#uriel x little ash

[aroaceblackhole]

EVERYONE NEEDS to read When the Angels Left the Old Country, by Sacha Lamb. It is so fucking good, and relatively Good Omens coded. I read it a while ago, was organizing my books(finally), and re-read it. IT'S SO HALALFLDSHFDJALFHJ. The main characters are Little Ash(a demon) and Uriel(an angel), and it's so!!!! READ IT NOW PLEASE AND THANK YOU(tell me what you think if you do)

[jewish-ship-showdown]

Ships that have already qualified (read before submitting):

Jude Lizowski/Jonesy Garcia

Tyler Kennedy "TK" Strand/Carlos Reyes

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/Gwen Stacey

Willow Rosenberg/Winifred "Fred" Burkle

Francine Frensky/Muffy Crosswire

Susan Ivanova/Marcus Cole

Kate Kane (Batwoman)/Renee Montoya

Barry B. Benson/Vanessa Bloome

Jake Peralta/Amy Santiago

Willow Rosenberg/Tara Maclay

Jack Zimmermann/Eric "Bitty" Bittle

Justin "Ransom" Oluransi/Adam "Holster" Birkholtz

Danny/Reuven

Larissa "Lara" Bogdan/Jasmine

Kelsey Pokly/Isabella "Stacks" Alvarado

Rebecca Bunch/Audra Levine

Rebecca Bunch/Greg Serrano

Rebecca Bunch/Nathaniel Plimpton

Samantha "Sam" Manson/Danniel "Danny" Fenton

Bruce Wayne (Batman)/Selina Kyla (Catwoman)

Bruce Wayne (Batman)/Clark Kent (Superman)

Clark Kent (Superman)/Lois Lane

Harley Quinn/Pamela Isley (Poison Ivy)

Barney Guttman/Logan Nguyen

Leah/Chanan

Shay Goldstein/Dominic Yun

Marvin/Whizzer

Trina/Mendel Weisenbachfeld

Perchik/Hodel

Tzeitel/Motel

Monica Gellar/Chandler Bing

Molly McGee/Libby Stein Torres

Rachel Berry/Noah Puckerman

Fiddleford McGucket/Stanford Pines

Cristina Yang/Owen Hunt

Cristina Yang/Preston Burke

Levi Schmidt/Nico Kim

Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam

James Wilson/Gregory House

The Baker and/The Baker's Wife

Kim Possible/Ron Stoppable

The Jewish People/The Shabbat Bride

Alec Hardison/Parker

Max Eisenhardt (Magneto)/Charles Xavier (Professor X)

Steve Rogers (Captain America)/James "Bucky" Barnes

Arnold "Arnie" Roth/Michael Bech

Arnold "Arnie" Roth/Steve Rogers (Captain America)

Billy Kaplan (Wiccan)/Teddy Altman (Hulkling)

Bobby Drake (Iceman)/Hank McCoy (Beast)

Bobby Drake (Iceman)/Johnny Storm (The Human Torch)

Layla El Faouly/Mark Spector (Moon Knight)

Matthew Hawk (Two-Gun Kid II)/Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/Betty Brant

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/Eugene "Flash" Thompson

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/ Felicia Hardy

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/ Harry Osborn

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/Katherine Anne "Kitty" Pryde

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/Mary Jane "MJ" Watson

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)/Wade Wilson (Deadpool)

Steve Rogers/Bernadette "Bernie" Rosenthal

Wanda Maximoff/The Vision

Midge Maisel/Susie Myerson

Hal Emmerich (Otacon)/Solid Snake

Casey Goldberg-Calderon/Lunella Lafayette

Fran Fine/Max Sheffield

Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar

Winston Schmidt/Cece Parekh

David Jacobs/Jack Kelly

Seth Cohen/Summer Roberts

Scout Touzani/Elias Wyrick

KJ Brandman/Mac Coyle

Lavinia Asimov/Poison Oak

Phineas Flynn/Isabella Garcia-Shapiro

Anon's Mom/Dad

The person reading this & their partner

Jerry Seinfeld/Cosmo Kramer

Simon Lewis/Isabel Lightwood

Danielle/Maya

Bram Greenfeld/Simon Spier

Miryem Mandelstam/The Staryk King

David Rose/Patrick Brewer

James T Kirk/S'chn T'gai Spock

Worf Rozhenko/Jadzia Dax

Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla

Brian Jeeter/Krejjh

Bobby Singer/Rufus Turner

Jonah Simms/Amy Sosa

Reish Lakish/Rabbi Yochanen

King David/Yonatan

Devorah/Barak

Moses/Tzipporah

Ruth/Naomi

Yaakov/The Angel

Rowan Roth/Neil Mcnair

Klaus Hargreeves/Dave Katz

Cecil Palmer/Carlos The Scientist

Josh Lyman/Donna Moss

Little Ash/Uriel

Lucille "Lucy" Kensington/Dr. Edison "Ed" Tucker

Fox Mulder/Dana Scully

Anshel/Avigdor

Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer

Wanda Maximoff (The Scarlet Witch)/Jericho Drumm

Bruce Wayne (Batman)/Shondra Kinsolving

Bruce Wayne (Batman)/Talia Al Ghul

Ben Grimm (The Thing)/Alicia Masters

Velma Dinkley/Daphne Blake

Velma Dinkley/Marcie Fleach

Didi Pickles/Stu Pickles

Velma Dinkley/Coco Diablo

Babushka (Tatiana)/Dedushka (Ivan)

Kitty Pryde/Illyana Rasputin

Natasha Romanoff/Wanda Maximoff

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)/Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

Hillel/Shammai

S'chn T'gai Spock/James T Kirk/Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy

S'chn T'gai Spock/Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy

Frankie Bergstein/Grace Hanson

Annie Edison/Jeff Winger

Maxine Myers/Paula Cohen

Baby Houseman/Johnny Castle

Tevye/Golde

Michael "Mike" Wazowski/Celia Mae

Talmudic couple having gay sex in the attic

Tim Drake/Kon El (Conner Kent)

Violet Baudelaire/Quigley Quagmire

Reuben Kent/Feliks Kaufmann

Anshel/Avigdor/Hadass

Amram/Zelikman

Anshel/Hadass

SUBMISSIONS ARE OPEN UNTIL MAY 8, 2023 @ 12:00 AM EDT

[cymorilcinnamonroll]

And the Flame Bit My Hands (Joan of Arc x Archangel Michael One Shot)

They will ask what her burden was, this Arc of the Covenant you pressed to her shoulders like your Father pressing the vintage of his wrath, grinding stars down to wine, oh sweet Michael.  Long after she is dust bread of dead, and her ashes are cast out to the four corners of the universe, each black hole fed a bit of her blood, and you wonder, why am I, the Prince of Heaven, such a shit poet, and why can I not capture the elusiveness of my star girl, whose heart I shoved my burning fist into and twisted until she belonged to me?

Michael, you have had an eternity to practice your poetry, but you still soliloquize like the Devil, your prose is purple, and your madrigal cannot be captured by baby's breath or widow's sighs or a million angels dancing on the head of her cotillion school hairpin.

So foolish in love are angels, and the first time around, your girl died in fire, so perhaps you will be gentler this time.  This is what you think when she is born, a quick one-hour labor, to mundane parents, in a mundane neighborhood, but really it is the seat of the power of the world, bubbling with pagan magic you would like to snuff out in their heresy.  You remember driving your burning sword through the hearts of the false gods, and your anointed daughter of God, she will go astray from Christendom, will run away from High Church screaming, into the arms of the gods of the earth and waters, and her songs are pagan and miraculous in witchery.

This time, Joan is just misled, just plain Jane, plain Joanne, blonde hair not pageboy but long, and as she is cradled in her crib, you play her angel songs in Hebrew on your guitar, a tune of B’shem H’shem: Michael before me, Gabriel behind me, Raphael to my left, Uriel to my right, by the grace of God.

The first Joan you tested, this Joan you bathe in pleasure.  Every girl is a Joan, a Maid of Orleans, and every woman is long-suffering for some cause or another.  She is just a young girl, and so you cherish and spoil her, barely in the sixth grade, and though she mistakes your reprimands for hate, you love her dearly.

You feed this Joan silver pears and the flesh of a cormorant.  The flesh of a dove.  Your flesh.  She doesn't remember what magical bird in her mythology books bled for its young as it pecked its breast (was it the almighty albatross? Or the fearless pelican?), but as you are plucking your feathers and sautéing your wings (they grow back, there is no shame in feeding your little martyr your divine providence) in a light white wine with a tad bit of olive oil and rosemary, she asks you, Michael, each time I eat you, am I becoming an angel?

You will tell her she already is, more holy than even you, for the youth are her country America's beating red white and blue heart.  She eats the gristle and fat of your meat, and she becomes lit with holy fire.

I want to be President someday, she says at thirteen in civics class, and you stifle a laugh as you sit on her right shoulder, miniature, invisible.  Hers is the path of magic and moonlight, of madness and mental wards and that holy bastion of the military, and she will mother your line, matriarch of your legacy, for you have not had children before, but the children of the Prince of Heaven are Messiahs, and in this Age of the Internet, of Germs, Guns, and Glory, the heathen, wicked masses are in desperate need of saviors.  So much that they come from the womb of a witch, the breast of a black hearted nonbeliever.  Her black heart is not her fault, Scapegoats are Eve and Yeshua and Mary Magdalene, Cain and Azazel and Lucifer, holy and unholy in turn, and you too suffer for the masses, carrying the weight of the prayers and despairs of saint and sinner alike.

Your teeth are not teeth but blades, your wings are revolving mysteries of scripture stitched together by the prayers of billions, pages upon page of white down shredded with syllables, and your skin is manna, no wait, it's a metaphor, no wait, your body is the Lion of Judah, and you are musk and muscle and wicked, jagged claws.  When she goes to her first high school dance, you are nothing of the fierce Beast of God, nothing of the Divine Prince of Life, no, you squeeze yourself into a mundane vessel, a Walker, the angels call you, those that take human form, and you lead Joan in a slow dance to some late 2000s croon, and you marvel at how much you hate pop music.  All music is of the Lord, but then again, a billion of your believers should think music is a sin, dear Mikhail, so there is that.  Cat Stevens wrote the best music of the 20th century, but then he found Allah (blessed be your Father's name), called himself Yusuf Islam, and fell into the silence of the radiant Deep.

Your Joan, she sings along to the saccharine bland pop number, about bubblegum kisses and lip gloss like stars, and it's a soc hop, didn't you know, Michael, so shuck off your shoes, Joan says.  You have on sneakers, different from your usual leather sandals (you have had a hard time upgrading your fashion over the millenia), so next on the high school DJ's list is Build Me Up Buttercup, and you find yourself carrying Joan out of the sweaty gym and up into the mist of the Milky Way in your fractal speed of light arms, sick of feigning a young man, all might of the majestic multitudes and heart of bloody stars.

Where are we? she asks, timid but brave, and she is so tiny in your palm, microscopic, a womb and a tomb, a vessel for the Lord, a vassal and lady knight who will slay not with sword as long ago in her first iteration, but this time with the ink of a pen, her black blood like your book wings, and you are hair of flames and eyes of supernovas and mouths of molten lava, thousand armed, or is it a million or a billion or a trillion or a quadrillion armed - oh, you give up counting, what matter is endless infinity? - and she is dancing in your palm, like that song you like by Elton John, and she is laughing as quetzalcoatls and dragons swim the by through the radiance of fantasy realms, between what is and will be, and boats of space pirates and corsairs of aliens skim the waters of space, and you say, This is the most remote place in the Multiverse, where the seas of space and time and chaos collude in channels and swells, where supernova whales that span galaxies fall to form new life a million times over, and it is a place I have dreamed of taking you, Joan.  You are fourteen, you are no longer a girl, and I am sick of waiting.

Your void mouth is burning.  Your blade teeth are crying ichor.  Your nostrils flare with plasma, and you lean down to kiss her, forcing yourself to her size, to hold her in your arms in human size whilst you are also holding the multiverse upon multiverses in your palms, and Joan meets your lips with a shy fluttering, but you want to taste her blood, so you bite her lip softly with such suppressed thirst, and she is iron and decaying telomeres, but also the grit of martyrdom, the Kingdom of Christ, but you are the closest thing to Christ here, so really you are tasting yourself.  

What is love but to see yourself reflected in a different iteration back through something so precious to you, she is your own limb?  Joan is the Ark, the one to carry all life to the harbors of New Jerusalem after you have drunk your fill of Apocalyptic Fury, at least, that was your plan.

Kissing her, you think, maybe I can give Earth, give this backwater hedonistic planet, another million years, and we can have a million children in between, for you have always wanted children, and we can have a million of her lives and high school dances and songs of silence and buttercups in between, and a million first kisses, is that how it works, you wonder?

Michael, you keep putting off the inevitable, but you are a creature of passion, so you set the Doomsday Clock back once more, and Joan is none the wiser.

Burning her at the stake broke your heart, and you have been trying to make it up to her ever since.

You have heard that girls like flowers.

You will bring her some roses, you will create for her a new bloom that combines the color of dreams with the smell of blue, you will name her and curse her and scream regret as she dies.

She always dies, you never die, and you envy her.

For every millionth beginning, the Kali Yuga demands a new Golden Age, the Year of the Crow and White Buffalo Woman come calling, Ragnarok passes and Liefrahser and Lief summon Necessity, and fuck, she is speaking in tongues, trying to teach you cadence, rhythm, and metaphor, but you wrote psalms, and you planted gardens, and this teenage Joan is a fiery spit of rebellious rage, as all teenagers are, and now she is sixteen, and she is writing.  Always writing.  Bad poetry, good poetry, stories about her enemy, stories about her lover, but often, she mixes up the two.

You read her stories and offer no critique, only praise.  The Devil is the Poet, the Angel is the Proofreader, and Heaven has no Edit button, for the Word is the Law.

That's a fancy way of saying she has a long way to go before she can lead the Crusade with her keyboard.  A keyboard warrior.  She only recently retired writing quizzes and fanfiction, and she adores vampires and fairies, and for however much you blatantly thrust Christendom in her face, she runs off to throw spears with Athena and parties underage at bars with Loki.  Joan was always a girl of the fields, a shepherdess, and to be pagan is to be a backwater farmer, a country, nature-bound creature of passion, and was not Krishna Gopal?  Krishna is much more your speed than Shiva, but Krishna has much more experience with girls than you, so you ask him over wine, my dear blue friend, what did you do with the women of the fields?

I had a thousand brides, my brother.  All the cowherds were mine.  You cannot own a woman, just like I Krishna, I Vishnu, do not own Lakshmi, cannot tame Radha, women are wild, she created you, did Joan not?  A fiery peasant girl who dreamed of an angel of flame.

You swill your wine, but the taste is bitter at the thought you cannot own this girl, cannot claim her, so you spit it out onto the ground and brier roses grow from the soil of Purgatory.

I will have her, every inch of her will know my Love, my Life, and in the end, I will save her from herself.  I have claimed her.  She is God's, and I am God, so she is Mine.  Through her, I will save All.

Krishna laughs.  You angels, always dealing in heaven and hellfire and ultimatums.  Michael, can you ever take a night off?  Perhaps watch some movies and learn the heart of a woman.

I am genderless, Krishna.  I do not understand women.  Angels have no conception of man or woman, only want, and I want Joan.

Krishna shrugs and his mouth is a swan.  Then make love to her, woo her, write her poetry.

I am not a good poet, I created her to be the poetic one.  That is my new campaign idea - the written word as conquest.

Writers always turn on their muses, Michael.  Look at the Mahabharata.  You think I intended for that mess and beauty?  It happened organically, just as love does.

Have the rest of the wine, Krishna.  I am preoccupied.

Michael flies to the Outer Rim.  There are many Outer Rims.  He is a million armed, a trillion armed, a quintillion - never mind.  He writes infinite poems with his infinite arms, trying to capture his emotions for Joan.

They all turn up trite as shit.

He balls each flaming Hebrew poem into his infinite fists and tosses them into the Void.

I will have to think of something else.

Joan is eighteen, and it is moving day at her new college.  Michael crams his body into a sophomore philosophy major and helps her move boxes of makeup.  Why do girls have so much makeup?  Michael never knows.

I love you, Joan, he says as they sit on her old dorm bed.  She got a single room, no roommate, the better to concentrate on her vampire stories.  She is still in the genre stage.

I know, I love you too, Joan says, taking Michael's flesh but not flesh hand, for a Walker's body is a metaphor.

He traces her jaw.  He threads his fingers through her hair.  He speaks her name in a million alien languages.  He sings to her.  He is good at singing.  He sings Wild World by Cat Stevens.  Cat Stevens is the surefire way to win her over.  Her favorite movie is Harold and Maude, after all.

Come with me, he says, stepping out of his human body and into formlessness, into allegory, into nightmare and fallacy and a thousand broken promises and a body of tears.

Joan is frightened.  Why are you sad?

Because you are a witch.  Because you are my poem, but I cannot write poetry.  Because I love you.

He scoops her up into his mouth and swallows her whole.  Joan is etched in his heart, in his bloodstream, and he spits her back out wet blonde hair and pink flesh into the lap of the throne of God.  It is his throne.  God is Him, and Michael is Christ, and that is Heresy, but that is the Truth of Things.  For he is the closest to God, after all, humans can fathom.  And that tells a thousand tales.

I do not think that is how humans make love?  Michael ponders.

No, that was a shamanic death rebirth cannibalism thing, Joan laughs, dancing in one, only a singular one, of his palms, his infinite hands, but it is his favorite hand because she is in it.  Be the albatross, dear Michael.  Blood from the heart.

He stabs himself with his flaming sword, and his blood flows gold and she swims through it.  She drinks the sea of him, and he enters her stomach, and then he swims through her blood, into her lungs, and she is choking on his feathers and gore.  They dance as bones alone, then become skyscrapers in December in Manhattan, and suddenly they are a pair of wolves.

They mix and match, red and blue, cat and dog, X and O, cross and nail.  They are still dancing when finally, she tires, and bares her sex, but really it is her heart, but really it is her seeds, and he seeks home in such a tiny abode, such a fraction of a molecule to one as mighty as him, and he eats her pomegranate with a tongue of silver, and he kisses and cuts and bleeds with her, but really they are on a pyre, alight, and the flames are ink, and Michael is trapped in her pen.

Sweet Joan, you will be the Daughter of Zion, the Watchtower, the Heavenly Kingdom, the Mother of All Nations and Matriarch of Israel.  All because you are my poem.

He breathes the words into her brain.

She laughs.  I am wild, and I am witch, and I am the quivering flame and rushing wind, and all I will be is your girl.

That leads to greater things.  We have destiny, obligations, duty.  Your Word is the Word of God, Joan.

Then you are my greatest work, Michael.  God bless the day I created you.

Father bless the day I created you, sweet Joan.

The pyre of Michael incinerates Joan's Ark.  The Covenant's birth water flood water breaks, and the world is drowned, but you would never know it, for all it causes is a single raindrop from that far off in the burgeoning hideaway of infinity, and a butterfly wing flaps, and thus girls are God, and God is just a girl.

[writer-akihiko]

Thanks for doing the Paradise Lost story! It was so good that I felt like it deserves a sequel (if that is possible) and then branch out into different endings for each fallen angel (and maybe a glimmer of hope for Kira a.k.a Uriel x Reader). But I’ll leave it up to you to decide if you don’t like my suggestion

One With Tragedy - Yandere!Eichii + Yandere!Van + Yandere!Yamato X Reader X Kira PT2

PART 1

Ah I was waiting to post this! Endings are a definite must. Disclaimer: This is my personal characterisation of Eichii, Van and Yamato from Utapri as a Yandere. Actual Eichii, Van and Yamato would not do this; this is my take on how Eichii, Van and Yamato acts as a Yandere.

Warnings: Emotional Manipulation, Yandere Themes, Implications of Torture

It was a blur. There wasn't much that you could do, as your shoulders ached but you weren't sure why. The sudden feeling of panic settled in and that's when you ripped off the sheets. You were wearing a much more revealing garment than before, and being self-conscious, you pulled up the sheets to cover up yourself.

It brought you back to thinking, particularly about how you got here. It was mostly foggy, as you tried to remember why on earth those people from your dreams haunted you so. You thought those dream boyfriends were just a figment of your imagination, but the fact that they were way more than what you thought terrified you.

"Ah, our lovely YN is awake..."

"E-Eiichi!"

The demon made his way to the bed, dipping it as he sat on it. He scoffed, taking off the glasses. His dark purple eyes seemed mystical, somewhat incomparable to the Eiichi in your dreams. He was certainly a gorgeous man, but the horns and wings that were tucked behind his back snapped you out of the illusion.

Running a hand through his hair, he spoke. "Please, don't call me that ridiculous name anymore. It's Lucifer."

You'd be lying if you weren't slightly tempted by the handsome man. With some composure, you asked, "Were my dreams a lie then?"

It was what you wanted to know the most. Every night where you'd lie in bed, you'd dream of at least one of them serenading you as their ideal lover. You went along with it, dreaming of them even in the morning. They gave you a reason to look forward to the night, to be safe in the night… who knew they were the demons people warned you about in the night.

"Why would I lie to you, YN?"

You couldn't stand it. His voice was as sweet as he was in your dreams. He was the Eiichi you fell in love with, the Eiichi you thought never existed and was only a part of your lonely desire to be with someone.

"I may not be Eiichi, but I'm still Lucifer. The one who used the name Eiichi," He said, his clawed hands tracing your palms ever so slightly. His cold breath made you shiver, as he inched closer to you. His wings unfurled gracefully to the point you could be fooled that he was your Guardian Angel…

Guardian Angel…

"Where is he?"

Eiichi, no... Lucifer... was as smug of a lover as you remembered. He only hummed, his fingers trailing underneath his jaw as his head tilted towards you. "Oh... I wonder my darling~" He asked, his voice almost sarcastic as his wings relaxed, almost threatening you in a way.

You were angry. You were angry at the stupid demon at the foot of your bed for misleading you and taking advantage of every single feeling of affection and romance you had for him. You grabbed the pillow behind your back, the tears pooling at your eyes as you chucked it at him. "Where is he?! Just tell me!"

Eiichi dodged the pillow. He didn't say much, and you couldn't tell if he was truly angry with you. It sent shivers down your spine, the way how it seems as if he knew what your next move was, what your emotions and reactions were... It simply made every second of those dreams disgusting to you.

Green flames pooled when the pillow flew mid-air, as it froze. The lime-green flames took the shape of Yamato, except the Yamato you remembered wore much more casual attire and carried himself in an aloof manner. This Yamato was much more crude, despite the refined clothes he was wearing.

The pillow quickly burned away under his fingers, Yamato wiping away the ashes off his shoulder. "So what's the princess upset about? Lucifer, you didn't mess with her right?"

You let out a sigh of relief. Finally, someone who was reasonable-

"That's my job after all."

Never mind.

Before you could blink, Yamato pushed you to the bed, trapping you under his arms. You certainly had dreamed of the moment Yamato would be a little rough with you, but it was never under such… circumstances. His face was as wolfish as you remembered, perhaps more so with the tiny fangs protruding from his lips.

"Name's Azazel. Remember it darling," He teased. "You wouldn't wanna get burned like that chicken of an angel…"

You pushed him away. "Angel? Where is he?!"

Lucifer at this point was rolling his eyes at the repeated question. Yama- Azazel, was much more visibly irritated, cussing under his breath. "Uriel this, Uriel that… Why don't you ask about us instead? Your three dream boyfriends?"

You scowled. Sure, it wasn't everyday that you'd meet all the boyfriends you had in your dreams, but that was fictional. It didn't mean anything in the grand scheme of your desires. Uriel promised you-

"He promises to you were nothing but shit, darling. Don't you know?" Lucifer caught you off. Oh right… They're demons… of course they could read your mind. Who would've guessed…

Azazel nodded, green flames igniting his left hand as he swerved it around, causing you to be anxious that he might just set you and the sheets on fire. "Think about it… Why in the nine hells would Uriel, a high-ranking angel, help someone like you?" He scoffed. "You're gorgeous in my eyes, no doubt. But unlike us demons… Angels aren't supposed to have worldly desires."

Lucifer went on. "Uriel... Did you really know what he wanted? He knew your soul was pure..."

You nodded, remembering how Uriel revealed the purity of your soul.

Lucifer grasped onto your hand, his claws brushing against your palm in a comforting way. "He wanted it for himself... He wanted to consume it to maintain his power."

"Why do you think they send the corrupted ones to hell? It's because we eat corrupted souls and have evil intent... They do the same!" Azazel burst out, his flames almost reflecting his anger. "And they spin lies to get humans to trust them, for humans like you to fuel his own power. He's selfish YN, he always has been. One pure human won't change it!"

It was too much for you. Uriel… all he did was lie? Was it to condemn you to hell anyway? The memories somehow came back, of the tiny flirting and the little flits of affection from him to you, as he swore on his life that he'd reunite you with your sibling. As memory by memory passed by, it seemed much more bittersweet, and the melodic sounds of heaven he'd say turned to poison in your ears.

"Oh my sweet little YN, who made you cry?"

You didn't realise the tears that slipped past, as they rolled down your cheek. The hot trail was brushed away by a new face, the third person you would blush about at night, Van. The imaginary flirtatious lover cooed over your crying face, shushing your cries away. "There there… Your beloved Belial is here…"

Somehow, Van's... Belial's hug was comforting. You remembered what he told you when he suddenly whisked you away. You were meant to be saved by them. You were meant to be cared by them. Somehow, listening to Azazel and Lucifer reveal the truth about Uriel pained your chest. Did you really love him in that way?

"Don't fret YN... The lovers of your dreams..." Belial whispered in your ear. "They've become a reality. So relish in it, won't you?"

Caught up in your emotions, all you could do was cry in Belial's arms, with Azazel and Lucifer by your side. With your heart wrenched by betrayal, how could you have seen Belial's other arm, soaked in blue angel's blood with two pairs of pure white wings at the floor of your bed...

"You fall so easily, YN."

[tethrarisms]

I apologize in advance but @hoaryhoggoths​ and I created this Doomstrange x Good Omens AU and everything fits like a glove, I can’t.

Hear us out:

Aziraphale = Stephen

Crowley = Doom

Anathema = Wanda

Newt = Vision

Warlock = Valeria Richards

Warlock’s parents: Sue and Reed

Adam Young = Illyana Rasputin

Adam’s parents: Charles and Erik

Archangel Gabriel = Steve Rogers

Sandalphon = Tony Stark

Michael = Namor

Uriel = T'Challa

Pepper = Zelma

Wensleydale = Billy Kaplan

Brian = Nico Minoru

Sister Mary Loquacious = Scott Lang

Madame Tracy = Natasha

Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell = Bucky

Death = Death

Pollution = Oblivion

Famine = Eternity

War = Infinity

Beelzebub = Emma Frost

Hastur = Daimon

Ligur = Satana

Satan = Mephisto/Belasco

God = Vishanti

Stephen is the dumb angel who is both very smart and stupid, also he’s afraid of the Vishanti. Yet, he gives the Eye of Agamotto to Adam and Eve because he’s so caring and naive. And Doom immediately falls in love with him the moment he says “I GAVE IT AWAY”. Stephen call his bookshop “the Sanctum Sanctorum” but he hates having clients. He loves his old tomes very much. Also he loves food, mostly tea. Victor hates when Stephen says that “Vishanti’s plan is ineffable,” tho.

Doom, on the other hand, is very practical but he doesn’t like being a demon. He didn’t mean to fall, he just wanted to save his mother’s figure from hell and thus was cast away. The fall burned and scarred his face, this is why he wears sunglasses all the time. Everyone blames him for the misery he put humanity through but actually he does nothing wrong ever (the only exception being when he plays god with his plants). “GROW BETTAAAAH”, he screams dramatically. Doom was once a very powerful archangel and created Alpha Centauri. Now he just grows more and more attached to the dumb angel at Greenwich Village.

When Satana and Daimon gave the Antichrist (Illyana) to Victor, he left the baby in Father Lang’s hands. He was supposed to switch the US Ambassador and wife’s (Reed and Sue Richards) child and the Antichrist, but he screwed things up. Illyana ended up going to Erik and Charles’ home, while Valeria became Sue and Reed’s child. The third child is unkown to us.

Stephen and Victor then, intending to avoid doomsday, have this brilliant idea to infiltrate the Richards’ Baxter Mansion and being figures of bad and good influence to Valeria. Victoria is now her nanny, while Brother Steven is the gardner. Victoria will sing lullabies about conquering the world and crushing enemies, while Brother Steven will say: “Don’t listen to her. Listen to me.”

When they conclude their mission, they return to their regular activities, believing Valeria will not become the Antichrist. Except they’re wrong. During Valeria’s 11th birthday party, they expected the hellhound to appear. But it never shows up. “Wrong child.”

The hellhound finds Illyana, who names it Bats. Nico, Billy and Zelma are Illy’s best friends and they’re inseparable. Charles and Erik are worried about Illy, but they try their best to be good parents.

In the meantime, Wanda Maximoff flies to America in order to find the Antichrist. She carries her family’s legacy: witchcraft and the book called Darkhold. Interestingly enough, Wanda loses the Darkhold when Victor hits her with his car. Wanda only accepts their aid because she’s so sure they’re a gay couple. “Come on, angel.” Oh, everything makes sense now. Also Victor is so bitter, he keeps teasing Stephen for performing miracles. “Oh, Vishanti, heal this bike.”

We’re also introduced to Vision, a synthezoid who, ironically enough, is bad with computers. Vision meets an old man named Sergeant Bucky who is very committed to find and burn witches. He lives next to Madame Natasha, whom he despises for her profession. Bucky hires Vision as a witchfinder.

Meanwhile, Archangel Steve Rogers and Tony go visit Stephen in the Sanctum regarding the Antichrist. They’re bad at playing humans. “Thank you for my pornography!” Tony yells for everyone to hear. “You can’t make a war without war! That’s brilliant, Tony!”, Steve says. There are other angels, such as T’Challa and Namor. Rumors say they’re called the Illuminati.

As doomsday approaches, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rise: Eternity, Infinity, Oblivion and Death.

Finding out that Doom lied about the Antichrist, Satana and Daimon Hellstrom go haunt Victor. Satana ends up dead (but not really because these two always come back). White Queen of Hell Emma Frost is not pleased, though. Good thing her demonic group called The Cabal was in cahoots with one of the Illuminati, the archangel Namor.

As things get more complicated, Stephen and Victor have an argument. Victor wants to go to Alpha Centauri and Stephen is afraid of betraying Heaven.

"How long have been acquaintances?"

"Acquaintances? We're not acquaintances. We're an angel and a demon."

Victor tries to convince him one last time but Stephen is adamant. “We can run away together. Alpha Centauri!” When Stephen refuses once more, Victor is tired and angry and frustrated. “I’m going home, Angel. And when I’m off in the stars, I won’t even think about you!”

Victor, obviously, can’t live without Stephen. So of course he goes back to the Sanctum, only to find it in flames. He’s desperate, mostly because he knows the pain of being burned, but Stephen is nowhere to be found. “SOMEONE KILLED MY BEST FRIEND! FOOLS! ALL OF YOU!” He then saves the only book that didn’t become ash, the Darkhold.

Stephen, on the other hand, accidentally goes to Heaven and returns to Earth without a body. He then, after reassuring Victor, possesses Madame Natasha and, with Sergeant Bucky’s help, go after the Antichrist.

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are defeated by Nico, Billy and Zelma. Illy fixes Stephen’s body situation. Emma and Steve, on the other hand, are not pleased, but they can’t make a point about Vishanti’s ineffable plan. Mephisto/Belasco then appear, which makes Doom loses all hope. “We’re fucked!” he utters. Stephen is not convinced and forces Victor to act, or he’ll never talk to him again. Victor curses and stops time itself so they can come up with a plan. They show their true form (their wings are huge and beautiful) and hold Illyana’s hands. When the devil comes for her, the girl shouts that they’re not her dad. She keeps yelling until it becomes true. Her dads, after all, are Erik and Charles.

Heaven and Hell then want their revenge on Stephen and Victor, but they swap  bodies. Victor laughst at Steve, T’Challa and Tony’s faces when they try to burn him, while Stephen is having so much fun in the bathtub filled with holy water, courtesy of Namor

When all is over, they bodyswap back and have a very pleasant date at the Ritz.

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

“And if you weren’t, deep down, just enough of a fool to be worth knowing.”

“To the world.”

---

I might be forgetting something but!!! BUT!!! THIS!!

[creations-of-a-potato]

You've been visited by the random OC question fairy! :D ~☆

If your character could instantly change one thing about themselves, what would it be and why? What is one thing about themselves that they would never want to lose and why?

hello fairy!!! lovely to see you!! you get a THREE-fer!!

please excuse my supernatural kick

Ella has a complicated relationship with her Being. She's a nature spirit/boogeyman hybrid and hybrids are at best abandoned as babies, and are considered abominations. When she was much younger (like 40-90), she had a problem with her self-loathing regarding it. Her dad ended up helping her work through it. So, during then, she would have said her being a hybrid is what she would change, but would never change the her dad adopting her.

Currently (age 460~) she wouldn't say the same. She loves being a hybrid, she loves her shadows, her forest, her monsters (affectionate) that roam it, her tattoo/markings, all of it. So, she wouldn't change that. But. She would change her hair being white. Not for surface reasons, its not supposed to be white, it was a traumatic event (uhhh think Rogue from X-Men with the white streak but not quite??).

Speaking of her dad, we're calling him Fox for now! He's got a, uh, Problem with death. He dies. Frequently. but none of them stick. The waking up is painful and disorienting (no matter which AU it is), in this AU, Role Swap, he gets massive migraines. Regardless of AU, he relives his first death, in this case, he got into a fight with his brother and got shoved too hard, slipped on rocks and cracked his skull open. So he would change that, the pain/disorientation of waking up. But he'd have a hard time on what not to change. I think he would eventually settle on his relationships, specifically his relationships with his brother, his daughter, and his nutjob (affectionate) best friend. He won't admit it, at least right now, but he wouldn't change much about his overall relationship with his parents.

aand Israfel!

She would change how she heals people. Angel of Resurrection who can't resurrect, no matter how hard she tries. have a brief look in her head on this idk

She'd gone down with the sunrise to show Abel the holy fire. She'd been so proud. Her, a Healer, an earth Grace, learning to summon holy fire? It'd never happened before! It'd been so quiet and still when she landed. She hadn't noticed at first, too excited.

"Abel, Abel! Look! I can summon holy fire!"

Then she'd noticed the quiet. the silence. It was never quiet for her, not around souls. It'd been too early for Cain and Abel to be gone from here. She'd started looking. Listening for any trace of song. Found his grave.

She tried to bring him back, she failed, she failed, she failed. She burned everything to ash.

And then so much later, Delilah. She'd been too slow, too weak, not enough. Delilah died because of her. She did worse than burn everything. She'd pretend she didn't care about the broken souls she left there she did.

And then Sam. She went into Hell for him, intended to leave after, return to her misery. But his soul had been so relieved to see her, had reached back when she'd gone for him and. Well. Uriel was right. She's always been quick to get attached.

look idk shhhh

She wouldn't change her relationships either, with Uriel or Azazel or Jehuel, or any of the angels. Or with any of the humans, Abel, Delilah, and now Sam and Dean and Jess. She doesn't trust Ella, too suspicious of how the little hybrid has hidden herself, but she likes her.

uhhhh thanks! these questions helped me a bunch thank you ❤❤❤

[goodlucktai]

don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 2926 title borrowed from you are jeff by richard siken

read on ao3

x

Aziraphale wakes up, which is a distinctly disconcerting feeling when one doesn’t often sleep in the first place. Added to his discomfort is the fact that he’s on the floor, limbs sprawled every which way, with a pounding in his head that makes him think he forgot to sober up before falling asleep.

“Ugh, really, my dear,” he grumbles, pushing himself upright. “Just how much did we have to drink?”

He expects to open his eyes to the back room of the bookshop, but he doesn’t. There is no worn-thin carpet beneath his hands, no aged coffee table or yawning loveseat, and certainly no snake-eyed demon draped on a flat surface nearby to poke fun at Aziraphale for being a messy drunk.

In fact… Aziraphale doesn’t know where he is at all.

“Finally awake, are you?” a familiar voice snaps.

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. He turns around to find himself under the scornful scrutiny of the archangels Uriel and Sandalphon.

What on earth?

“What, um, are you doing here?” He pushes himself to his feet, looking around at the unfamiliar room they’re in. “What am I doing here?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you to make you so different,” Uriel tells him shortly, “but if you haven’t Fallen yet, you can probably be rehabilitated.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and Aziraphale doesn’t know where to begin.

“Ah, no thank you,” he decides to go with, straightening his waistcoat for something to do with his hands. He’s terribly uneasy, bordering on frightened, with having been summoned here by them in the first place. It’s safe to assume he won’t want any part of their plans to rehabilitate him, whatever that could mean. “I thought we had agreed I was best left to my own devices. I’m perfectly happy on Earth.”

Going on as if he hadn’t spoken, Uriel says, “You’re never going to be a proper angel while you’re running around with a demon, of all things.”

Aziraphale goes cold at the mention of Crowley. He finds himself listening more intently now, preparing himself for fight or flight.

“You’ll see,” his estranged sibling tells him, as if to reassure. “He can’t actually care about you, Aziraphale. He’s not capable of it. I’ll prove it to you, and then you’ll come home.”

“I don’t care about all that,” Sandalphon says with a cruel smile. “I’m only here for the show.”

Uriel waves a hand, and something appears in the middle of the floor. It’s Aziraphale, or a likeness of him, sprawled in a heap like a discarded puppet. Its eyes are vacant and staring. There’s a sword driven through its chest and the burned outline of wings outspread on either side of its body.

Aziraphale feels sick just looking at it.

“You’ll see,” Uriel tells him. “Just watch.”

Their horrible plan is beginning to take shape. Horrified, Aziraphale surges forward, beginning to say, “You mustn’t—” when he runs headlong into what feels like a brick wall.

The hard collision all but bounces him back, sending him staggering. Eyes stinging, Aziraphale looks down at where a binding circle lay at his feet. Dormant until he tested the lines, it’s glowing with holy white light now. The work of an archangel, and well beyond his power to break.

Aziraphale tries his luck against it anyway, gritting his teeth through the sharp recoil.

Uriel and Sandalphon watch him with a remote interest, like he’s a little animal doing something clever, and Aziraphale shouts, “Don’t do this! Let me out!”

“But it’s just getting good,” Sandalphon says gleefully, and that’s when Crowley’s bright presence appears on the scene.

Aziraphale feels him coming before the others do. He whips around just as the door flies open, his lovely demon flying through like a mad thing.

“I got your message, angel, could you have been anymore cryptic? And what are you doing way out here any… way…”

He stops dead when he sees the archangels, his face twisting into a snarl.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, hoping against hope that Crowley might hear him.

Crowley doesn’t so much as twitch in his direction. Goddammit, Aziraphale thinks with a venom that should surprise him, and throws his metaphysical weight against the barrier once more.

“What have you done with Aziraphale?” he hisses, more serpent than man now, despite what his body may look like. They will certainly be having a talk later about his lack of self-preservation in face of two archangels, but for now Aziraphale can only watch in terror as Crowley begins to stalk. “You both think you’re hot shit. I know he’s here, I can feel him.”

“Or what’s left of him, anyway,” Uriel says flatly, and steps aside to show Crowley her creation.

The look on Crowley’s face breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

“No,” he mutters. “No no, angel, no.”

He’s across the room without moving, skipping through space-time like he’s forgotten how to do it the mortal way. He crashes to his knees in the ash around the corpse and his hands tremble as if they don’t know which direction to fly in first.

His yellow eyes are stark and wild. The sword impaled through the puppet’s chest is flung violently away by work of a crude miracle, and only then does Crowley touch him.

Human, so human, in the way his fingers fumble against Aziraphale’s wrist for a pulse. Searching out the familiar heartbeat, the reassuring sound of life.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams it so loud it all but tears his throat. “Lord, spare him this! Let him hear me, please!”

The Almighty isn’t granting prayers today. Crowley is kneeling in what he thinks is the burnt-out remains of Aziraphale’s grace. His fingers are sooty and dark with feather dust.

Uriel and Sandalphon are watching the scene raptly, as if waiting for Crowley to break character, to stand up and dust his hands off and say “ah, well, so my evil plan turned out to be a wash.”

But he never does. He doesn’t even seem to remember they’re there. He might as well be alone in all the world, so possessed he is by grief. He hauls Aziraphale’s body up into his arms, bows his head, and begins to weep.

Aziraphale’s holy core burns within him, bursting at the seams and straining so ferociously against the archangel’s binding that it’s a wonder he doesn’t melt his human body clean away with the effort.

“It’s enough!” he cries. “You’ve seen enough! What more could you possibly want?”

“Disgusting,” Sandalphon says gleefully. “Whoever heard of a demon mourning?”

But demons were the first to mourn, Aziraphale thinks, dazed by such willful ignorance. They were the first to have lost.

“But it isn't real,” Uriel says slowly. “It can't be.”

Crowley goes abruptly, terribly still.

His shoulders freeze in the middle of a sob. He’s a creature of sudden stone, an anguished work of art. Aziraphale is pressed hard against the barrier between them, blinking wetness from his eyes, trying to see what’s happened, what changed.

Crowley’s lips part, the forked edge of his tongue darting out almost too quick for the eye to follow. He kneels there, his awful collapse of limbs and sorrow, his arms wound around the shape of Aziraphale, and scents the air again.

Then he lifts his head. There’s no chance for anyone to react before Crowley stops time. There are still the sounds of traffic outside, and rain, and Aziraphale himself is still present and aware; so it’s only the archangels that have been displaced from the steady onward drum of the universe.

It’s silent. Aziraphale’s heart is the loudest thing in the room, pounding against his chest.

Crowley lowers the body gently to the floor, his hands lingering, the curl of his fingers reluctant. When he finally lets go he does it with a painful yank, and he pushes himself to his feet as though gravity is somehow ten times heavier where he's standing.

His eyes are burning yellow, like sulfur, like the bright warning bands of a venomous reptile. He doesn’t move the way a human would, or even the way a snake would; he moves like he’s rearranging the fabric of space and time in tiny step-like increments, bearing him closer to where Uriel and Sandalphon are still standing like sculptures.

Aziraphale watches as Crowley draws right up to them. He studies Sandalphon’s face closely; the archangel’s mouth is twisted in a sneer, caught in the act of throwing Aziraphale a look of hateful triumph.

And then, following Sandalphon's line of sight with utmost deliberation, Crowley turns his head and looks directly at Aziraphale.

Their eyes lock, and Aziraphale’s next breath chokes him. Crowley’s expression puts Aziraphale in mind of natural disasters, of wars and kingdoms put to torch, floods and plagues and children drowning. The demon might as well be desolation itself, given blood and bone and a suit to wear, a bleak, yawning absence where there should be a wily, mischievous good nature.

Even the day the world was scheduled to end, when Crowley holed himself up in a little bar and wept himself sick among bottles and bottles of clear spirits, wasn’t as bad as this. Nothing could be as bad as a corpse.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sobs, pushing himself forward. The barrier is hot against his palms, on the cusp of burning, and still he pushes forward. “I’m right here, Crowley, I’m here! I haven’t left you, sweetheart.”

Crowley must not hear him. He certainly doesn’t see him, scanning the empty space with his eyes. But there’s a seed of something unquelled inside him, something rebellious. A tiny kernel of what might only be denial, what might just be hope— elbowing its way through all the despair, making room for maybe and what if because the alternative is too much to bear.

Crowley starts to walk, with his hands outstretched before him, fingers splayed and searching. Each step is deliberate and determined, and his eyes are off-focus now, an inch or two to Aziraphale’s left, but he’s headed in the right direction.

“That’s it, my darling,” Aziraphae whispers. His voice is a wreck. He hates to be trapped here, aches to meet Crowley halfway. He’s as close as he can get, clustered against the wall with all his might.

There’s only a moment where Crowley falters. When he steps into the dust of the archangels’ cruel trick, where the outermost tip of an angel’s wing is burned into the tile. His stride stutters, and his eyes dart away to the shape of his dead husband on the floor, and Aziraphale could scream.

He is terrified that Crowley’s burdened faith might desert him before he’s made it all the way. There is nothing he can do to give Crowley strength, no signal or sign he can provide that this painful march will be rewarded.

Please, he prays. He sends it outward this time, not upward.

It seems to reach. The demon’s mouth screws up. He staggers forward two quick steps, a third, stepping over the dust and moving— unknowingly, hopefully— in the right direction.

Aziraphale shuffles to the side so that Crowley is directly in front of him. He’s holding his breath when Crowley finally reaches him. His long fingers meet resistance in thin-air, and he chokes. He presses his palms to the invisible wall, and Aziraphale mirrors him.

“You’re there, angel?” Crowley whispers. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers back. “Of course I am. Of course I do.”

Crowley looks down. The circle is a lurid, vivid glow at Aziraphale’s feet. Crowley can’t possibly see it, but he’s always been far too clever for his own good. With a snap of his fingers, the floor begins to crack. The tiles bearing Uriel’s handwork rupture as if in a miniature, localized earthquake, and the second the lines are broken, the barrier disappears, and Aziraphale falls forward against Crowley’s chest.

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale blasphemes, gathering him up in shaking handfuls, hauling him close. “Crowley. I have you. I have you.”

It seems to take a moment for Crowley to process Aziraphale’s sudden appearance. His arms are slow in creeping around the angel, his embrace a trembling, tentative thing. But he takes a breath— breathing in deep, nose pressed into cloudy white curls of hair— and seems to come alive again.

When his fingers grow claws, and his broken halo burns the air around their faces brassy and hot, and the secret self of him threatens to push out of its tight mortal confines with every second, Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. What should probably rightly be horrifying is instead the sweetest comfort he knows.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, swaying their bodies side to side. He thinks he could stand there holding Crowley until the next end of the world and Crowley would let him.

Over the demon’s shoulder, Aziraphale has full view of the archangels who tormented him. If Aziraphale were capable of hatred, they would know the full force of it. If he could bring himself to bring them harm, he would make them hurt.

“I can feel that,” Crowley mutters, muffled against Aziraphale’s neck. His voice is thick and wet. “Leave those unholy thoughts to me, angel.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the side Crowley’s face, right above the snake sigil. It’s the only spot he can reach without peeling his husband off him and he has no plans of that.

“How did you know? How could you tell?”

Crowley’s eyes give away how he’s hurting, despite how much practice he has had over the millennia in schooling his voice to perfect dispassion. He looks like he would like to tuck away out of sight again, but the cradle of Aziraphale’s hands keep him still.

He turns his face, pressing into one of Aziraphale’s palms. His lips part there against the salt and sweat of hands that have spent all of history keeping him still.

He says, “Didn’t smell like you.” And suddenly Aziraphale understands.

This body has carried him soundly since the Beginning. Even if his core had been burned away, the body left behind would have presumably smelt like his cologne, or his books, or whatever it was he’d eaten last. Of course, it’s something the archangels would overlook. It’s something they wouldn’t think to copy. It’s something intimate and human.

‘I know what you smell like,’ the demon had snapped at him not long ago.

Oh, to be so known, to be so loved. Aziraphale could cry for days if he let himself linger on the notion.

“Let me take you home, sweetheart,” he says, speaking the words into Crowley’s hair. “Where I can keep you close to me.”

Crowley hums what is probably an assent, but when Aziraphale glances into his eyes, he finds them turned away from his own and uncomfortably fixed; staring without blinking at the archangels who let him think Aziraphale was dead.

Aziraphale touches Crowley’s face with his free hand, a brush of his fingers against a sharp cheekbone. Love swells in his chest like pain.

“You’ll have to let them go sometime,” he says with a lightness he doesn’t feel.

“No I don’t.”

Truly, the remarkable creature might find it within the realm of his imagination to trap them as they are for eternity. But…

“I don’t want them on your mind, darling,” Aziraphale says, both gentle and unrelenting as he turns Crowley’s face back towards his, so that those slitted eyes have no choice but to follow. “I don’t want them in your thoughts. Let them go.”

Crowley bares his teeth, sharper and longer than usual, and snaps his fingers. A wall of hellfire appears at his whim, curving around Uriel and Sandalphon in a vicious mockery of the trap that had held Aziraphale, standing at easily ten feet high.

“They can puzzle their own way out,” he sneers, and only then does the time in the room reorient itself to the rest of the universe.

Aziraphale doesn’t wait a moment longer. With a thought, he brings them home to the flat above the shop. The bed has turned itself down for them, pillows plump, sheets smooth and cool.

He walks Crowley backwards, lays him down. Crowley's hair is a glorious spill of red against the pale pillows, but his eyes are still manic and afraid, his fingers clutching fistfuls of Aziraphale's clothes as if to keep him from disappearing again. “As long as you need, Crowley,” Aziraphale assures him, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll hold you just like this as long as you need. We can lay here until the end of the world if you like.” Crowley makes a watery sound that might have, an hour ago, counted as a chuckle. “Until you get peckish, you mean.”

Humor is always how they've dealt with a blow. Aziraphale smiles at him, thumbing a rogue piece of coppery hair back behind Crowley's ear.

“For you— and only for you, mind— I would be willing to go without.”

“Hah!” Crowley's death grip on Aziraphale's shirt has loosened. The hairline slits of his pupils have rounded out a bit to something less likely to panic. He's giving himself, ever so slowly, back into Aziraphale's hands. “Who are you, and what have you done with my angel?”

“It's me, love,” Aziraphale says. “I'm here.”

It ruins their little joke, but he has to say it, now that he can.

Crowley's eyes get very bright, the same way they did in the Garden, and Aziraphale is certain that Crowley heard him loud and clear this time.

[queen-of-deans-booty]

The Song Remains The Same: Final Part

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,934

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

Just then, a loud-pitched noise sounded which was an angel talking. Your ears rang from the noise, but you casted your magic around the room to lessen the pain for everyone else. Your mother tried to help, but she was focused on using her magic to protect you inside of her. It became too much to bear, and everyone covered their ears just as glass and lightbulbs shattered, plunging the room into darkness. This happened for a few minutes before the angels shut up. The front door flies open, a sound of angel wings is heard, and a younger Uriel enters the room.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean glared.

“Uriel?” you asked, remembering that he died.

“So, you do know me,” he chuckled.

Sam backed up and urged Mary, John, and your mother to leave the house through the back. They turned to leave but stopped when Anna appeared.

“Alright, here goes nothing,” you muttered just as they attacked.

Both you and Dean went after Uriel while Sam went after Anna. He held the angel blade in his hands, but Anna knocked that shit right out of his hands. John saw an opportunity and took it, snatching the angel blade off the ground and going to use it. However, Anna saw this coming and threw him through the wall and into the backyard.

“John!” Mary yelled.

Turning to face Uriel, you threw magic balls that appeared out of your hands. He dodged your attempts to hurt him and grabbed Dean by the throat when he got the chance. Your eyes were the brightest they have ever been since you wanted to do maximum damage. Uriel was a lot stronger when he was younger, so he was able to overpower you more quickly. He grabbed at your throat and forced you on your knees.

Your mother took the chance to attack, but Uriel was having none of it. He held his hand out and forced her to her knees as she clutched her stomach. She wasn’t as strong as she was before since she had a baby to protect now. Anna had an opportunity and she took it. She ripped a fixture from the wall and shoved it into Sam’s abdomen.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled.

Sam began to bleed profusely through the wound since it was too much for him to bear. He slid to the floor as his skin began to pale. He was dying, if not already dead.

“Sam!” you yelled, trying to get to him.

“I’m really sorry,” Anna said to Marry who could only watch in horror.

“Anna,” John said from behind, but this time he was different.

There was a white glow around his body, and you knew that he was possessed by an angel. The question was… which one?

“Michael,” Anna gasped.

Michael placed a hand on Anna’s shoulder, and she began to burn from that spot. She quickly bursts into flames as white ones shot out of her eyes. She turned to a crisp and her body fell away in ashes. The archangel turned to Uriel once he finished.

“Michael. I didn’t know.”

“Goodbye, Uriel,” he claimed, snapping his fingers to make the angel disappear.

“What did you do to John?” Mary demanded to know.

“John is fine.”

“Who—what are you?”

“Shh,” he whispered, touching her forehead to knock her out.

She fell to the ground unconsciously. He looked at your mother before snapping his fingers. She dropped to the ground, and you were going to go to her when he stopped you.

“She’s fine, and you’re unharmed. Don’t worry,” he cleared his throat. “Well, I'd say this conversation is long overdue, wouldn't you?”

Your eyes never fell back to their normal color in case you needed to do some damage to this archangel, no matter how small it may be.

“Ah, much like me, my aunt took up a bloodline. I didn’t know that before I put her away for all eternity,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, and I’m pretty powerful.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“Fix him,” Dean demanded as he pointed to his brother.

“First… we talk. Then, I fix your darling little Sammy.”

“How'd you get in my dad, anyway?”

“I told him I could save his wife, and he said yes.”

“I guess they oversold me being your one and only vessel.”

“You're my true vessel, but not my only one.”

“Like me?”

“Precisely.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It's a bloodline,” you answered for him.

“Stretching back to Cain and Abel. It's in your blood, your father's blood, your family's blood. You’re a bit different, Y/N. Amara chose you from the very start of creation.”

“So, she is real.”

“Oh yes, she is. She belongs where she is. She has no place in this world. I’m not sure how, but she chose a bloodline while being locked away. We locked her away millennia before humans were created.”

“Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want with me?”

“You really don't know the answer to that?”

“Well, you know I ain't gonna say yes, so why are you here? What do you want with me?!” Dean yelled.

“I just want you to understand what you and I have to do.”

“Oh, I get it. You got beef with your brother. Well, get some therapy, pal. Don't take it out on our planet!”

“You're wrong. Lucifer defied our father, and he betrayed me. But still… I don't want this any more than you would want to kill Sam,” the archangel turned away in thought. “You know, I practically raised my brother. I took care of him in a way most people could never understand, and I still love him,” he turns back to you two. “But I am going to kill him because it is right and I have to.”

“Oh, because God says so?” you scoffed.

“Yes. From the beginning, he knew this was how it was going to end.”

“And you're just gonna do whatever God says?”

“Yes, because I am a good son.”

“Being a good son doesn’t mean obey every command, Michael. Being a good son means you love unconditionally and make mistakes because that’s how you learn to be better,” you explained with a sigh.

“And you think you know better than my father? Two unimportant little creatures. What makes you think you get to choose?”

“Because I got to believe that I can choose what I do with my unimportant little life.”

“You're wrong. You know how I know? Think of a million random acts of chance that let John and Mary be born, to meet, to fall in love, and to have the two of you. Think of the million random choices that led your bloodline to circle back to Amara. Think of the million random choices that you two make, and yet how each and every one of them brings you closer to your destiny. Do you know why that is? Because it's not random. It's not chance. It's a plan that is playing itself out perfectly. Free will is an illusion, Dean. That's why you're going to say yes. It could be worse. You know, unlike my brothers, I won't leave you a drooling mess when I'm done wearing you. Can’t say the same for Amara if she ever comes out.”

“Well, what about my dad?”

“Better than new. In fact, I'm gonna do your mom and your dad a favor. Even yours, Y/N.”

“What is it?” you wondered.

“Scrub their minds. They won't remember me or you.”

“You can't do that.”

“I'm just giving your mother what she wants. She can go back to her husband, her family—”

“She's gonna walk right into that nursery!” Dean yelled.

“My mother is going to die by the hands of Meg!!”

“Obviously. You always knew that was going to play out one way or another. You can't fight City Hall,” Michael sighed, going over to Sam. He pressed two fingers to his forehead, and the younger brother disappeared within a moment. The pipe that was inside his body clunks to the ground. “He's home. Safe and sound. Your turn. I'll see you soon, Dean.”

Michael touched yours and Dean’s foreheads, and everything went black.

Now that you were back in your own time, things were different. Well, everything stayed the same with your mom and the brothers’ parents still dying, but the atmosphere changed between you three. The room was thick with tension as you packed in silence. The only thing on your mind was Castiel, and where the hell he was or if he was okay. Looking up, you noticed the angel in question standing behind you with a look of pain etched into his face.

“Castiel,” you gasped, rushing over to him.

Sam and Dean did the same when they heard your outburst.

“Cas!” Dean said as he hurried over to help.

“We got you.”

“You son of a bitch. You made it.”

“I… I did? I'm very surprised,” he mumbled before collapsing.

The brothers held him up, and thought the best idea was to lay him on the bed to rest. Once there, you got next to him to heal him.

“You’re going to be okay, Castiel,” you whispered, placing your hand on his cheek.

His skin absorbed your magic, and a white light shined through his mouth and nose. Whatever you did worked only a little bit.

“Well… this is it,” Dean sighed.

“This is what?”

“Team Free Will. One ex-blood junkie, one dropout with six bucks to his name, Mr. Comatose over there, and a witch. It's awesome.”

“It's not funny,” you sighed.

“I'm not laughing. Want a drink?” Dean offered.

Sam nodded, but you had a strange feeling that you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol. There was something deep in your gut that told you alcohol was a bad idea.

“No thank you.”

“They all say we'll say yes,” Sam sighed, accepting the drink.

“I know. It's getting annoying.”

“What if they're right?”

“They’re not,” you muttered.

“I mean, why would we, either of us? But then again, I've been weak before.”

“We’re not you, Sam,” you snapped. His face fell at your jab, and you immediately felt bad. “I’m sorry, I was out of line.

“You’re right. I mean, Michael got Dad to say yes.”

“That was different. Anna was about to kill Mom.”

“And if you could save Mom… what would you say?” Sam asked.

“We should get some sleep. We can head out tomorrow morning,” you sighed.

“Yeah, good idea,” Dean said, ignoring his brother’s question.

Staring at the flickering 24-hour sign posted in the gas station across town, you took a deep breath. There was no one on the road, no one passing through because everyone was asleep.

Why weren’t you?

Something was calling you here, to do what you were about to do. The thought was planted in your mind before going back in time, but you tried to ignore it. There was no way this was happening now; you wouldn’t allow it.

Walking inside the place, you headed to the section specifically for these products. Grabbing two, you paid for them and headed back to the motel since you didn’t want to do it in a gas station. Making sure you were really quiet, you headed to the bathroom before doing what needed to be done.

The wait process was always the worst since three minutes can feel like hours. Nonetheless, when the time was up, you looked at the results. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing right now.

You are pregnant.

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[ayanna-wild]

Memories For Sale

Word Count: 1638

Pairings: Lucifer Morningstar x Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, possible trigger, reader is a prostitute in this if that bothers you or triggers you please do not read.

A/N: Request from someone on Wattpad

Summary: You did what you could to get by, trusted no one, and tried to ignore the spotty holes in your memory. But then this man shows up, and everything you thought you remembered or thought you knew was so very wrong.

............................................................

You leaned back against the stone wall behind you. The rough texture of the bricks bit at your skin, but you ignored that. You need a short break, your feet were hurting from standing on them for so long. The heels you wore only made it worse and the short dress you had slipped on did little to protect your back from the bricks. It was apparently a dead night, probably due to the storm hovering above the city. The clouds had yet to release their downpour but it probably wouldn't be long.

Unfortunately though that meant business would be slow tonight and you'd have to work even longer the next night to make up for it. You took a slow drag from the cigarette between your fingers, flicking the ash onto the pavement below you. With a heavy sigh you pushed yourself off the wall, and turned to start walking home. Well at least to that shabby apartment you called home.

"Y/N?"

You paused, turning your head to look over your shoulder.

"Yeah?"

The man simply stood there staring at you with a mixture of emotions. He was an attractive man, with black hair and deep brown eyes. The suit he was wearing, what looked to be very expensive and normally you'd have tried to warm up to after seeing that. However, you were tired, you were annoyed, and you just wanted to go home.

"Don't you recognize me love?" The man asked frowning.

You turned to face him fully and slowly looked him over from head to toe before shrugging.

"Sorry, I can't be expected to remember every man I... service..."

His whole attitude changed after hearing that. He looked shocked, angry, and heartbroken? That one confused you, why did he look so distraught about that?

"Listen it's been a long and uneventful night, I'm currently off the clock, but try again tomorrow night, I'll give you a discount or something."

You tried to walk away, but he grabbed your elbow.

"You really don't know who I am, do you?"

His grip wasn't tight or aggressive like the other times you had been grabbed. When you tried to pull your arm free he let go immediately, another thing you weren't use to.

"Should I?"

The man smiled sadly for a moment and you felt a dull ache in your chest at seeing him sad.

"I suppose not, my name is Lucifer Morningstar, and I know you very well my dear."

You searched his eyes for a moment but saw nothing that said he was lying.

"That's nice, but I really should be getting home."

You took a cautious step back, an uneasy feeling lingered in the air.

"Wait, just let me explain."

He must have sensed your unease and became a bit desperate.

"Listen Lucifer, was it? I'm tired and it's about to storm, I'm done for the night, if you go two streets over you can find some other girls who will definitely jump at the chance to have you as a costumer."

He looked almost offended at that and scoffed.

"Do I look like I would need to pay for sex?"

You rolled your eyes and stared to walk away at a faster pace than normal.

"I'll pay you for your time!"

You walked faster.

"Five Hundred for one hour!"

You almost tripped on your heels with how fast you stopped.

"Are you serious? Just to talk?"

"I'll add another five hundred for every hour you are there."

Your common sense screamed at you that something wasn't right but your mind told you to take the pay day.

"Fine, one hour, and add six hundred for every extra half hour."

Lucifer smiled, holding out his hand to you.

"Deal."

You shook his hand, letting out a small yelp when he started pulling you in the direction of a sleek black Corvette.

~

The ride had been filled with silence which you suspected was not a normal thing for him. When you had reached the club he owned and made it up to his penthouse, you felt a little dumb not asking for more money.

"Would you like a drink my dear?"

You shook your head and watched him pour one for himself.

"Ok, start talking."

He chuckled as he raised the glass to his lips.

"Straight to the point as usual at least you haven't changed too much darling."

"You say that as if you know me."

"Oh I do! Very well, you are my wife after all."

You had no words, how were you even supposed to respond to that? The man was clearly insane.

"Right... well this was fun, but I think I should go, you can keep the money and-"

Lucifer stepped in front of you, preventing you from reaching the elevator.

"You don't believe me? Surely you've wondered about your past? The lapse in memories you have?"

You started walking backwards, trying to put distance between them.

"I was in an accident, I... I got amnesia!"

It sounded more like you were trying to convince yourself than him.

"Is that what you were told? How did it happen?"

Your head was hurting, it was a dull ache, but it was growing.

"I was hit by car trying to cross the street..."

"Really? And you walked away with just a few scratches and missing memories? Sounds a bit too good to be true." He raised an eyebrow.

"Well I got lucky I guess."

Your back hit the piano and the ache in your head turned into a pounding.

"Luck? Oh, no darling there was nothing lucky about that Uriel took you, he made sure the accident wasn't fatal, and he made sure you wouldn't remember anything."

Everything grew blurry and you were faintly aware of Lucifer calling your name as your legs gave out. Your head was swimming, and your body felt so heavy. You couldn't make out what was being said to or even what you were saying.

Lucifer sat you on the couch, and waited patiently for you regain your senses. You slowly blinked, fingers rubbing your temple in a poor attempt to relieve the pain in your head.

"Darling are you alright?"

You pulled away from him slightly.

"Yes. I'm fine."

Lucifer stepped away, seeing the distrust in your eyes.

"Can you tell me what you remember?"

You searched your memories for anything of significance and looked back at him apprehensively.

"Ash, a lot of brimstone, there was a lot of doors, I remember you were there, but its all blurry, and none of it makes sense, it's just flashes of memories, I can't remember them." You muttered.

Lucifer smiled a little and reached out to you. He pulled his hand back when he saw you flinch away.

"Why did you do this to yourself? You are priceless to me, why would you sell yourself?"

You pulled your knees to your chest and shrugged.

"It was a last resort, I needed food, money, I didn't have anyone."

"But surely you must have had other options?"

"Most guys don't question my career choice you know." You joked weakly.

He didn't seem to find it very funny.

"Pardon my bluntness, but those men were only interested in you for sex, and unlike them I care very deeply about you."

You felt the overwhelming urge to cry, and you didn't know why. You suddenly felt so ashamed to be sitting in front of him looking like this.

"Y/N? Why are you crying?"

"It's stupid I know. I don't even know you and I just feel so ashamed to let you see me like this." You laughed, but tears were staining your cheeks.

Lucifer sat beside you pulling you into his arms.

"Oh my beautiful queen, you've nothing to feel ashamed for. I don't think any less of you and I'm not angry."

You pulled out of his arms, having a man hold you like that, comfort you, it wasn't how you were used to men treating you. Lucifer looked hurt for a moment before he cleared his throat.

"Why don't you take a shower, you can stay the night and I'll have Maze bring you some shorts to sleep in, you can wear one of my shirts."

You nodded slowly and Lucifer directed you in the direction of the shower.

~

You stayed in the shower for nearly an hour, crying and hoping the steaming water would wash away the shame you were feeling. When you finally stepped out you saw clothes sitting on the sink. It was just a large t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts with some underwear. You walked back out into the living room once you were dressed.

"Do I play or is it just you?"

Lucifer looked up from where he sat at the piano. He smiled at you and moved over so you could sit beside him.

"No, you much preferred drawing to playing an instrument. And Dad knows attempting to teach you was a disaster." Lucifer chuckled.

You smiled, softly running your fingers over the keys, droplets of water fell from your hair onto your lap. Lucifer watched you for a moment.

"I'd like if you stayed with me for a while my dear. Perhaps I could help you regain your memory or at the very least give you a place to sleep. Where you wouldn't need to sell your body to strange men. More to the point, I've been trying to find you for a very long time, and I couldn't bear to lose you now."

You meant his eyes, studying him as if searching for any ill intent or alternative motive he might have. You found none and so you smiled, the first real smile you had given in such a long time.

"I'd love to stay with you Lucifer."

.........................................................................

Tag List: @we-are-all-alittle-strange-here @adira-secrets @beththedemonhunter @shywriting @emiwrites3reads @gingernarwal @cuddly-cat-in-a-trench-coat @im-just-along-for-the-ride @lifeshortbro @sallyp-53 @officalfangirl @cptgryps @mizzezm

[hardobservationpeanut-blog]

Meet my angel

Pairing: Balthazar x Reader

Warnings: Death of a family.

It was late night. You were alone in a hotel room, sitting on a really uncomfortable bed, freshly showered, after a long, exhausting hunt, that turned out bad. It was you, who supposed to do research based on the attacks, but you were mistaken. You thought it was one of the flesh eating Greece horse, named Mares of Diomedes. What you didn’t see, that all 4 of them were already killed by Uriel by the command of God himself. You found the parchment, which contained this important little detail, after a family with two children were eaten alive.

Sam didn’t hold this accident against you, but he didn’t had to. You saw the accusation in his eyes. Dean of course, screamed your head off of your neck, and you didn’t blame him. After this, you sat down and started the whole research afresh. It took you two whole day and one sleepless night to find out, it was a wendigo, but a really powerful one, maybe a first born.

Anyway, you tracked it down. You had been fighting it for at least an hour. You were tired, and exhausted, none of you have slept for more than 2-3 hours the night before. Dean was knocked out and Sam was barely standing. Your left leg was possibly broken, and when you saw the wendigo approaching Sam, you felt sudden panic in your heart. It hurt you more, than your leg. You saw in its posture, it is going to kill him… fast. It’s angry, and wants blood. So you did what you could. You had no option… You sank on your knees, and prayed… desperately… to any angel, who’s listening. When no one answered, you did the next thing you had in your mind. You offered your soul. “My soul for the first angel, who saves us now!” You cried on your knees, your hands clasped together. You saw the wendigo jumping in Sam’s direction. You closed your eyes, you couldn’t watch your best friend, your brother, get ripped apart.

You waited to hear the screaming, the awful sound of the flesh ripping apart from the bones of your friend. When you didn’t hear it, you opened your eyes. The wendigo was gone. Burned to ashes. You saw smoke, smelled the bitter burn of its body. And you saw Sam… Alive. With his hands protectively held above his head, waiting for the death, which didn’t come. Suddenly a massive amount of adrenalin rushed through your veins, allowing you to run to Sammy with your broken leg, and hold him close to you. He finally realized, that he is still alive, and the danger is gone. He held you back and squeezed you tight. “It’s alright.” He said. “It’s gone.”

Sam helped you reallocate your broken leg, and improvised a stiffener, meantime Dean recovered from the hit, and tried to find any trace of the secret rescuer. “I don’t know guys, I can’t find anything, not a single footprint. Are you sure, you haven’t seen anything?” He asked you, picking up the weapons, you tossed away during the fight. “No. I remember shitting in my pants, because the wendigo was just about flake my skin off.” Said Sam. At this point, you had a guess what was going on, but you rather just shook your head negatively.

A few hours later, the three of you arrived back to the hotel. Sam gave you pain killers and told you to go straight to bed. You took a good shower and took in the medicine, but you couldn’t sleep. You waited… You figured, something will come to fetch your soul.

The idea, to offer your soul to an angel, came from one of Sam’s story. When you were on a road, and Sam’s turn was to drive, he used to tell you about the days before you joined the Winchesters. He talked about an angel, named… Balthazar, maybe? He had a major collection of heavenly weapons and he sold a few of them to humans, for their soul. You asked Sam, if they killed him for that. They didn’t kill him, because Cas owned him one. But they made him promise not to do it.

You were just about to fall asleep, right that sitting position, when someone let out a soft caught, to get your attention. You saw a man. Tall, kind of skinny. He was blond, and he had bright blue eyes. He was older than you, but he had little crinkles in the corner of his eyes, which gave him a mischievous look, like he was always smiling.

“Let me guess. You came for my soul.” You stand up from the bed.

“If my memory’s not cheating, you offered your soul for the first angel, who saves you. Am I right?” His voice fitted perfectly for his appearance. He had a slight British accent, and soft, calm voice. You felt weird, inexplicable attraction towards the man. Just wanted him to talk more, so you can listen to that voice, that accent.

“Yes. There were times, when angels helped good people without asking payment afterwards. I prayed for help, and no one answered. No one cared.” You told him a little bit disappointed in his kind.

“When the cat's away the mice will play.” He smiled, like all the problems were solved with that.

“You play a hell of a weird game. What do you want to do with my soul? ”

“A lots of things. I will keep it in my trophy table.” He wouldn’t stop smiling at you.

“Stop smiling! We’re talking about ripping out my soul. What kind of angel are you?!” – You stand up rapidly and took a few steps towards him.

“Excuse me, darling, but who was the one, who offered her soul in the first place? What kind of human are you?” He finally stopped smiling. In exchange, he became rather angry with you.

“I didn’t have a choice, you didn’t care, if I die, if anyone dies, saving someone, is not good enough for you! You are an angel, you should have been there! It is your purpose to help the humanity!” At this point, you started crying.

“You really think, I don’t have better things to do, than helping these disgusting, sloppy hairless apes?! You think humanity deserves that kind of attention?!” He shouted at you, and took a few steps towards you. You were standing face to face, only a few centimeter between you and the angel your soul belongs to. The moment he said that things about humanity, you covered your face with your hands and started to blub that you couldn’t control.

“You’re right, I don’t deserve saving. I’m not better than a monster! Because I couldn’t save them! I’m sorry!” You thought of the family killed because of you. “Angels don’t help murderers!” You cried and sink on your knees in front of him. You wanted to tell him that he can take your soul away now, you don’t deserve it anyway. But you couldn’t say a world, only cry like a sloppy ape.

The angel just stared at you. You surprised him. He saw in the movies how other people comfort each other, when one’s sad, but he didn’t really know what to do. He slowly lowered to your level and started to pet your shoulder.

“Dear, dear.” He said. When you didn’t stop crying, he sit down in front of you and stroked your top of your head with his free hand. “Please, stop this…crying. It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t. You didn’t kill them… the monster did. You hear me, [Y/N]? It was the monster! You’re not a monster!”

“B-but… You don’t know. H-how do you know m-my name?”

“I’m an angel, love. I know everything about you. And you’re not a monster. You’re one of the good guys. You made a few bad choice. It happens. People make mistake daily.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t. Because…my mistakes aren’t just kissing the wrong person, or forgetting to take out the garbage. My mistakes cause death and misery to other people. I hurt them.” You looked at his bright blue eyes. He was staring back intensely, like he was trying to read you. And he probably was reading you, how else would he know so much about you?

“You saved more life, then anyone else. And you’re barely 20! You’re just a human, and… you did so many amazing things, without getting payed, or even getting a thank you.” You were shocked by his sudden change of attitude.

“I thought you hate humans.” You stopped crying and realized he stopped the awkward way of comforting you, and he held you by your arms in his both hand.

“I do. It’s you I don’t hate. Maybe there are humans worth saving, and you, love, are one of them.” His words caused happiness you haven’t feel for a long time. You burst into laughing and hugged him tight. Hearing this from an angel, made you happier, then a thousand thank you. He froze at first, probably surprised him again, but then he hugged you back.

Balthazar never felt anything like this. He’s never been hugged, never smelled something as pure, simple and still, the most expensive perfume wouldn’t be that good, as your scent in that moment. He hugged you back and stroke your back, as you slowly went quiet. You stayed like that a few minutes, when he broke the silent.

“Are you tired?”

“Hmmmhmm” You didn’t have the energy to speak out loud.

“Let’s take you to bed, sweetheart.” He gently raised you from the floor, and placed you in the bed. He even covered you in your blanket and kissed your forehead. You could smell his aftershave, mixed with maybe some wine and menthol. You took a big breath, taking all in, before he disappears. “Don’t worry about your soul, I’m not going to take it from you. It is more beautiful inside you, then in my trophy table.” He wanted to straighten up, but you grabbed his arm, and opened your eyes.

“Will I see you again?”

“Do you want to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, now sleep.” He started to straighten up again, but you stopped him.

“Soon?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Good night.” He leaned over, kissed you again, now your nose. You let him move a few steps towards the door, when you suddenly set up.

“Wait!”

“What, love? What is it now?” He wasn’t annoyed, you could see, he wasn’t in such a hurry.

“What is your name?” You asked. But you kind of had a feeling about the answer.

“Balthazar.” He smiled, and disappeared.

“Balthazar.” You whispered and laid back in the bed. “Good night Balthazar.” You said between two yawns, and then finally, you felt asleep.

[goodlucktai]

giving up on giving up slowly

good omens  pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3437 part 1 of the is there a better bet than love? series read on ao3

x

They don’t quite make it back to Mayfair.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Are you really so tired?”

The demon regards him with weary yellow eyes, little more than a pile of boneless coils draped in the next seat. Aziraphale strokes a hand from Crowley’s head down his neck, fingers gentle against the smooth groove of scales. Crowley is familiar to Aziraphale in all his forms, but there is a very special place in the angel’s heart for the serpent.

There is still a conversation to be had. Heaven and Hell certainly aren’t pleased with their meddling, and Agnes’ last warning of choose your faces wisely hasn’t been far from the front of Aziraphale’s mind since he read it. They’re not out of the woods just yet.

But for now-- for a little while, at least-- there is time to rest. Crowley can press into the warmth of Aziraphale’s hands and know he is safe.

Aziraphale can hold him and know the same.

“Never you mind, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his heart full. “I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

It’s his turn, he thinks, to bear some of the weight.

#

There is a cross little voice somewhere in the back of Aziraphale’s mind that tells him how foolish it is, to place so much trust in a demon. It’s a familiar voice; it sounds a lot like Michael, chiding him every time he lingers too long in Crowley’s shadow, nudging him away every time he wants to stay a little longer, talk a little more. There are ways angels must behave, after all. There are things one can and cannot do.

He wonders what Michael would say if she could see him now, giving Crowley his form to wear like armor. He wonders what his punishment would be, for granting a Fallen One this unlimited access to the holy grounds. But more than that, he wonders if this will be enough.

“If they take you,” Aziraphale says fitfully, clutching Crowley’s hands-- his own hands, piloted by Crowley’s reluctant affection as they hold each other. “If they take you to Heaven-- “

“Don’t you waste time worrying about me, angel,” Crowley mutters, shifting uneasily. He doesn’t have sunglasses to hide behind, not now that he’s wearing Aziraphale’s face, and their eye contact is a very fragile creature indeed. “I’ve been Upstairs before, for all that it’s been awhile. You just worry about Hell, about getting out safe.”

“And if it goes wrong-- “

“We’ll think of something.”

It’s strange to look down at himself and know it’s Crowley staring back at him from those misty blue eyes, but it’s only strange in a fleeting sense, the way bedclothes are cold at first until they warm with body heat. If anyone could be trusted to parade about in Aziraphale’s form-- if anyone could know Aziraphale well enough to get it right, to pass without suspicion-- it would be Crowley.

And isn’t that a funny thought, he muses as the sun warms to the idea of a new dawn. The morning light peers through the wide windows of Crowley’s airy flat, glancing down on the two of them where they sit cross-legged and facing each other on the bed.

Funny that the idea of Gabriel or Uriel coming this close, taking this much, is enough to make Aziraphale’s breath hitch with fear.

Funny that a sweep of Crowley’s thumb across his knuckles is enough to soothe him entirely.

They’ve been this close before; stowed away in the cavernous hull of the great ark with a hundred smuggled Mesopotamian children, while drowning men outside begged for entry; stranded on the shores of Pompeii as a city they were both fond of and its twenty-thousand souls succumbed to ash; Europe when it was ravaged by the plague, millions of people dying faster than two desperate angels could heal them; that awful cantina where Crowley went half out of his mind in 1481, a burned letter of commendation lost somewhere among empty jugs of wine.

They’ve held one another up through countless tragedies. They held one another up through the end of the world. It comes naturally by now.

“Whatever happens, you’re not alone,” Crowley tells him, misreading the sudden tension. “You know that.”

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale says. Truly, he does.

#

It’s lovely to see the bookshop intact. Aziraphale had been fully prepared to find a smoking ruin, or so he told himself, but everything was exactly where it should have been (with the exception of a few childish additions, courtesy of the Antichrist).

Crowley follows him home from their celebratory lunch at the Ritz, picking his way gingerly up the steps with perhaps a fifth of Aziraphale’s enthusiasm.

Aziraphale, to his shame, doesn’t even notice until he’s gone on and puttered about for a good twenty minutes. It’s not until the fourth time Crowley grants him no more than a two-syllable response that Aziraphale is drawn up short. He pauses with a well-loved first edition of The Tempest in his hands, looking over at where his friend is lingering uncomfortably by the door.

“My dear?” he says. “Won’t you come in?”

Crowley slouches the rest of the way to the back room with a commendable amount of surliness, but Aziraphale isn’t fooled. He summons a bottle each of Chateau Palmer and d'Yquem and sets them on the table-- with the white nearest Crowley, who would never admit he preferred it over the red-- and settles in for a gentle interrogation.

“Don’t even start,” Crowley grumbles, cutting him off at the pass. He knocks back the first glass of wine, without a pause to appreciate the vintage or bouquet, and pours another. “Just looked different.”

Aziraphale can’t help glancing about the shop. It’s as dusty as it ever was, with its towering stacks and dimly-lit sconces. Even the piles of books on the tables and chairs are the same, down to the last crack in the last vellum spine.

“Before,” Crowley elaborates. “When it was burning. Looked different.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, surprised. “Yes, I rather think so.” He pours himself a glass, more for something to do with his hands than anything, and says slowly, “You were here, then? When it-- You saw it, I mean. From outside.”

“From inside, angel. Ran in for you, didn’t I?” Crowley abandons his glass and picks up the bottle, lifting it in a toast. The drinks over lunch have already softened his sharp edges, and what’s left of him isn’t quite up to guarding his secrets as stubbornly as usual. “Fat lot of good that did. You’d gone already.”

He’d come to the bookshop by himself earlier that morning, before their trials, at Aziraphale’s behest. The angel suddenly, fiercely regrets it.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says again.

There is something churning inside him that feels both like anguish and quite a bit like wonder. How a feeling can be painful and pleasant at the same time, he’s no idea, but he embraces it.

“You’re remarkable, Crowley.” It’s the first thing he can wrestle out of his aching chest, and it falls laughably short. “Demon or not. I’ve never known anyone else like you.”

Crowley laughs, a short, unhappy sound. “Oh, yeah. I’m one of a kind.”

Aziraphale pats the seat next to his on the worn sofa, suddenly quite unable to bear the distance between them. “Come here, dear.”

For a long moment, Crowley doesn’t move. His eyes are hidden behind those sunglasses, rendering his face all but unreadable. Then, as though coming to a decision, he unfolds himself from the sagging armchair and rounds the table, collapsing showily next to the angel in a splay of long limbs.

The nearness of him settles the ache in Aziraphale’s heart, whether or not that was his intention. Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s heart racing, the fragile human body wrapped around that celestial core thrumming with stubborn life. It’s a comfort, this nearness.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,” Crowley says, more to the bottle in his hand than to anyone else. “Lucky me, I’m damned already.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Ngh. Don’t worry about it.” He shifts closer by an inch, head lolling along the back of the sofa until it comes to a daring rest against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’ve decided I’ll take what I can get.”

#

Aziraphale has a shop to run, and Crowley has plants to terrorize, so they part ways somewhere between midnight and morning. It’s surprisingly difficult to watch the demon leave, after having come so close to losing him; so Aziraphale stays safely behind his counter, where he’s far enough away that he can’t reach out and hold Crowley back.

They’ve spent whole years apart before, whole decades. What is a night or two, or even a week, even a month, now that they’ve got the rest of their lives ahead of them? A blink of an eye, really. A fraction of a second. It’s foolish to feel a pang at the parting.

Lingering by the door, Crowley turns around. There’s a peculiar look in his eyes, exposed and uncertain, when he says, “Hey. How about that picnic?”

Aziraphale brightens.

One can always count on Crowley to remember even the smallest exchange, even if it was years ago and offered as little more than a hopeful afterthought. It’s one of the staggering multitude of ways the demon is actually very sweet, though it’s best not to say as much aloud.

“I’d love to, dear boy. Tomorrow?” He glances out the window at the gray light of early dawn. “Or this evening, rather?”

“Tomorrow,” Crowley corrects, a half-smile on his face he can’t seem to help. “You’ll be wrapped up in your books all day and I’m not going to the bloody shops without you. We can pick up what we need tonight. Maybe try that new Indian restaurant in Kensington for an early supper?”

Aziraphale has the overwhelming urge to sweep out from behind the counter and gather the dear creature up in his arms. He folds his hands instead and contents himself with a smile as warm and as wide as he can make it.

“That sounds divine.”

Crowley’s half-smile graduates into the full thing, a crooked, helplessly charming number. It seems to linger in the shop long after he’s gone, and Aziraphale feels changed by it somehow, as though there’s a weight in his chest that wasn’t there before. A weight like a hand pressing harmlessly, without urgency, without agenda, against the fluttering mess of his very human heart, and when Crowley looks at him like that, smiles at him like that, it presses just a little bit harder.

#

Aziraphale tends to fuss over details, but really, he wants the picnic to be perfect. He’ll need some crisps, cold cuts, and fruits to finish out the platter he has in mind, but the cheese is an excellent start. Crowley has more virtue than the other angels of Hell combined, but even his patience is waning by the time they stop at the cheese counter.

There’s a new truffle gouda that the helpful associate recommends, offering Aziraphale a sample wedge with a generous dollop of honey and a sourdough cracker, and he’s rather taken by it.

“Really, Crowley, try a bite,” he coaxes. “It can’t be worse than the oysters.”

“We’re going to miss our reservation if you keep dithering, angel. Just get that moldy lot you usually do and be done with it.”

“I should think that for a special occasion you might be willing to try something new,” Aziraphale says primly. “And I wish you wouldn’t call it moldy, Camembert is delightful.”

“I’m going to be put off my appetite at this rate,” the demon grouses. When he stalks off, it’s not quite as dramatic as he might like it to be, considering the laden grocery basket hanging from his elbow. “I’m picking the wine.”

“Oh, get a Pinot Noir, would you?” Aziraphale calls after him. “It should compliment this gouda wonderfully.”

The associate is smothering a smile as she wraps up the gouda, along with his favorite Camembert and a large wedge of alpine.

“I hope he isn’t too upset with you,” she says when she’s handed it all over. “The two of you make a good pair.”

She doesn’t know them as any more than passing strangers, but Aziraphale can’t help feeling touched. It’s perhaps the first time anyone has said as much about the company he keeps, that they’re good together.

Aziraphale certainly thinks so, and damn anyone else’s opinion, but it’s still a nice thing to hear.

When he catches up with Crowley, the demon is making a big show of studying the white wines, but there’s clearly a Pinot Noir already bundled into his basket. Smiling, Aziraphale steps up beside him and slips a hand into the crook of his free arm.

Crowley is pleasant to the touch for a cold-blooded creature. He radiates warmth and good intentions like no angels of Heaven have ever done, a tireless spring of imagination and optimism and endless, fearless curiosity. No matter how high he builds his defenses of sarcasm and indifference, the truth is there. It’s always been there, from as early as the garden wall.

He belongs in Hell about as much as Aziraphale belongs in Heaven; which is to say, he doesn’t really belong there at all.

“You don’t have to try the cheese,” Aziraphale says, offering the token olive branch.

Crowley seems thrown for a moment, tense with surprise beneath Aziraphale’s hand, but he relaxes a heartbeat later.

“This is what we do now?” he asks of the rows of wine, hidden eyes trained straight ahead.

“I don’t see why not,” Aziraphale tells him. They’ve newly run out of reasons not to do as they wish, and lately-- often-- Aziraphale wishes for nothing more than this: Crowley, and himself, and as little space between them as can be managed. “You know what that young lady back there told me? She said we made a good pair.”

“Shows what she knows,” Crowley says, scathing. Incongruently, the hand he rests over Aziraphale’s is so gentle the angel has to look more than once to make sure it’s really there.

#

While Crowley was crawling about in the garden on his belly, Aziraphale was guarding it with a god-given sword. One of them has always been much softer than the other, even if they’re both usually content to lose track most of the time.

Most of the time.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, not feeling very sorry at all, “but what is it that you think you’re doing here?”

The angel in the bookshop is unfamiliar to him at a glance. It could be that their corporeal form is new, or that they’ve never met before, but he sees the way they look at Crowley. He sees the disdain dripping off them like a disease. A being of love, created for a higher purpose, and they can stand here and hate as if they have any right to.

“Michael may have told the rest of us to leave you alone, but it doesn’t seem right,” they say by-way of greeting. “Leaving you down here with nothing but a demon for company. He’ll ruin you.”

Behind him, Crowley twitches. It’s impossible to say what his expression looks like, but Aziraphale has known him for over six thousand years. He can guess.

“We’ve heard stories about you,” the angel goes on. They sound impossibly young. “All of us have. You’ve been on earth since the beginning. You’ve seen the garden. You faced the Morningstar. You can do whatever you want, I bet, so why are you here?”

“You’ve answered your own question, my dear,” Aziraphale says mildly. “Because I can do whatever I want.”

Crowley is tense at Aziraphale’s back, coiled like a snake ready to spring at any second. Aziraphale wishes he could reach back to soothe him.

He is, at first and at last, a Principality. He is at his strongest when he has something to guard, and this shop is his domain. With Crowley behind him, the most precious thing Aziraphale has ever put behind him, he would like to see this fledgling try anything.

Perhaps sensing how outclassed they are, the fledgling does not.

“Now,” he says briskly, “if you’d like to have a civilized conversation, you’re more than welcome to sit down for tea. I’ve even got a delicious Battenberg cake we can nip into for the occasion. But Crowley is my guest, my friend, and my dearest love; I hold him in much higher esteem than I do any of your lot, and I won’t tolerate rudeness. So what shall it be?”

For a moment, no one moves. Crowley is strung as tight as a wire, and the angel in the bookshop waffles visibly as they come to a decision they never thought they would have to make: pick a fight with a Principality or take tea with a Fallen One.

Finally, grudgingly, they ask, “What is cake?”

Only after they’re squared away in the back room, eating sweets with a look of wonder on their face, does Aziraphale turn to Crowley.

The demon is staring at him, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

“You said,” he begins, and stops there, as though he’s hit a dead end.

“I’ve been terribly unkind to you,” Aziraphale admits softly. “Denying you to everyone who asked, like you were something shameful. You must know that I love you, you clever old serpent, but I’m sure it would still have been nice to hear.”

“I thought it was an angel thing,” comes the lurching, uncertain confession. “Loving everyone. I knew you loved me, but I thought it was-- default.”

“An angel thing.” Aziraphale frowns at him. “As if Gabriel is even capable.”

Crowley laughs shortly, half-hysterical. “Okay. You’ve got a point.”

The picnic will have to wait, thanks to their visitor in the back room. The hamper receives a stern look and makes the decision to keep itself fresh for the next day, since Aziraphale refuses to be put off any longer than that.

Then he steps forward and takes Crowley’s hands.

“I was going to give up,” Crowley says helplessly. “I was jussst going to take whatever I could get and be happy with it. I go too fast and it's been so long I can't ssslow down, I don't know how."

"Don't worry about it anymore, my dear." Aziraphale uses their joined hands to pull him closer, until he can wrap his arms around Crowley and hold him as tenderly as he deserves. The demon shivers, as though chilled, and Aziraphale loses a kiss somewhere against his wayward hair. "I've finally caught up to you."

#

Nanael is still puttering about the shop a month later. Aziraphale has grown fond of them, not in the least because they take to the books like a fish to water. It took them about two days to decide Crowley was safe enough to pester, and watching them pelt a recalcitrant snake with question after question about the earth's history has quickly become one of Aziraphale's favorite ways to spend an afternoon.

"You were there when they built it?" Nanael demands, holding a book open to a glossy two-page photo spread of La Torre Di Pisa. "What was it for? Why does it lean?"

"Look, Feathers, why don't you ask Aziraphale? He's right here, not busy doing anything but laughing at me," Crowley mutters, making his slow and winding way up the side of the counter. "He'd be more than happy to tell you whatever you want to know."

"But I want to hear it from you," Nanael says stubbornly. "He knows more about things, but you know more about people. You like people, he said. You liked Eve, that's why you gave her the apple."

"I gave her a choice. She didn't have to eat the apple, did she? She chose to, because she wanted-- "

"Knowledge," Nanael says, hugging the book to their chest. There's hope for this one yet, Aziraphale thinks with a surge of pride. "Yes, exactly. Please tell me. I won't call you a demon anymore if you'll tell me."

Crowley looks up at the ceiling as though hoping for divine intervention, and then slides his yellow eyes Aziraphale's way.

"Isn't there supposed to be a honeymoon period before the kids come along?" he grouses. "I feel cheated."

"I'll make it all up to you," Aziraphale vows, stroking a familiar hand down his spine. "All of it, my love."