait.

Three mil past and the two children grew bigger and she grew stronger. The small patch has turned into a garden of various plants that were only found in different climates around the world. Together they went there everyday even more often after the imprisonment of Amara and Lucifer along with the disappearance of Gabriel. Michael was busy trying to keep order after the two archangels left so it was his chance. Chuck called his daughter to see another one of his inventions,but that time was so much different from the others. Afterwards she didn't comeback she was never seen in heaven again and on that day a tree taller then any other in that garden with apples of pure gold grew.

The garden of Eden disappeared after Eve ate the forbidden fruit and it wasn't ever seen again by man,angel,nor demon knew of it location. Cas lost his friend and he knew it was god that did it even if he was suppose to be a loyal soldier he couldn't when he knew that the father of creation so willingly got rid of his most prized pupil what would he do to all the underlings.

Hours have past they stand in Cains living room. "Cain we don't need much from you just some of your blood that's all." Cas said as Dean explained what for. It took some convincing,but he agreed and bleed into a vile. "You guys better stop this apocalypse before shit hits the fan." He said as he shut them back out of his house. Sam handed the vile to Cas. "Now what do we do?" He asked the angel. Without saying a word he pulled something from his pocket a old looking compass. "Rowan taught me a location spell all I need to do is..." Pouring the small amount of blood on the glass of the compass and spoke in Latin causing the red substance to disappear. "...follow the arrow." Cas finished.

The arrow spinner rapidly as it settled on the strongest pull of the grace. "Looks like we're heading west. We have a estimated week before it changes course so off we go." Cas said as they all went back to the car. Keeping his eyes trained on it a small smile formed on his lips. "I'm coming N/n." He whispered to himself. Almost five thousand miles away a the unmoving body had a shocking pull of her lip at the mention of her name if only that could have woken her up for her comatose state.

It's been three days on the road and the impala had to come to a stop a thick treeline stopped them. The dirt road turned into a hiking trail and they had no choice,but to go on foot. Together they hiked up the trail blindly following the arrow through the woods. "Cas what are we suppose to be looked for?" Sam asked as he stepped over a fallen tree branch. "The closer we get the more exotic the plants and animals will be. Also be careful some of the wild life is experimental." The angel warned causing the brothers to freeze. "What do you me by experimental? Are we going to see a truducken?!" Dean asked jokingly as he looked around.

A loud snarling noise caused him to pull out his gun and look around. "More like human eating plants and venomous insects." This made Sam tense and stick closer to a still walking Castiel and Dean to cautiously does the same looking at each and every plant close by. "What is this fucking Jumanji?!?! Everything can kill us." Dean said keeping his gun up and ready to fire. "Oh, that was the name of the movie. Yeah those types of movies were based off of what explores experienced when getting to close to the garden." The blue eyed angel said with a shrug.

In a clearing they all look with widened eyes at the land before them. Flowers of all types with various animals and inserts. They watched in wander at everything creatures they've never seen or never insisted out of the garden. Everything was in bloom even though it was mid fall. There was a clear gravel path cutting off between the forest and wonderland in front of them.They wandered around since it became more difficult to find where the pull was unclear. "She won't be in plain sight she'll be hidden well. Look for something that doesn't quite match the rest. Trees of all kinds surrounded the area,but it was Sam who noticed the sand that mirrored a sky full of stars. He slowly followed it till it grew thick into a sanded path.

The youngest Winchester had his eyes trained down so when he looked up the apple tree before his eyes took his breath away. It looked straight out of a child's most imaginative fantasy. A white trunk with red leaves and the most noticeable feature the solid gold apples on it's branches. Sam didn't hear the voices of his brother or friend as he stepped closer directly under one of the low hanging fruits. Reaching up he picked the ripe fruit his brown eyes glazed over by temptation and curiosity. "SAM DON'T EAT THAT THAT!!!" Cas yelled using his grace to stop him mid bite. The angel looked in horror at the item in his hand a dark purple almost black apple sat in his friend's hands.

To anyone mortal it looked beautiful with it golden exterior,but Cas could see the ugly,fermented,poisoned inside. Glancing up the tree was rotting with barely any leaves and the few left were the color of blood. "It's poisoned their all poisoned." His words cleared the Winchester's vision of the tree and the surrounding woods all the plants were dead all around it. "It's beautiful on the outside,but deadly on the inside. And we're seeing it for what it truly is."

"It's clear as day that's she's here. Just how do we get to her?" Dean asked looking around. Castiel snapped towards Sam holding his hand out. "Do you still have the book?!" Sam nodded quickly taking the strap off his shoulder to dig it out of the bag. He handed it over the the angels that viciously flipped through the pages. "He made her a monster so a beast she became. She was blinded by curiosity and temptation she chose wrongly that day. Pick the fruit that doesn't call to you for the right one will choose you." He read word for word trying to see through the riddle. A beast? She was never a monster,but she was depicted as one. A angel that tainted the flock.

The Archangel landed gracefully in front of her father. She bowed on one knee as a warrior would clashed in her white armor and sword by her side. "Stand my child." She stood up looking at him. "Yes,father?" Her voice was gentle,but that didn't make the God of creation hesitate in his actions. "I've made something new for you to try and plant in the garden." Chuck said handing her the item. The skin was red and the surface was smooth unlike the peach that had a light fuzz. "What is this?!" Her e/c eyes burned bright her wings fluttering in excitement. "A red apple my dear." He said softly a smile on his lips stepping closer "Taste it."

Bringing it to her mouth she took a bite out of it and started to chew. It started of sweet,but became bitter within seconds and no matter how long she chewed it never broke down in size for long. "Father...something not right." She said that single bite still in her mouth. "Trial and error,darling, try to swallow it." Her h/c hair bobbed as she nodded. With a gulp she swallowed it down,but to her shock it stopped. Using her free hand she beaten at her chest to unblock her air way. Looking up at her creator she saw a look that can only be described as pure evil as a liquid poured out of her mouth.

Touching her chin a dark violet substance came dripped to the ground. Her gaze shifted to the apple within her hand and the inside no longer looked right. It was as if it gone bad from the inside,but the outside stayed fresh hiding the disgusting center. In fear she stepped back and with that she fell and continued to fall watching her home fade away. Y/n broke through the soil of the earth in a prison of her own design that she cared for and nurtured. Her arm dropped from her side the apple rolling away. The deceitful visibly harmless fruit planted it seed and grew becoming the only way to enter her personal mausoleum.

Castiel looked at the tree. All of the fruit looked the same nothing was different about a single one of them. Together the trio walked around the looming tree. The Winchester's saw something beautiful and they couldn't help,but want to pick one of the apples to taste. "What do we do,Cas. We don't have much time before this place disappear and possibly taking is with it." Dean said flinging his hands in the air. "The riddle said to wait then that's what we must do.

They grouped together and sat at the base of the tree waiting for who knows what to happen. "This is stupid! Let's just get the shovels from baby and start di–" His words were cut short as a apple full down from above them. "Well that was covenant." Sam said as Cas picked it up. To the brothers it looked odd a bronze color compared to the rest just less appealing. While to Castiel it looked horrible making the clearly deadly fruits more appetizing. "Our key in." He said. Using his hands to break it open to reveal the mouth watering interior that a honey like liquid dripped from,they picked correctly. The ground began to shake and they all stepped away from the base of the tree as the dirt around it caved in making a spiral staircase down and down they went.

It was pitch black down there so Sam and Dean pulled out flash lights to look around. They all went around the surprisingly large pocket in the ground. Dean checked for the symbols when he tripped over roots and landed on something hard and and moving. Snapping up he shined the light on the women laying as if sleeping in front of him. She was in white leather armor with a sliver sword in her hands on her chest. "Didn't find any hex symbols,but here's sleeping beauty." He said looking her over she rested on a raised stone that worked as her bed. "Never mind found them." The markings from the book in a pyramid shape was on one side of the bedrock glowing a soft F/c. Sam walked over along with Cas. The knifes both brothers held was used to break the engraved symbols,but nothing happened.

"No no no that's not right. Y/n is suppose to be freed!" The angel in distress said as he flicked through the book nothing else was said to be imprisoning her, why didn't it work? The Winchester's examined her the youngest looking at the elegant armor while the oldest focused more of the feminine features. "Sammy you read that book while in the car. Didn't you say something about her being the first female?" He asked his eyes not leaving her. "Yeah a model for Eve and later Amara's less celestial form. Why?" Sam asked touching the blade of the sword. "Yeah if that’s try why does she have a Adam's apple?"Cas wasn't fully paying attention until that sentence. His blue eyes imminently went to her throat were a noticeable lump was. "That wasn't there before." He mumbled loud enough for them to hear. Placing his ear just a centimetre away from her lips a shallow breath was let out and a wheezed inhale drew it back in.

The angel put his overlapping hands on her chest. He didn't know everything about humanity,but he knew enough to understand what he was about to do. He pushed with all his strength and he heard a sharp breath push out it just wasn't enough to dislodge whatever was there. Cas continued his actions and just when he was giving up hope she coughed up the chunk of apple and a weird substance. F/c glowing eyes snapped open as she lurched forward her grace burning bright casting a shadow behind her. It was a sight to see three sets of wings,what can only be described as a halo,along with twisted horns. After the grace calmed down her eyes returned to their normal color and they instantly when to Cas a wide smile spreading on her face. "My raven." She said. Y/n knew why she was awoken after all this time. To fight in a war she wanted no part of,but with the thought of putting everything in balance and striking down her father where he stood made her ready to fight. After all she felt like she's had enough Beauty Sleep.

/////////

A/n: This one took a minute,but I was torn between sleeping beauty and snow white since both of them fall asleep so a mix of both.

Also post #69....Noice

[goodomensblog]

A Love Like Moonlight

The Sequel to A Touch Like Sunlight. Though you don’t need to have read A Touch Like Sunlight to understand everything that’s happening here.

Warnings: violence, blood and injuries

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Faced with Gabriel, and Michael, and the inconceivable notion - the thought of his angel’s destruction at their cruel, merciless hands, the Hellfire coursing through his veins ceases it’s singing.

Instead, it screams.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. Burning - it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

Crowley can feel the glorious bite of fire - in his fingers, his arms, his mouth and throat. And when he turns to look upon Gabriel, Hellfire’s liquid heat flickers and pours like molten gold from his yellow eyes.

“You wanted justice, archangel?” Crowley spits, flames licking at his throat. When he smiles, they flicker, dancing between sharp, white teeth. “Shall we see if the fires of Hell can wipe the sins from your immortal soul?”

Or - the fic where Crowley fights a couple of Archangels 

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A Love Like Moonlight

After the apoca-wasn’t, time carries on - as time does. Days bleed into months, and months into years.

And through it all, Heaven and Hell remain unnervingly silent.

Crowley and Aziraphale sometimes catch sight of them - angels more often than demons. Not because the demons are any better at sneaking about; there are simply less of them sneaking (between the two, Heaven’s always been the more vengeful). But their watchers - whether angel or demon - don’t go so far as to speak. Rather, they observe - usually from some distance, dark gazes following. Watching.

Crowley and Aziraphale try not to think about them overmuch. After all, the body-swap should have convinced their respective sides of the angel and demon’s invulnerability to the two most deadly weapons in Heaven and Hell’s arsenals.

“Maybe we’re forgiven,” Aziraphale muses as he lifts a spoonful of fudge drenched sundae to his lips. He doesn’t sound as though he believes it.

Crowley definitely doesn’t believe it.

For a start, he’s a demon; Aziraphale’s about the only celestial being who seems interested in forgiving him that deficiency.

And as for Aziraphale - well, the archangels hadn’t seemed all that keen on forgiving or forgetting Aziraphale’s indiscretions when they’d, with tight lips and dark looks, released a disguised Crowley after Hellfire had failed to burn him.

“I certainly don’t relish the thought of real confrontation with them,” Aziraphale says, shifting in the restaurant’s cushioned seat.

“Who’s them?”

“Oh, I meant Heaven. Though I suppose-”

Taking a sip of dark, steaming coffee, Crowley waves. “Nah. I’m not worried about Hell. It’ll take them a few centuries at least to get that ball rolling. Took ‘em so long to kick off the whole Antichrist shindig, I’d begun to think it they’d changed their minds.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale muses, and a spoonful of sundae disappears.

“And as for Heaven - well, maybe it won’t come to that. You never know.”

“...perhaps,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley can almost see the angel’s willful optimism warring with his intimate knowledge of archangels’ particular breed of wrath.

Sighing, Aziraphale taps a finger along the spoon’s edge before setting it and the half-eaten sundae aside.

Crowley’s sharp gaze follows the abandoned sundae as it’s pushed across the table. Aziraphale has laced his fingers together, and is staring ponderously down at the bleached white tablecloth.

“I don’t…” Aziraphale starts, and Crowley leans in.

“...enjoy confrontation,” the angel finishes with a twist of his lips.

“Well that’s fine,” Crowley says, and shifts his hand so that their fingers are touching.

Aziraphale’s fingers twitch and his gaze flicks appreciatively up.

“But I’d fight,” Aziraphale says, and his hands slide across the table, knuckles bumping Crowley’s as he twists their fingers together. “If I had to. To protect us. The life we’ve made here.”

This, Crowley knows. It makes something in the depths of his very being burn; and it’s warm, flickering, and fragile.

The angel had, in the end, been willing to kill a child to rid the world of the Antichrist after all. He’d been ready to accept that black mark on his soul - being - whatever, to save Crowley, humanity, the world.

It was only Madame Tracy’s last second intervention which had spared him that.

Crowley regrets not taking up the gun on that rain soaked runway. Six thousand years spent rescuing Aziraphale from difficult choices - from sending a French executioner to his own beheading to bloodying his hands with the deaths of Nazi scum - and after all that he’d gone and asked Aziraphale to complete the darkest task of them all.

His angel won’t be put in that position again. Not if Crowley can help it.

“Don’t worry about all that, angel.”

“Well of course I worry,” Aziraphale says, giving him an affronted look.

“You’ve got me,” Crowley says, because he does, and Crowley likes to remind him of it.

His stiff posture softens. Squeezing Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale glances up. “I do. And you’ve got me. Always.”

Overcome, Crowley lifts Aziraphale’s hands, pressing his lips to soft knuckles. When Aziraphale sighs and smiles, Crowley feels alight, effervescent, and disentangles a single hand to press the sundae back toward the angel.

“Go on then. Finish your ice cream.”

“Well. If you insist,” Aziraphale says, eyes flashing in quiet mirth, and picks up the spoon with a little twirl. Scooping a melting spoonful, he swallows it with a contented hum.

Chin perched on a fist, Crowley watches him, taking easy joy in the angel’s delight.

Nightingales stretch their wings and ready to fly south as soon as leaves fade from green to yellow - not knowing, nor particularly caring to understand the interminable feeling in their tiny fluttering hearts which commands them. In much the same way, Crowley doesn’t think overmuch about protecting Aziraphale from facing a choice like the one at Tadfield again. Nightingales fly south in the autumn, and Crowley will do near anything to keep Aziraphale from anguish.

If Gabriel - or any of the other archangels make a move against them, Aziraphale will not be forced to bear the burden of taking up arms against a fellow angel. Not if Crowley has anything to say about it.

Because he’s got a plan. A decently good one too, he likes to think.

They’re on their own now - isolated from both Heaven and Hell, but that doesn’t mean Crowley doesn’t occasionally keep in touch. He has a contact or two, under-the-table type connections, of course. But it’s enough for him to keep an ear to the ground with regard to what Hell is up to, and sometimes, by association - Heaven.

It’s how he hears, three days after his and Aziraphale’s lunch date, about the knife.

The London Natural History Museum is busy this time of year.

Crowley slips through the crowd, shoes squeaking on polished marble.

The lesser demon is nearby - Crowley can sense him. When Crowley finds him, it’s in the Rocks and Minerals wing, and he’s hunched, squinting down at a display.

“What have you got for me?” Crowley says, glancing around at the milling crowd.

“Did you know there’s islands of rocks that float?” Daeval says, pressing his spindly fingers over a black and white picture.

Sparing the demon a single, withering look, Crowley pulls him away from the display.

“You called me. What information do you have?”

The demon, a scrawny thing with bony shoulders and a head just slightly too large for its body, looks somewhat like a human child - at least on this plane. And as Crowley drags him away from the display, he whines.

“Oh for - you’re not actually a child!” Crowley hisses, dragging the demon outside.

Outside, Daeval recoils, squinting at the light.

“Spill. Now,” He says, stepping in, crowding the little bastard.

Spindly hands lift and the demon is snarling. “Give me a chance to get a word out!”

“I’m waiting.”

Flicking a rude gesture, the demon begins. “I hear that the angels are looking for something.”

“For what?”

“From what I hear, it’s a knife.”

“A knife?”

What would an angel want with a knife?

“Not just any knife. An ancient one. Way, way back, an angel gave it to some poor sod. Apparently, the knife got a bit tainted, you see, with a touch of murderous intent. Then it slipped down to our end for a while, and was eventually lost.”

“And?”

“See, it’s an angelic blade that went a bit dark. It’s, uh, well they say it can kill both demons and angels.”

Crowley stills. He doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. His heartbeat silences so that he might better think.

“It can do what.”

“Kill angels. Kill demons. Stab ‘em and-” he flings out his hands, making a dramatic whooshing noise. “Gone. Permanent like.”

Crowley braces a hand against the closest wall. When his fingers tremble, he grinds them into the stucco until they still.

“This knife. Where is it?”

“Dunno. Just heard that some angels were looking for it. Asking around. Probably don’t want us demons getting our hands on it again, is my guess.”

“I don’t pay you to guess.”

“Don’t pay me much at all actually…”

“Yeah, just shh-” Crowley waves the demon silent. Pressing a fist to his lips, he paces in a tight circle.

It could be nothing, he thinks. Maybe the angel’s are simply interested in keeping it out of Hell’s grasp. But he knows Heaven, and he knows the kind of angels which preside there. And they’re the type that won’t stand to leave things unfinished. Not after Aziraphale’s slight.

Divine justice is swift. And it is unyielding.

And there apparently exists a knife to do it’s bidding.

The angels believe Aziraphale is immune to Hellfire.

This knife would be the perfect solution.

“Have they found it?”

“Don’t know.”

The sky is cloudless, the sun is bright, and powerful archangels might have a knife capable of killing one of their own. Spitting a swear, Crowley closes his eyes. Fingers curling, he presses his hand over his face; his bruised knuckles press into the skin around his glasses.

Either they’ve found it - or they will soon.

Heaven is relentless in that way.

“Daeval. It’s time,” Crowley finally says. “See to the preparations. You have three days.”

“First of all, that’s a rush job. Are you gonna pay me-”

Snatching up the demon’s hand, Crowley squeezes. Power flows down his arm, tingling through his fingers and into the demon’s small hand.

“There,” Crowley mutters, “Enough for a few powerful miracles. Happy?”

The demon, drawing his hand back, flexes his fingers. He grins, sharp teeth gleaming. “Feels good.”

“Yeah, great. Awesome. Can you do it or not?”

“Oh I can do it. Might need to use up a couple of these demonic miracles to make it happen though.”

“Do the job and there’ll be more where that came from.”

“...probably don’t want to be giving too many of those away. Seeing as it sounds like you’re going to be squaring up with an angel.”

“I don’t pay you to speculate about my business either. Besides, you get me what I need and there won’t be any fighting.”

“Oh there’s always fighting.”

“We’ll see about that,” Crowley says and flicks a hand, “Get going.”

With a wink and a mocking salute, the lesser demon disappears.

Crowley sinks back, collapsing against the wall. Heaving a breath, he drags his fingers through his hair.

It’s a decent plan. Maybe even a good one.

It will work.

It has to.

The alternative is-

Well, the angels will likely have an angel and demon slaying weapon soon - if they don’t already.

The alternative doesn’t really bear thinking about.

Crowley goes home - and if he holds Aziraphale a little tighter when they curl together on Aziraphale’s old mattress, the angel doesn’t mention it.

- - -

Three days later, there is a soft rap upon Crowley’s apartment door.

He’d long ago moved his plants to Aziraphale’s shop. These days the apartment is mostly used for extra storage (not that they really need it) and an extra hide-out in case of emergencies. Recently however, Crowley has been using it as a private space to ready materials for the plan.

Strolling through the bleak, empty halls he closes his eyes, focusing on the presence outside the door.

A minor demon.

When he yanks it open, the Daeval looks up, his grimy boots shifting nervously over the floor. A dark sack dangles over his bony shoulder.

“You got it?”

The demon nods, and licking his lips, passes Crowley the bag.

It’s not heavy.

Pulling it open, he spares a glance inside.

“That’s it,” he breathes.

Looking up, he holds out a hand.

The demon, flexing his fingers, shifts on his feet. “...Crowley-”

Crowley’s hand curls closed. “What?”

The demon rubs a grimy hand over his face. Shaking his head, he says, “I think - I think Lord Beelzebub is supporting the angels? Somehow? It’s how I know, I mean - I heard talk. It was - um, I think it’s happening. Today.”

With a snap, Crowley is gone.

The bookshop materializes around him. Closing his eyes, Crowley spreads his awareness.

He feels Aziraphale - there, in the back.

No one else.

Crowley opens his eyes with a shaky breath.

He’s turning a cursory glance around the shop when he sees it.

The card, gold embossed and glittering, is on the floor below the mail slot.

Crowley bends.

A Heavenly summons; on it, is Aziraphale’s name, written in demanding, golden letters.

He thought they might try something like this. Aziraphale would be loathe to ignore a formal summons, Crowley knows. Even after all that’s happened.

Too forgiving for his own good.

Taking the summons, Crowley tucks it into his blazer.

“Crowley? Is that you?” Aziraphale calls from the back.

“Yeah,” Crowley says “Just had to stop back and grab something. Going now though.”

And then Aziraphale’s head is peering around the corner. “Where did you say you were going, dear?”

When the angel steps into the shop proper, he’s holding an open book in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. His round reading glasses have slipped down his nose.

“Just some errands,” Crowley shrugs, smiling through the bitter taste of the lie. “A few little temptations to keep the world out there properly interesting. Be back before you know it.”

“Please do keep them little. I know it’s not, technically speaking, my job any longer - but I still feel like I ought to bestow a blessing or two to balance it out.”

“Do my best, angel,” Crowley says, and turns, lifting the bag.

“What’s that?”

Crowley shrugs, every muscle in his body straining for nonchalance. “Just some goodies to, you know, help with the tempting. Harmless stuff.”

There is a soft click as the mug is set on Aziraphale’s desk. Crowley hears the book slide beside it.

“...Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice is careful, “What’s wrong?”

Crowley shakes his head, not daring to look over his shoulder.

“Nothing’s wrong, angel”

“You once told me that you’ve never lied - not to me,” Aziraphale halts and takes a breath. “Tell me that’s still true”

Crowley closes his eyes.

“What’s happened Crowley?”

Turning, Crowley sets the bag aside. He’s across the shop in three long strides. When he cups Aziraphale’s face, he feels Aziraphale’s hands sliding up his sides. And when he leans in, pressing their foreheads together, Aziraphale’s hands press over his chest, fingers twisting in the lapels of his blazer.

“Dear, your behavior is doing nothing to assuage my fears.”

“I know,” Crowley says, and bends, dragging an achingly slow kiss over the angel’s lips.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens, and Crowley presses him back.

When Aziraphale bumps against his desk, Crowley stops.

Stroking his thumbs over the angel’s cheeks, Crowley heaves a shuddering breath. And when he says, “Angel, you know I’d do anything for you; extinguish every star in the universe if you asked it of me,” it’s an attempt to convey to Aziraphale, some fraction of his feelings.

Aziraphale’s grip tightens on his coat.

“I’d never ask such a thing of you. I know how you love the stars.”

“I know.”

Crowley presses another slow, careful kiss against the angel’s lips, and as soon as the grip slackens on his blazer - steps back.

Aziraphale reaches out, stepping to follow - and jerks to a halt.

A preternatural stillness settles over the angel as, palm flat, he presses his hand to the invisible barrier between them.

“What is...Crowley-,” Aziraphale says, gaze flicking from Crowley, to the barrier - and then to the rug beneath his feet.

He kicks it back.

The circle had been neatly concealed. Now, the runes glow a deep, blackened red, and undulate, slithering round one another on the wood floor.

Aziraphale kneels, reaching a hand toward the runes. His knuckles bump against the barrier.

“These are...these are in blood,” Aziraphale looks up. He’s pale. “Demon blood. Crowley-”

“Yeah. It’s mine,” he says, and somehow, he didn’t quite imagine this part would hurt so much.

Aziraphale presses a bracing hand against the invisible wall between them, and Crowley can tell he’s realized. Aziraphale is smart. It won’t have taken him long to connect the dots.

“Crowley. Dear,” his voice is soft, forced calm. “Come now. Let me out. Whatever’s come up, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

“They mean to kill you angel.”

Aziraphale’s other hand is pressing against the barrier. “Yes, and if they mean to do that to me, what do you think they intend for you?”

“I’ve got a plan.”

“If it’s a plan that involves leaving me here, it cannot be any good!” Aziraphale says, voice lifting. His eyes are flickering a bright, painful blue. “Let me out, Crowley. Let me out right now.”

“Can’t do that,” Crowley says, his throat dry.

The air within the circle has begun to whine. Aziraphale’s hands are pressed against the barrier, pale fingers splayed. He closes his eyes.

Licking his lips, Crowley spares a short glance at the glowing ruins.

Should hold.

The room trembles. Books topple from shelves and somewhere in the back, a painting slips off the wall.

Through it all, the circle remains.

Spent, Aziraphale sags against the invisible wall. His voice has gone ragged, and he looks up, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Crowley, don’t you dare do this.”

Swallowing around the ache in his throat, Crowley grimaces and turns, reaching for the bag.

“Crowley - Crowley, come now. Darling, please.”

Crowley picks up the bag, and says, quiet. “Angels can’t leave the circle. And angels can’t enter. You’ll be safe inside.”

“Crowley-”

“The circle will fade in ten hours - just in case, uh - you know, I’m not back to let you out.”

“Crowley.”

And here the angel’s voice cracks, and it’s desperate, sharp as shattered glass.

This is a betrayal. That it’s done for the right reasons, doesn’t change the nature of the act. And Crowley can’t bring himself to look at the results of it. The sounds alone have nearly broken him.

Bracing the bag against his shoulder, Crowley stares - like the worst kind of coward - at the floor. “I do plan on surviving this and returning to you, angel,” he says, and swallows. “If you’ll still have me.”

“Crowley. Crowley,” the angel’s voice is a sharp, painful caress. “Look at me. Please, just stop this nonsense and look at me.”

“Sorry Aziraphale,” Crowley’s voice is a rasp.

Fingers clenching around the bag, he wrenches open the door.

He steps into the sunlight.

“Crowley-”

Window panes shudder as the door slams at his back.

He hardly needs to think of the place he needs. He thoroughly investigated it over a year ago and has been back several times since. A single blink and his shoes are crunching over arid dirt and sand.

Crowley turns, surveying the shrub dusted desert.

Transporting himself here is a costly miracle, but if Daeval is correct, then there is little time to spare.

The sun sinks low on the horizon, painting the sky in watercolor pastels as Crowley inspects the area.

Satisfied, he nods and opens the black bag. From it, he draws out a small, onyx vase. Dropping the bag, he lifts the vase - and with a twist, removes the stopper.

When the stream of orange, crackling flames burst from the top, Crowley flicks a hand, drawing them round his finger. The fire wraps, slithering like a snake around the skin of his wrist, then up his sleeve. It climbs, flames caressing his skin, over his shoulder and then up his neck. Closing his eyes, Crowley breathes them in.

Just as suddenly as they appeared, they are gone. Or - not gone, exactly. Crowley can feel the Hellfire, a delightful burn in his veins.

The thing about Hellfire is: much in the same way that angels can create holy water, demons can create Hellfire from your average everyday flames. But the act takes nothing short of a Herculean effort. And it’s much harder to do outside of Hell.

So if you happen to be stuck on the earthly plan, the best option by far is to have someone retrieve it for you.

Besides, even a little bit of Hellfire - so long as it’s in the hands of a talented demon, can go a very long way.

Rolling his shoulders, Crowley draws the gold embellished summons from his blazer. He’s begun drawing a roughly circular design in the sand when he remembers.

Right. Wouldn’t want to forget that.

With a snap and a wave, his form shifts. Black clothes give way to tans and whites. Crowley doesn’t need a mirror to know that his red hair his fading, and white curls are taking its place.

Another costly miracle.

But a crucial one.

Straightening Aziraphale’s jacket, Crowley nods.

“Right then.”

It’s not like he hasn’t performed this bit before.

Brandishing the summons with a flourish, he drops it at the center of the design he’s carved into the sand.

Sometimes these things can work in reverse. If you just -

He snaps and points.

And - nothing happens.

Grumbling, he toes the dirt, amending the designs. Then, bending, adjusts the summons.

Blowing a breath, he snaps again.

Bright light floods the earthen runes. And then, from the pastel sky, white light filters down to dry desert earth.

Folding his arms behind him, Crowley assumes Aziraphale’s straight-backed posture.

“Hello?” he calls, Aziraphale’s voice loud in the silent desert. “Anyone there?”

He waits a moment before circling the summons. Frowning, he studies the design.

All good there.

Completing the circle, he stops, hands on his hips.

“Excuse me-”

The circle ignites with a fwhoomp!

The Archangel Gabriel steps out from the light.

He’s wearing the same suit jacket, gray and pressed, that he was wearing when Crowley last had the displeasure of encountering him.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, lips curving in a thin, bitter smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Not long enough, I think,” Crowley answers, folding his hands in front of him as he’s seen Aziraphale do thousands of times before.

Gabriel huffs a breath. “No. I suppose not,” and lifting a brow, glances around. “Anyway, why are you here? We were expecting you to come to us.”

“Last time I visited Heaven, you forced me to walk into Hellfire,” Crowley replies, voice clipped.

Gabriel shrugs, tilting his head. “Fair.”

Adjusting his coat, the archangel steps out of the portal. “I thought you’d have your demon buddy with you. As backup, or something.” He glances around as he says it, as if he half expects Crowley to materialize from behind a shrub.

“I left him behind. In a safe place.” Licking his lips, Crowley purposefully hesitates, as if he’s reluctant to add, “I don’t trust you, Gabriel.”

He completes the act by shifting nervously, Aziraphale’s oxfords crunching over dry sand.

“Don’t trust me?” Gabriel says, tilting his head.

“Be honest. Please. Why are you here?”

“To enact divine justice.”

Stomach sick and sinking, Crowley closes his eyes. When he opens them, he holds Gabriel with a long, hard look.

“In this particular case, what does divine justice require?”

“Death,” is Gabriel’s quiet answer.

“Mine?”

“Yours, Aziraphale.”

Crowley shifts. Hellfire sings in his veins.

Not yet. Not yet, he commands it.

“Is this by God’s order? Or yours?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Does it matter? I’m an angel. I work for God. My justice is inherently divine.”

“You can’t kill me,” Crowley says, shaking his head.

And then Gabriel is chuckling. “We couldn’t. For quite a while. But things have changed.” Gabriel pulls a long, dark dagger from within his jacket.

The hilt looks to have been originally made of wood, though now it’s blackened and charred. The blade itself is a bright silver, but dark lines of corruption climb up the metal, like infection spreading from a wound.

Crowley watches the dagger as Gabriel passes it into his dominant hand.

“What do you hope to gain from this murder?”

“Not murder. My God!” He gapes, openly horrified. “Justice, Aziraphale. Come on, we’re not animals.”

“Right. Forgot.” Crowley can’t help the sneer.

“Now, how should we do this?”

“Please don’t,” Crowley says, pitching Aziraphale’s voice low.

“You made your choice, Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, frowning. “These are the consequences.”

“Mercy,” Crowley whispers, and he hates how it sounds in Aziraphale’s voice. Swallowing, he forces out, “Gabriel, please.”

Gabriel stares, his purple gaze glowing bright enough to match the sky alight in dusk.

And then he’s blinking, grimacing as he shakes his head. “Ugh. Aziraphale. Don’t make me feel guilty about this. You betrayed Heaven. These are the rules.”

He flips the dagger in his hand.

It’s Crowley’s only warning.

White, radiant wings erupt from his back, and Gabriel pivots, his polished shoes sending sand flying as he surges forward, dagger lifted, poised to strike and -

He jerks to a stop.

He’s frozen, mid leap. He struggles to move, tendons bulging in his neck. His wide eyes turn on Crowley, and he bares his white, perfect teeth in an infuriated grimace.

“What is this?”

Crowley strolls toward him, Aziraphale’s features and clothes melting away.

“You failed the test, archangel,” Crowley says, taking no satisfaction in the sentence. Stepping around the demon, Crowley shifts a foot, dislodging sand. Dark designs catch the fading light.

They’d activated the second Gabriel stepped over them. When he’d chosen to kill Aziraphale.

“Release me, demon.”

Crowley is shaking his head, “If you’d forgiven him. If you’d just stopped this, I would have let you go.”

Solemn, Crowley unculrs his fingers. Hellfire ignites in his palm.

“Demon. Crowley - Crowley. Stay back!” Gabriel’s voice has turned high and panicked.

Crowley doesn’t like this. But he likes the idea of Aziraphale being harmed by Gabriel infinitely less.

He lifts his hand, Hellfire reflecting in his dark gaze. “You have your justice, archangel. I have mine.”

And then Gabriel is stuttering, “Michael! Michael!”

A flash of blindingly white light illuminates the desert; it’s immediately followed by the cacophonous crash of thunder.

The Archangel Michael stands at Crowley’s back, the ground smoking at her feet. Her hand is half lifted, poised to strike, and -

Frozen.

Her eyes flicker, looking desperately from Gabriel to Crowley as she strains to move.

Crowley tsks.

“Oh come on, you really thought I’d only lay one trap? I’ve had years Gabriel. This bloody desert is full of ‘em.”

Gabriel and Michael share a wide-eyed look.

“So you’re welcome to call as many angels as you want. They’ll all get stuck like flies on-”

Wait, what is it that flies get stuck on?

Crowley frowns, thinking. Hellfire flickers in his palm.

Gabriel grunts, straining in vain against the trap’s hold. When that doesn’t work, he starts to mutter.

“Hey. Hey. I could use some help here.”

Crowley turns toward the archangel, and when the Hellfire dances, eager, he soothes it with a breath.

Gabriel is groaning. “Don’t make me beg. Come on, you dick.” And then he’s deflating, closing his eyes. “Fine. Fine! Please help me!”

Michael is watching him with a sharp frown.

Crowley stares, “Who are you talking-”

A cold rumbling breaks the quiet night as dark mist gathers, pouring from beneath the earth.

“Oh fuck me,” Crowley manages, dragging his dark glasses off as the dry sand parts, and a dark-haired demon rises.

Lord Beelzebub sneers, turning a flat, disinterested look over the scene.

When their black gaze falls on Gabriel, they snap, “What.”

Gabriel’s eyes flick down. He meaningfully lifts his brows.

Beelzebub watches him with a blank stare.

“Break the damn trap!”

Crowley snaps a hand around his Hellfire, drawing it back as he rounds on Beelzebub. “Hey. Wait. No. No.”

Baring their teeth, Beelzebub snarls when Crowley takes a step too close. He instinctively hops back.

“We are not on the same side, Crowley. Not after what you did,” they hiss, and if eyes were capable of murder (There is actually a demon with that ability. Thankfully, it is not Beelzebub.), Crowley would surely be dead.

“Oh and you’re on what, the angel’s side now?”

“I’m on Hell’s side, you miserable excuse for a demon!”

“Alright. Good. Great,” Crowley says, “Then maybe you can, I don’t know, leave?”

Beelzebub frowns, looking from Crowley, to Michael, and then finally, Gabriel.

“I’ll owe you one?” Gabriel bares his teeth in a weak smile.

Pinching the bridge of their nose, Beelzebub heaves a deep sigh.

Crowley is shaking his head, the sharp burn of adrenaline already flooding his Earthly body. “Shit.”

Beelzebub spares Crowley a long, hard look. “There was a time when I would have mourned you, Crowley,” and then they’re turning, glaring at Gabriel. “You’ll owe me five. Asshole.” With a lazy flick, the traps surrounding them go up in smoke.

“Goodbye Crowley,” Beelzebub says without meeting his eyes.

Crowley watches, hands dangling at his sides, as the demon sinks smoothly back into the earth.

Polished leather shoes shift, crunching over dirt.

Crowley stills, tilting his head to observe Gabriel straightening up. The archangel rolls his neck as he adjusts his grip on the dagger.

At Crowley’s back, Michael roughly yanks her jacket into place. When she lifts a hand, a gleaming sword materializes in her open palm.

Crowley shifts so that he can watch them both as his mind furiously works to come up with something - anything to get him out of this mess.

Damn Beelzebub - again.

“Well,” Gabriel says, his voice flat. “That was a fun diversion, but I think it’s time we got on with our regularly scheduled programming. Don’t you think, Michael?”

“Yes. I want to leave.”

Gabriel nods, and turns to Crowley, gesturing with the dagger. “After we kill you - and make no mistake, we will kill you for this - we’re going to find Aziraphale and finish him. It’s important to me,” Gabriel says holding his gaze, “that you know this. I want you to die with the excruciating awareness of exactly how much you fucked up.”

The book shop is warded. And Aziraphale is still safe within the blood runes. He should be able to escape, even if the archangels are waiting for him. When the seal breaks, Aziraphale will have time enough for a quick miracle to get him far enough away to run.

But the image that follows, of Aziraphale fleeing - with no one and nothing in the wide globe willing - or powerful to help him (not nearly enough remains of Adam’s power to take on an archangel), is almost too painful to consider. And yet it’s impossible for Crowley not to picture those inevitable final moments, in which Aziraphale is eventually tracked down, surrounded by more angels than he can handle. When a dark, corrupted dagger of heaven’s own make is mercilessly driven into his kind, good heart.

Thinking about it makes Crowley burn.

Faced with Gabriel, and Michael, and the inconceivable notion - the thought of his angel’s destruction at their cruel, merciless hands, the Hellfire coursing through his veins ceases it’s singing.

Instead, it screams.

The flame is stirring, climbing, filling him. Burning - it roars, demanding air, freedom, destruction.

Crowley gives it what it desires.

His dark wings unfurl. Beneath black feathers, hellfire crackles and glows. His wings arc back, and molten sparks erupt from the dark plumage. In the dark desert, they fall like rain.

Crowley can feel the glorious bite of fire - in his fingers, his arms, his mouth and throat. And when he turns to look upon Gabriel, Hellfire’s liquid heat flickers and pours like molten gold from his yellow eyes.

“You wanted justice, archangel?” Crowley spits, flames licking at his throat. When he smiles, they flicker, dancing between sharp, white teeth. “Shall we see if the fires of Hell can wipe the sins from your immortal soul?”

And just like that - the archangels attack.

The bursts of Hellish flame can be seen for miles. And the air on the flat desert screams, rent by the merciless cut of archangels’ wings.

Dagger and sword flash, cruel steel catching and reflecting Hellfire’s impossibly bright flame. Forged in Heavenly flame and cooled in holy water, the weapons were made for carving demon flesh from bone.

Crowley fights. He fights for his life; for Aziraphale’s.

Flanked by archangel’s, he uses every demonic trick he’s ever known.

When he is shoved to the ground, pinned beneath Gabriel’s hard hand and Michael’s boot, both Archangel’s are blackened, and in places, fire has singed through skin. Michael wobbles, the sword dangling loose in her grasp. Her free hand presses against her side. Between her fingers, golden blood spills.

A long score of singed flesh mars Gabriel’s cheek, and he’s lost the use of his scorched right leg.

The archangel’s hand trembles as he shoves Crowley down. And the earth cracks and splinters beneath the demon’s still smoldering wings.

Crowley gasps, and he can feel his ribs cracking beneath the angel’s hand. Hellfire churns within - he can feel it in his mouth and throat, but he can’t draw a breath; his head is spinning. From a wound at the back of his skull, dark blood streams, feeding dry earth. There are cuts along his arms as well, and a particularly deep one in his side that Crowley has decided he’d better not think about for long.

When Gabriel draws the dagger, pressing it’s silver tip to Crowley’s heaving chest, Crowley draws an agonized breath. Fire flickers behind his teeth, licking at his bleeding lips, but he’s spent - can no longer command it.

“Just do it Gabriel,” Michael says, shuddering as she redoubles the pressure on her wound. “I’m fading.”

Crowley stares up at Gabriel - into those unblinking purple eyes. There is a flicker of emotion there. Guilt, maybe. Or perhaps it’s mere annoyance, because Crowley watches Gabriel steel himself; and then the tip of the dagger is piercing skin.

Agony.

His guttural shout pierces the arid desert air.

The dagger is corrupted, but there’s more than enough holiness left to sear as it digs into Crowley’s flesh.

The Hellfire is burning, wild. Crowley feels it expanding, consuming as Gabriel readies to shove the dagger between his ribs.

And as Crowley stares up, flames caressing his lips, he suddenly knows what he must do.

The Hellfire is raging, eager, hungry. It’s a task to control it. Even for a demon.

It’s easy, however, to give in.

The fire expands, growing - consuming. Crowley tilts his head back as flames spill from his lips, his nose, his eyes. Hacking a weak laugh, he bares his teeth at the angels above him.

“Together then,” he says as Hellfire crawls out of his mouth, down the skin of his throat.

He’s completely let go. No longer Crowley. No longer demon. But a molten, hungry bomb.

“Gabriel!” Michael commands, “Do it! Now!”

Gabriel twists the dagger and -

Lighting cracks through the sky. When the screaming bolt strikes earth, white electricity splinters out, carving sizzling pathways through sand.

White, crackling electricity lights the figure in a pale glow.

There, Aziraphale stands, his jacket billowing and hair windblown.

No.

Crowley looks upon his angel, dread sinking into his battered bones.

Not here. Let him be anywhere but here.

Especially now, when Hellfire is seconds from razing desert, brush, stone.

Chest heaving, he focuses, straining to draw the Hellfire back. It’s like trying to catch air in his fist. With a ragged gasp he manages to get a hold on it, barely; and the fire is nowhere near subdued.

The noise has Aziraphale turning.

Gabriel’s attention is on Aziraphale. His white knuckles wrap around the ancient blade, it’s holy edge digging half an inch into demon flesh. All he has to do is press.

And Crowley is burning - fading. Nearly overcome.

As Aziraphale twists around, his eyes desperately searching the dark desert, Crowley watches his wide blue gaze look from Gabriel, to the dagger and Crowley’s broken figure beneath, and finally, finally to Crowley’s inflamed eyes. Aziraphale’s chest heaves - and then Crowley is gasping, fire leaking from his battered lips,

“Angel, fly.”

But Aziraphale isn’t flying, or running, or anything of the like.

Aziraphale’s hands have closed into fists; they tremble as he stares, brows lifting, skin creasing between them, as though he can’t quite believe what he is seeing.

Crowley shudders, chest heaving. Dark blood pools around the dagger, trickling down his skin.

“Angel,” Crowley begs.

Run.

Fly.

Anything - so long as you go far away from here.

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s voice trembles, and the silence that follows is the hollow rush before a wave folds, crashing over sand; it is the cringing anticipation the millisecond before a dropped glass shatters; the heavy eternity after lighting flashes through the heavens, when one holds their breath and waits for thunder.

The angel blinks and looks down at his hand. The flaming sword is there, settled in his open palm.

“Now, Gabriel,” Michael hisses, shaking. “Do it or I will.”

Crowley can feel Gabriel turn back to him, but Crowley has eyes for Aziraphale only. His angel has begun to glow.

Wind picks up, stirring sand and tearing through shrubs. Aziraphale stands at its center, untouched, as his eyes flicker with terrible brightness.

“You will not.”

The voice is Aziraphale’s - and it’s not. It is simultaneously close and distant, and it resonates, expanding to fill the space around them.

Gabriel’s shoulders lift and he stills. He and Michael share a glance.

“We were warned of this,” Michael whispers, wincing as she sinks to a knee. “We were supposed to kill him right away, Gabriel.”

“Principality Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls, his voice low and commanding. “Remember yourself, angel!”

Aziraphale tilts his head. His wings slowly open, but there are more of them than there were before. And from the feathers, eyes blink. They are wide, and terrible, and stare out from infinite depths.

“Stand down, Aziraphale,” Gabriel calls. “Stand down and we will spare your demon.”

From Aziraphale’s eyes, blue light pours. And it’s expanding - filling his mouth, and rising - crackling and bright, it arcs through the air around him.

“You will spare him because it is right.”

Gabriel is shaking his head. “You don’t know that!”

“I know it,” Aziraphale says in that impossible voice.

He’s marvelous, and Crowley can’t look away.

The wind is howling and Aziraphale stands at its center, unmoved.

“We have to snap him out of this,” Michael says, and summoning strength, lifts her holy sword.

Crowley doesn’t realize she means to cleave his head from body until the flash of metal catches his eye.

The air screams, snapping as it is cut by too many angel wings.

A hand wraps around the blade, catching it before it can fall. From where Aziraphale’s fingers grip the gleaming metal, golden blood collects and drips. Crowley watches it stream down the angel’s arm. Aziraphale doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes - all of them - are focused on Michael, where she stands, straight backed and trembling, before him. His flaming sword is pointed at her chest.

“Go home Michael,” Aziraphale commands, terrible and impossible. Reality seems to bend, warping around him. “Go home, else I be forced to end you where you stand.”

Michael shakes her head. She’s staring at him, eyes wide. “You don’t have that power, angel.”

Aziraphale’s fingers release her blade. He stares, almost disinterested, at the golden blood pooling in his palm. His brows draw together, and he speaks slowly, as if trying out the words. “I think I do.”

Glowing eyes flick up, and Michael takes a step back. Swallowing, she makes a single, sharp gesture and transports away with a pop.

Crowley stares up at Aziraphale, and he’s expending every ounce of his energy holding the Hellfire at bay. Aziraphale is - he’s beautiful and dreadful, and he’s become something powerful, otherworldly. But even with unfiltered, wrathful power radiating from his earthly form, Crowley fears what an explosion of Hellfire would do to Aziraphale at such close range.

The knife is pressing down - perhaps an unconscious action on Gabriel’s part, and Crowley gasps as the searing pain redoubles.

Aziraphale is on the archangel before the sound has fully left Crowley’s throat.

Wings snapping, he shoves Gabriel up and off Crowley.

When Gabriel, re-gripping the dagger, slashes out at Aziraphale, the angel sends the dagger flying with a flick. The blade spins, sinking hilt deep in sand.

Aziraphale stands between Gabriel and Crowley, every one of his glowing eyes glaring with burning brightness at the archangel.

“Okay, what the fuck Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale blinks, and so too do the rest of the eyes.

“You mean to murder Crowley. And Aziraphale: Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Third person, really?”

When Aziraphale steps toward him, Gabriel hops back, and his palms are raised, placating.

“Okay, no. Not murder. This was supposed to be justice Aziraphale. You betrayed Heaven!”

Aziraphale hesitates, the crackling energy around him intensifies. His wings shiver.

“No,” he finally answers, distant. “It’s not...justice.”

“And you would know?”

Slowly, Aziraphale looks from Gabriel, then back to Crowley. Golden, ethereal blood drips, like tears from his eyes.

“Yes. I can hear Her.”

Gabriel physically staggers.

“No. No. That can’t - No one’s actually heard Her voice. Not since-”

“I hear Her now, Gabriel.” Aziraphale says, in that somber, distant tone, as though a part of his mind resides elsewhere. Liquid gold streams over Aziraphale’s jaw and down the curve of his neck.

Crowley has the horrified thought that this might be killing him.

“Aziraphale,” he rasps, hopelessly reaching. “Whatever it is you’re doing - you can stop now, angel. Rest.”

“Not yet,” Aziraphale says, looking to Gabriel.

When he lifts a hand, the archangel flinches, stepping into a fighting stance.

“You’re to be confined. Here. On Earth, Archangel Gabriel. Powerless. Like a human.”

“What?” Gabriel snaps.

“And here you will remain. Until you learn one very important lesson. The most important of them all.”

“What? No. What?”

“You, Archangel Gabriel, must learn true, selfless love.”

Gabriel gapes. “Oh come on! You can’t honestly expect me to believe-”

Aziraphale lifts a hand. A wide, impassive eye blinks upon his palm. Aziraphale flicks his wrist, and Gabriel is gone.

“I agree,” Aziraphale says, answering an unheard voice. “Los Angeles is a suitable punishment, I think.”

A fresh stream of angelic blood rolls down Aziraphale’s neck. This time, from his ears.

Crowley is sweating, unconstrained Hellfire burning him from the inside out. Groaning, he struggles to rise.

“Angel. Aziraphale. You’ve got to break the connection, love. Hang up,” Crowley coughs, gasping. “It’s hurting you.”

Aziraphale’s brows draw together and he touches a hand to his neck. He blinks, staring blankly down at the blood.

“Oh.”

And he tilts his head, listening.

“Love? What about it? I don’t understand.”

And then the angel is staggering back, the glow around him slowly fading.

When Aziraphale turns, the light in his gaze has dimmed enough for Crowley to once again see his eyes. Gone is the aloof distance. And when Aziraphale looks to Crowley, his emotions flicker, devastatingly open across his face.

“Oh. Oh - Crowley!”

Aziraphale is dropping beside him, hands fluttering, as if afraid of harming Crowley further with his touch. The extra wings are still there. So are the eyes. And they all watch Crowley, Aziraphale’s agony mirrored in their inhuman stares.

When Aziraphale cradles his face, cool fingers gently brushing his bruised cheeks, Crowley sinks into the touch, closing his eyes.

But the Hellfire is pressing up. Impatient. Eager.

Eyes snapping open, Crowley presses a hand to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Angel,” he says, stiffening in pain. “Angel, you need to leave. Hurry.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice is sharp, afraid. “What’s happening to you?”

“Hellfire,” Crowley manages to gasp.

“But it’s - that - it can’t hurt you!”

Crowley heaves a deep breath and then another. He can’t seem to get enough air.

“I...did a bad thing angel. Unleashed the monster, if you will. Now...it won’t stand to be leashed again. Hellfire’s tricky that way.”

Aziraphale stares at him, horrified. “What?”

“It wants out. And it’s gonna go through my very being to get there.”

“Crowley. There has to be - I mean, there must be something-”

Crowley, shaking with the effort, grabs a fistful of Aziraphale’s shirt. “Don’t even know how you got here, but you need to leave. Now. I am not,” Crowley roughly shakes him, “going to let you burn with me.”

When Aziraphale doesn’t move, Crowley’s chest heaves.

“Angel please-”

“You left me behind,” Aziraphale hisses, cutting him off. “And now you expect me to leave you. Here? Like this?” His voice breaks.

Hearing it hurts - more than Crowley had previously thought possible.

Crowley slowly, agonizingly lifts a shaking hand. Gritting his teeth, he presses it against Aziraphale cheek, still damp with angelic blood.

“Angel. Angel. I’m so sorry.”

Eyes fluttering closed, Aziraphale leans into the touch.

“If - If we could do it over again, I wouldn’t change a thing, not a moment- save admitting my love for you sooner. What I wouldn’t give for more-”.

Aziraphale’s eyes snap open. All of them.

“Love,” Aziraphale breathes.

“Yes?”

And then Aziraphale is shaking his head, “No. It’s love. The thing that Gabriel needs to learn. What allowed me to hear the Almighty today. Love, Crowley.”

Crowley is trying to concentrate, he really is - but it’s taking nearly everything to hold the damned Hellfire back. And it’s a fight he’s rapidly losing.

“Aziraphale. Stop. Just listen,” he says, screwing his eyes closed. “You’ve got to go. I’m begging you.”

When Aziraphale’s soft fingers brush his face, Crowley flinches back.

“Angel-”

“We are going to discuss my anger at the dismal way you handled this situation later.”

Crowley swallows around the fire in his throat.

“There is no later, Aziraphale-”

When Aziraphale sets a finger against his lips, Crowley presses them desperately closed.

“Maybe there can be,” Aziraphale murmurs, kneeling over him. “At the very least, I’ve got to try.”

And then Aziraphale’s hands are cradling his jaw, thumbs stroking battered skin. One of his hands shifts back, gently lifting Crowley’s head.

When his fingers touch the wound there, Crowley’s lips part in an involuntary hiss. Molten fire spills down his jaw. Though it passes centimeters from Aziraphale’s skin, the angel doesn’t shift his hand.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, horrified. “Angel - what’re you-”

Aziraphale’s fingers press beneath Crowley’s jaw, tilting his head up.

Blue eyes glowing impossibly bright, Aziraphale says, “I love you. Wholly. Fully. Purely. With all of my being,” and presses his lips to Crowley’s.

Crowley jerks back, white hot panic roaring through him.

Flames are in Crowley’s throat, his mouth, his nose, his eyes.

Aziraphale’s flesh will burn. And then he’ll swallow the flame himself. Be consumed from the inside out.

But Aziraphale has a hand at the back of his head. His other grips Crowley’s jaw, and as Crowley gasps, too weak to shove him back, Aziraphale closes his eyes and deepens the kiss.

Crowley closes his eyes. Cowardly though it may be, he can’t bear to watch.

Aziraphale’s thumb is stroking a fumbling path over his cheek, and as Crowley shudders, Aziraphale kisses him again and again, deeply and unflinchingly.

Gasping, Aziraphale whispers, strained against his lips. “I love you. I love you with all of my being. I love you and nothing - no part of you - would ever harm me.” Another kiss, and he starts the mantra again.

This goes on, and Crowley can’t bear it because he’s waiting for Aziraphale’s voice to hitch, for his angel to begin to tremble as he’s devoured by hungry Hellfire. Crowley is so entirely, soul-consumingly destroyed by the idea of it, that it takes him a long moment to realize his cheeks are no longer hot, but wet.

It’s no longer Hellfire, but tears spilling from his eyes.

Blinking wet lashes, Crowley stares.

Before him, Aziraphale kneels. The glow in his blue eyes has faded, both the extra wings and the otherworldly eyes are gone, and the angel’s soft skin, lit by the pale moonlight, is unmarred. Gentle fingers brush the tears from Crowley’s cheeks, and the angel’s lips part in a wobbly smile.

“What - how - angel, what did you do?” Crowley sits up, and is amazed to find his body only protests with a dull ache. He glances down to see the lacerations in his skin have faded.

“I took the Hellfire.”

“You what?”

Aziraphale’s eyes flick down, and he presses his lips together. “I love you. More than anything,” he says, glancing up. “You love me too, and I told myself that no part of you - nothing from you, could ever hurt me.”

Crowley is reaching up, cradling Aziraphale’s face in his hands before the angel has even finished speaking. “Simple as that?”

Aziraphale shrugs, pressing his hands over Crowley’s. “Love is the simplest thing there is.”

At that, Crowley’s throat aches, and he feels uncomfortably like he might once again start crying. Dragging the angel closer, he presses his face into his shoulder. “M’really glad you’re okay.”

Aziraphale’s arms encircle him, and then his hands are clutching at the scorched shirt on Crowley’s back. “I’m glad you’re okay! Oh, Crowley, when you left and I was alone, there in the shop-”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Crowley draws his arms tighter around Aziraphale. “Angel, I - forgive me. I was only trying to-”

“Oh hush. It’s - well I can’t say it’s okay. I’m awfully angry about it still,” Aziraphale says, face pressed into Crowley’s neck. “But let’s discuss it later. Please.”

“Of course, angel. Anything,” Crowley says, leaning back to brush a kiss against his ear, then his jaw and his cheek.

Stroking a hand down Aziraphale’s neck, he wipes at the damp blood.

“Aziraphale - did you know you could talk to God?”

“Oh no, I had no idea! Though,” he hesitates, “I did do it once, I suppose. It was quite a while back, and I just assumed she occasionally had little chats with everyone.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Yes, well I know that now.”

“Well,” Crowley says, using his sleeve to wipe up the last of the blood. “That was a day. You ready to go home?”

“Oh yes please.”

Hand in hand they rise, stumbling to their feet.

“Should we fly?” Crowley asks, looking around at the empty desert. “I could miracle us, but I’ll need a moment to recharge.”

“I’m spent too, actually. I’m not sure I’ve even got the energy to fly, frankly.”

Lifting his wrist, Crowley squints down at his watch. “I think, ehhh - about 15 minutes should do. Until then, care for a moonlight walk?” He nods in a generally Easterly direction. “Home’s that way. Wouldn’t hurt to walk a bit of it.”

Smiling, Aziraphale takes his arm. “A walk sounds lovely.”

As they pass the dagger, Crowley gives it a kick. The blackened hilt skitters across the sand. The blade has disintegrated.

“You do that?”

Aziraphale shrugs. “Possibly.”

Crowley nods and they continue on.

The broken, blackened hilt is an inanimate object, and so it cannot think, touch, smell, or hear, and it certainly cannot watch the angel and demon, walking arm-in-arm away from the battle scorched earth. If it could however, this is what it would have observed:

As they walk together, distance making them grow small, Crowley turns a sudden sharp look at the angel. “How did you get out from the circle, by the way?”

“Oh that? Your little demon friend stopped by looking for you. Apparently you owe him some demonic miracles? Anyway, I convinced him to wipe away a few runes.”

“My - wait - Daeval let you out?”

“He’s quite pleasant,” Aziraphale says, as they stroll away, their voices growing all the more quiet.

“He’s a little shit! I told him he was never to come to the bookshop.”

“I’ve already invited him to tea next Tuesday.”

“Angel, no.”

“Oh! And you can make those spinach-pastries. The ones I like so much. You will, won’t you?”

A long pause. Somewhere, an owl hoots in the darkness.

“...Fine. Okay, yes.”

“Oh lovely!”

The moon illuminates their figures - one light, the other dark, as they walk, leaning toward one another as if drawn by gravity. And when the one in black turns, replying with hushed words and a contented smile, distance and the sleeping desert at long last swallow their contented voices.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I’m thinking I might write an epilogue :)

Some of you asked to be tagged! I’m 100% positive I’ve missed some of you. If you were forgotten, sorry!

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[dessarious]

Misconceptions, Miscommunication, and Misinformation Pt67

Inspired by @ozmav Maribat AU

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“How many times?” Ladybug could see the strain on Viperion’s face and guilt ate at her. This was a big part of why she’d stopped using him unless absolutely necessary. The mental toll it had to take on him to see them all injured or dead and be the only one to remember was a heavy burden and she didn’t like that it fell to Luka of all people. He gave her a reassuring smile.

“Twelve so far, but I think we’re close. He’s only got so many tricks and we’re weeding them out quickly.” For all he sounded positive and upbeat she could still hear a rawness under the words. Anyone else would miss it, though given the way Damian was side eyeing him, he heard it too. Given the way the snake holder was looking at Discorde she could guess which of the four of them had taken the brunt of the damage.

“Your plan is obviously not working. We should retreat and come up with something better now that we have more data.” She managed to keep from rolling her eyes at Damian, but only barely. Leaving now was one of the worst things they could do.

“We have data about the here and now but that will be worse than useless if we leave now Raphael.” He frowned at the name but she just grinned at him. He’d point blank refused to pick a name so she’d gone with the surliest of the turtles she knew. He didn’t understand the reference and that just made it funnier. “If we stop learning new things and still can’t find a way to defeat him then, and only then, will we leave. The man is too desperate for us to give him time to act without terrible consequences.” He didn’t look happy but he did stay silent. They didn’t have much time to plan before they had to go back in. Luka’s timer currently gave them about half an hour for each attempt and they couldn’t afford to waste too much time arguing.

Damian’s transformation was interesting to say the least. His suit was a dark forest green with overlapping armored plates. His shield was larger than Carapace’s had been and had far more utility. The top was more squared off and the rim could detach into two boomerangs allowing him to fight in a ranged capacity while still defending. The rest of the shield could also be split down the middle so he could block attacks from two different directions at once as well as use them to ram enemies. She wasn’t surprised that his transformation was so much more combat oriented than Wayzz normally did.

“Red Robin, plan sea green with rooftop access.” Viperion went straight into reporting mode and she heard Tim muttering while trying to pull up one of his many contingencies.

“Are you sure? If I don’t that you won’t be able to see.” Given that He was the one that had to give Luka the name it was a less than intelligent question, but he answered anyway.

“Discorde will be able to and that’s the most important thing to begin with.We’ll go in through that hatch and drop on him. Discorde, you need to Cataclysm his cane immediately and then tell Red Robin to turn on low lighting so the rest of us can help.” Ladybug shared a frown with Damian.

“Why is the cane so important?” Viperion actually shuddered before responding.

“It houses a sword that can pierce our suits and your cure won’t fix the damage if he’s still wielding his Miraculous. I don’t know why.” She heard Discorde suck in a breath but all she felt was tired and sad.

“Nooroo’s been used improperly for too long, his will is starting to yield to Gabriel’s. If he gives up entirely there’s not telling how powerful Gabriel will become. The cane is the only weapon you’re aware of?” He just nodded and she knew that there hadn’t been time for her to give him a more detailed plan. “Okay, so Discorde goes in and disarms him and we drop in once there’s enough light that we won’t trip over each other. Raphael will put up a shield around the three of us and Gabriel with Viperion on the other side so that we have better odds taking him down.”

She could tell no one was happy with the plan. Viperion understood the necessity of keeping him out of danger, but he hated watching from the sidelines and she knew it. Damian and his brother couldn’t stand the uncertainty of it all. Discorde was close to just Cataclysming Gabriel to put an end to things, or maybe come up with something like what she did to Superman. The second might become necessary if they didn’t end this soon. Actually…

“Discorde, do you think you can come up with something for Gabriel like you did Superman? Something that will make him too weak physically to actually fight us.” She frowned and cocked her head as though listening to something.

“I can try but I’m not sure if it will work the same on another holder. Plagg gave me specific instructions on what to do for the Super Pain but I can try.” Ladybug hummed in thought before turning to Viperion.

“We’ll go in full force this time but if things go south and you have to reset again tell us to have Discorde try from inside the vent before we go after him next time.” He gave a single nod before leading them to the roof access for the vent. She took a calming breath before pulling off the cover. Time for lucky number thirteen.

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