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lucyintheskywithxanax · 3 years

Text

Lionheart

Pairing: Cordelia Goode x Fem Reader

Request: “i can’t breathe” with cordelia?? “

A/N: so this prompt screamed ‘panic attack’ but GUESS WHAT?? I cannot write about panic attacks without having one myself so bear with me. This story was inspired by the scene in Apocalypse when Cordelia tells Michael she’s ready to help him if he’ll let her. Thank you anon for the request, and have a good time reading. x

Word count: ~ 5 500

Warnings: panic, anxiety, more or less accidental attempt at murder (idk what to call it)

You opened the door to the little antique shop and walked in with a happy spring in your step. The place was dimly lit and smelt of nag shampa. All kinds of objects were displayed on shelves nailed to the walls. In the middle of the room, more objects – colourful candles, statues carved in rosewood or kingwood or stone, dusty porcelain plates with a rim of gold – were randomly piled on top of each other or on small tables.

The shop had opened a few days ago and its window had drawn your eye. You were on your way back to Robichaux’s, where you had lived for the past five years. Life at the Academy was blissful. You had found yourself, finally embracing your being a witch; and then a few months later you had found love, and with it a new kind of happiness. Contentment you had read about in books but never thought could happen to you. Love had ripped fear and hatred off the world and painted it in softer colours: pink, yellow, brown, colours that reminded you of Cordelia. The constant weight in your heart had changed: it did not drag you down anymore, but supported you. It was not fear and loneliness you carried, but warmth and curiosity.

In the shop the woman behind the counter was scrutinizing you with attention. Her eyes were a deep, dark blue that reminded you of ocean depths. She wore a beautiful, intricate brooch in the form of a tree with the words ‘Anna Morgana’ – her name, probably – engraved on the trunk. A single red rose drooped in a vase on the counter in front of her.

You did not notice the strange look – half fear, half anger – that flashed on her face as you walked up to her.

“I know you”, the woman said as a greeting. “You’re one of the girls from Robichaux’s Academy.”

You beamed at her.

“I’m here to buy a gift for my Supreme,” you informed her happily.

Here it was again, that strange look, and this time you did notice it, but you didn’t think anything of it. The mention of witches – especially powerful ones – still made most people uncomfortable.

“Birthday?” the woman asked.

For a second you considered lying. Cordelia was adamant that you tell no one about your relationship, for she didn’t want the girls at the Academy to think she favoured you over them. But it wasn’t exactly a secret. Cordelia’s face had always been open, and you weren’t particularly good at hiding the joy that spread over your own every time your eyes met hers, every time someone mentioned her, every time the thought of her crossed your mind. Anyone who had spent more than five minutes with you and Cordelia knew you were in love. Most people were too polite to tell either of you how bad you were at hiding your feelings – except Madison, who seemed to think there was no greater joy in the world than to criticize “Foxxy” in front of you so that she could laugh at whatever new insult your “poor unimaginative brain” would come up with. But you didn’t mind Madison. She was a friend – an extremely annoying, unreliable friend, but a friend still. Movie nights with her were the best.

“Random act of kindness,” you told the woman, trying to keep your voice as neutral as possible. “She works so hard for us,” you couldn’t help but add.

The woman curled up her lips and ran one hand through her dark, thick, curly hair. The bracelets that hang off her wrist jingled.

“Well, I could let you look around, but it would take hours. And I think I’ve got just the thing you need. Simple, but beautiful. Not too showy, elegant.”

She went through one of her drawers and drew out a small rectangular box. It contained a necklace – a thin silver chain, a curved bail, a round-shaped moonstone with a blue sheen in the middle. Your heart jumped at the sight. It was perfect for Cordelia.

“And look here!” the woman went on, her voice rising almost to a squeal. You were so lost in thoughts of Cordelia and how beautiful that necklace would look on her, that you did not notice the sudden shaking of the woman’s hands as she drew out another box. “I’ve got another one, exactly the same! So you can match.”

“I’ll take them both,” you beamed.

The woman looked incredibly nervous. She gave you a tight smile as you fumbled in your bag for your wallet.

“I like it,” you said, nodding to the rose in an attempt to help her relax. “Very Beauty and the Beast.”

You paid for the necklaces, then clasped one of them around your neck and stared at your reflection in a small mirror perched on top of a pile. Your fingers gingerly touched the stone. You flashed a grin at your reflection, then sang out “Goodbye!” to the woman. She didn’t say it back.

It was a beautiful spring day, the sun splayed out low in the sky, the air crisp, the branches of the trees overloaded with blooming flowers, but you didn’t linger. Your heart and mind were filled with Cordelia. She had been more tired than usual those past few days, what with the arrival of half a dozen new girls who were very young and very scared of their powers. And she had been bugged by a “weird, tingling feeling”, as she had confided to you two days ago, late in the evening, her head resting on your lap and your hand running through her hair: “I think a new witch might be in town. And I think she doesn’t know who she is. I can feel her confusion, her fear.” You had dropped a kiss on her forehead, offered to run her a bath, but she had let out a tired groan and sat up, rubbing her eyes as if she had a headache, and said she still had paperwork to go through.

It worried you, sometimes, how hard she worked. Too many nights you had had to drag her out of her office and tuck her in and kiss her until her faint protests had turned into sleepy giggles. You and Zoe and Queenie had offered, multiple times, to take over some of her classes, and she had relented after several refusals. As it had turned out, you were quite possibly one of the worst teachers on the planet. Cordelia had attended your first class, wanting to make sure she was not entrusting her girls to an incompetent fool – for the rest of that day you had been unable to meet her eyes, your face red with shame. When in the evening she had finally managed to corner you in an empty room she had burst into uncontrollable laughter, peppering your face with kisses, pausing to try and whisper an apology when she noticed the outraged look on your face. The word “sorry” did not make it out past the first syllable before she was doubled up with laughter, tears running down her flushed cheeks. So it had been decided that you should help Cordelia with daily matters and paperwork, and let Queenie and Zoe do the teaching.

The Academy was very quiet when you reached it, as most of the classes weren’t over yet. You did some cleaning in the kitchen, made yourself some tea, then decided to take a nap. There was approximately thirty minutes left before classes would end and Cordelia would take her usual evening break before dinner.

You ran up the stairs to your room, changed into more comfortable clothes, tip-toed to Cordelia’s room to steal one of her pillows, tip-toed back to your own room, and collapsed on your bed. Your fingers played with the chain of your new necklace, a goofy smile spreading over your face as you thought about the moment you would offer Cordelia her gift. Surely matching necklaces would not be too obvious. Friends did things like that all the time. You were sure to be teased by Madison, though. You lay on your right side, clutching Cordelia’s pillow against your chest and burying your face in it, and closed your eyes. You were not feeling particularly tired, but sleep soon overtook you.

You woke up a few minutes later with a jolt. Your heart was pounding in your ears and your chest was incredibly tight. You remembered when you were in junior high and a brute who kept bullying you because you were “too weird” had unceremoniously thrown you to the ground and decided it would be fun to sit on your chest. The boy was twice your size. He had laid both his hands on your shoulders, pressing your back into the cement, breathed in your face and flashed a cruel smile at you as he shifted his weigh to crush you. “I can’t breathe,” you had managed to get out, your hands coming up to smack weakly at his arms, “get off, I can’t –“

Now the feeling was exactly the same. There was a heavy weight pressing down on your chest as if a demon were sitting on it.

You abruptly sat up, panic shooting through your veins. Instinctively you reached out for Cordelia, for warmth and protection – your hand landed on the cold sheet.

You managed to hiss in a breath, desperately patting the mattress, your other hand coming up to press against your chest. Your arms were shaking. And the sitting position didn’t help. Your chest still felt like it was being crushed.

You threw back the cover, made to stand up, fell back on the bed as the room around you started to spin. Your ears were ringing and you could hear terrifying noises like that of a monster’s rough, raspy breathing in horror movies – your breathing, you realized in terror.

You had to get up. You had to get up and call for help before – on shaky legs you stumbled out of your room and into the empty corridor, leaning against the wall for support, and croaked out: “Delia,” but it was too weak, too low, the words flopped at your feet. The corridor was spinning so fast you could no longer tell where the ceiling was. Cold sweat coated your skin as you took a few steps forward, calling again, “Delia,” a pitiful sound, barely above a whisper.

Your gaze fell on the railing of the stairs. So close, just a few more steps – so far away, too far away.

You wheezed out a breath, tried to inhale. There was no air left in the corridor. Your hand closed around the collar of your shirt. You tried to call out, tripped on nothing, and passed out.

The first think you noticed when you came to was a hum of worried voices. Your head hurt too much for you to even consider opening your eyes. So you focused on the voices, tried to separate one from the others.

“Step back, Millie, step back! Girls, give her some space!”

This voice was too panicky for your liking. It made your heart speed up. But there was something familiar about this voice, something comforting, so when it faded back among the others you groaned, straining to focus on it again.

“Ooh shit, she’s alive,” said another voice, young and jaded.

“Y/N?” The panicked voice again, louder, clearer. Something hot on your face. You let out another groan. “Y/N, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me.”

Now, that you would not do. You were pretty sure if you let the light in your skull would crack.

“Y/N, please.” The voice broke, and something in your heart broke with it. “Please, please sweetheart, come back to me.”

The thing in your heart that had broken kicked and ordered you to obey. There was no way, your heart screamed, no way you would lie here and do nothing to comfort her when she sounded that terrified.

Your eyes fluttered open. A blurry shape was leaning over you, golden on the edges, with two dark spots in the middle.

“Hey,” the voice called shakily, “that’s it, that’s it, you’re doing so good, look at me. Look at me.”

“Delia.” Her name escaped your lips before you had time to think it.

She was very pale, and her face was wet with tears, but she let out a relieved laugh when your eyes met hers.

“Delia,” you repeated, frowning in confusion as you took her state in.

You were lying on your back in the middle of a corridor, surrounded by a group of students. You spotted Madison, leaning against the wall next to Cordelia, staring down at you with interest and just a hint of amusement. “What…”

Your face crumpled as memories flooded you. Your right hand flew up to your chest and you gasped in a breath, fear rushing up to clench at your heart.

Cordelia cupped your face, stroking her thumbs over your cheeks.

“Shh, shh, you’re alright,” she whispered as more tears rolled down her own cheeks.

You bit your lip on a sob, raised your hand to wipe away her tears. Cordelia chuckled and kissed your palm.

“What happened?” you hiccupped between two sobs.

Madison held out something in front of her. Your heart skipped a beat.

“The necklace,” you stammered. “Oh my God, the – Delia I was about to –“

Cordelia shushed you again, leaning forward as if to kiss you before she checked herself. Madison rolled her eyes.

“Please, we’re not stupid, or blind,” Madison said, but you spoke over her, your breath coming out too fast as panic threatened to overwhelm you again: “Delia I was about to offer you the same necklace I was about – “

“Hey hey hey, Y/N, it’s alright, love, it’s alright.” Cordelia slipped one arm around your waist and pulled you up to her. You buried your face in her neck, breathing her in, letting her familiar scent and warmth wrap around you like a blanket. She gently ran her fingers through your hair, supporting you with her other arm.

“How did you find me?” you whispered into her chest.

“I heard you,” she answered, her voice barely louder than yours. “I heard you calling in my head.”

You closed your eyes, confused, angry, and most of all afraid. Afraid of what would have happened if Cordelia had not rushed to you. Afraid of what would have happened if you had offered her the necklace and she had – you wrapped your arms around her, holding her tight, planting a kiss on her chest as you gulped back tears. You were trembling in her arms, your heart beating too fast, feeling like you couldn’t breathe again as images of an unresponsive Cordelia flashed in your mind, asleep but with her chest not moving, her heart not beating, a small moonstone shining pale blue on her skin that was as white as a corpse’s.

Before you knew it you were sobbing again, hanging on to Cordelia for dear life as she whispered words of comfort in your ear and stroke your back in a circling motion. You didn’t hear Madison ordering the girls to scatter, didn’t hear their confused footsteps, barely registered Cordelia pulling you up to your feet and guiding you back to your room. Gently she tucked you in bed, brushed your hair off your face, ran a hand up and down your arm as she wiped your tears with the other. You mumbled something, incoherent and sad, and she lay down by your side and wrapped you up in her arms safely. You pressed your ear to her chest, let the sound of her heartbeat lull you as you counted in your head, one, two, three, on the fourth beat a fond “I love you” murmured by Cordelia with a kiss on your head.

You had rarely seen Cordelia as mad as she was the day after when you explained to her where you had bought the necklaces. Anger burst from her like a snake opening its mouth to sink its fangs into flesh. Cordelia always looked powerful. Now she looked terrifying.

You stammered out short, anxious answers to her questions, instinctively leaning away from her. She noticed, and that seemed to make her angrier still.

She stormed out of the house and you stood nervously waiting for her on the porch. New Orleans would hold a funeral in a day or two. A corpse would be found but no clues as to its murderer would ever be discovered. Anna Morgana would be buried under the eyes of a curious crowd, camera flashes reflecting off her coffin.

You nervously shifted your weight on your feet, your eyes scanning the street in front of you, your teeth sinking into your lower lip. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed, and then Cordelia walked through the gate to the Academy. But she wasn’t alone.

Your heart did something weird. It jumped up your throat in fear, then swelled with warmth and pride and love. Anna Morgana was walking by Cordelia’s side, clutching a small backpack to her chest, her eyes avoiding you. She looked younger, somehow, and even though she was only a few inches shorter than Cordelia her body was like that of a child next to your Supreme.

Cordelia stopped in front of you, squinting in the sun. You tried to scowl at her, but the nervous grin you had been holding back crept up your face and your eyes lit up with love and adoration for this woman.

“Of fucking course,” you said.

Cordelia shrugged.

“What?” She cocked her head to the side, watching you. There was a hint of nervousness in her eyes as she studied your reaction. You reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. “She needed help. That doesn’t mean there won’t be consequences for your action,” she added, shooting Anna Morgana a cold, hard glance.

As it turned out, Cordelia’s intuition had been right: there was a new witch in town, and she was confused and lost. Anna Morgana must have known, deep down, that she was a witch, but the thought was so terrifying, so utterly unacceptable that when she saw you in her shop, when she heard you mention the Supreme, she freaked out. Her magic seemed to be powerful: all she did was wish that the necklaces would harm their owners, and she had quite succeeded.

Anna Morgana kept working at her shop, but she also started attending classes at the Academy. She profusely apologized to you and to Cordelia, bought you countless gifts, did all kinds of nice things for you, adamant that she right her wrong. She had a lovely personality, and quickly became part of the coven.

You knew she had been confused and terrified of who she was; you knew what fear was capable of doing to even the best of people. But you couldn’t help it: every time your eyes fell on Anna Morgana, every time you heard her voice, something in you awoke that you could not control and that had the terrible, pungent smell of panic. It grew in you like a seed, taking root in your stomach, spreading its branches into your chest to wrap around your heart and squeeze, tight.

You could tell it was hard for Cordelia, too. You had never heard her snap at any of her girls but Madison, and now Anna Morgana was added to the list, especially in the first few days of her settling in at the Academy. There often was an edge to Cordelia’s voice when she spoke to her, a flash of anger in her eyes, her arm extending protectively in front of you whenever Anna Morgana entered the room you were in. But Cordelia’s heart was endlessly kind, and she was brave, and believed people could change when given the opportunity to. Soon her attitude towards Anna Morgana softened. And Anna Morgana, like all the other girls in Cordelia’s care, opened up like a flower and blossomed and started healing.

And you felt trapped in a corner. Guilt about not being able to move on and forgive gnawed at you like a dog gnaws on a bone and doesn’t let go. Guilt about not being able to be the brave person Cordelia deserved. And the fear that would clench your heart every time someone would so much as mention Anna Morgana, grew so strong and invasive you were sure it had settled permanently in you like a new organ your body had grown. This organ was ill and worked poorly. It kept you up all night, made you fidgety. The faintest of noises – someone coughing in the room next door, footsteps in your back – boomed in your ears like the detonation of a gun and made you jump.

It became hard to focus on daily tasks. You isolated yourself from the other girls, saying you had too much to do for spare time. You snapped at one of the younger girls, once, for no good reason at all. And then you isolated yourself from Cordelia. You pretended to be too tired to wait up for her on the nights she worked till late. You avoided her at lunchtime, hiding in your room with whatever food your stomach could hold.

That week was particularly busy for Cordelia. She had to fly halfway across the country to bring back a new girl who was too panicked to leave her room. When she came back she had barely slept for three days and did not allow herself to rest until she had gone through the paperwork you had neglected to deal with. She nearly collapsed into your arms that night, and you gently tucked her in and dropped a quick, distracted kiss on her forehead before you all but ran to your own room. You thought you heard Anna Morgana’s voice in the corridor, which nearly drove you crazy with fear and had you mutter a protection spell behind your locked door. You whispered one for Cordelia, too, just in case.

You thought, you really did, that you could carry on living in a constant state of fear.

You woke up one night and everything around you was dark. Terror shot through you as something suddenly pressed all of its weight upon your chest and dear Lord, you could not breathe. You sat bolt upright, gasping for air, your shaking hands coming up to your chest to try and get rid of the necklace, but all you could feel was skin, hot, clammy skin, so you clawed at it desperately but the pressure would not go. It would not let you breathe. So you tried to spring out of the bed, wheezing now, your legs tangling up in the cover, but something closed around your arm to hold you back.

“Let go!” you screamed – and it was angry, it was an order, but above all it was terrified.

“Y/N what – “

You tried to hit whatever was holding you back, but it seemed you had lost your bearings for your hand only slammed air. And then there was light, and you realized it was Cordelia, only Cordelia, sitting up with her eyes wide with fear and worry, and there was nothing, no necklace around your neck.

You had one leg still on the bed, the other dangling out, and your nails had clawed so hard at your chest that the skin was red and scratched.

“Y/N are you alright? What happened?”

You ran a shaky hand through your hair, avoiding Cordelia’s eyes. Her hand that was holding your arm slid up to your shoulder to pull you towards her, but you resisted, trying to blink back the tears that were burning your eyes, humiliation and fear battling to take possession of your brain.

“Hey,” Cordelia called, her voice gentler now. You felt the mattress dip as she moved closer to you. Her warmth pressed against you. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

“It was nothing.” Your voice was too small. You closed your eyes and squeezed them tight. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Cordelia let out a sigh. Gingerly, she pulled you back into bed. This time, you let her. But you were still too terrified to lie down, so you sat with your back against the headboard, one hand still pressed against your chest, your breathing still too fast, too shallow. Cordelia hummed, rested one hand on your thigh.

“Bad dream?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You shook your head. Your throat was too tight.

“I woke up and I couldn’t – “ you croaked, tears spilling down your cheeks, your chin trembling as you let out a sob.

“You couldn’t breathe,” Cordelia finished for you. You met her gaze, her eyes so big and brown and shining with tears but so brave, and so kind, and so forgiving.

“I’m so sorry,” you sobbed, hiding your face in your hands. Suddenly it was all too much, the fear, the guilt, the anger that had plagued you for the past few days washing over you like water released from a dam and threatening to carry you away in its force. Your body shook and caved in; but Cordelia’s arms met you, and held you tight.

It took a while for you to calm down. When you eventually did, you lay limp and spent with your body sagging into Cordelia’s. She stroked your back in a circling motion, as she always did when you needed to be comforted.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated in a breath.

“Don’t apologise. I’m the only one to blame. I should – “ Her voice faltered, and you felt her swallow hard. Automatically your hand came up to stroke her cheek in comfort. “I’ve been too busy to even notice you were struggling.”

“I can’t –“ You closed your eyes, clutching at Cordelia’s nightdress. “My brain can’t seem to stop associating Anna with danger.” You paused, swallowed hard. “She could have killed me. She could have killed you.”

“I know.“ Cordelia inhaled deeply and dropped a kiss on your head. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice wavering. “I can’t kick her out. She hasn’t done anything wrong since she’s been with us, and she has no home, nowhere else to go. She’s just coming to terms with her powers. I don’t…” She shook her head, bit her lip and pulled away to look into your eyes. Hers were big and watery and desperate. “I don’t know what to do,” she finished in a breath.

Something in her eyes, something in that confession – the helplessness, perhaps, that was so unlike her – made your heart roar in protest. You thought you could take a lot of things in this world, but this seemed to draw the line: there was no way on Earth, Heaven or Hell you’d be the one to paint that look on Cordelia’s face – your brave, kind, sunlit Cordelia.

You cupped her face, and when you next spoke your voice surprised you both. It was firm and confident and coated in a newfound determination that chased the demons out of the room. “You don’t have to do anything. You’re right, we can’t kick her out.” You tried for a smile. “So I’ll get a grip on myself and get over this.”

You tried to stop avoiding Anna Morgana. You sat next to her at breakfast, initiated a conversation at lunch, laughed at a joke she said at dinner. It sounded and looked too fake, but at least it was a first. You felt too nauseous to sleep that night, so you stayed up in the living room to watch movies. A little after midnight Cordelia joined you, carrying a blanket and two pillows. She snuggled up to you without a word, rested her head on your shoulder and made some sleepy comments about the movie. You fell asleep within the next half hour, lulled by Cordelia’s soft breathing.

The following days were scary, and some too hard when you felt like giving up and fleeing the city. Anxiety couldn’t be reasoned with. But Cordelia seemed to be everywhere with you, lingering in a corner of the room where you and Anna Morgana had a conversation, handing you a cup of coffee in the kitchen when you and Anna Morgana said good-morning, resting a hand soothingly on the small of your back when one time you considered wrapping your own hands around Anna Morgana’s neck and choke her for revenge.

On a Friday afternoon two weeks later, you and Anna Morgana went to get tattoos together. She held your hand during the entire session. Later that day as you met Cordelia in a corridor (dressed in one of her beautiful long floral dresses, stealing all the lights and colours from the sunset), you waved your arm in front of her face with a giddy smile and she gently grabbed your hand, flashing you a grin. The look on her face grew from amused to surprised to moved. When her eyes met yours, they were shining with love and tears.

“A lion’s heart,” you said softly, smiling down at the tattoo on your wrist, then back up at her. “It’s the meaning of your name, it’s what you have, it’s what you gave me.”

Cordelia bit her lip, gave a teary laugh and kissed you passionately in full view of everyone (she freaked out about it later, of course, and held an emergency meeting with the older girls during which Madison lost her cool and cried out, “surprise, bitch, everyone fucking knew”).

On the first day of summer you were awakened by a soft knock on your door.

You groaned, pressed your face closer to Cordelia’s chest as she stirred. Her skin was warm and soft and smelled like safety. You planted a lazy kiss between her breasts.

Another knock, louder. You opened your eyes groggily, and were met with the sight of pale skin, freckles sprayed over the swell of Cordelia’s breasts, a strand of blond hair curling just below her collarbone. Your mouth watered and something excited fizzed in your stomach.

“Your room,” Cordelia grumbled sleepily as another knock sounded.

You considered ignoring the goddamn intruder to worship your Supreme instead, but Cordelia – ever the responsible one – poked your knee with hers. You lifted your head, meaning to scowl, but her eyes were closed, a lazy smirk spreading all over her beautiful, messy morning face.

With a groan you got up, your legs heavy with sleep. You snorted as Cordelia mumbled, “Being the Supreme means I get to have nice boobs,” – because of course she knew exactly what was in your mind.

You opened the door with a rough “What?”

Anna Morgana flashed you a shy smile. She was dressed in a black lace blouse, black pleated skirt, and her hair was braided with pink flowers and sunkissed by the early rays slipping through the window.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said with another shy smile. “I thought you’d be up by now.”

Her gaze slid sideways and stared at something behind you. You pulled the door closer to you.

“I thought you’d be alone,” Anna Morgana went on. Her eyes met yours, amused. You tried to glare, but a smile betrayed you.

“I come bearing a gift,” Anna Morgana announced. She extended both her hands. In the middle of them sat a small rectangular box that looked way too familiar. Something unpleasant rose in your chest. You glanced up at Anna Morgana worriedly, but she nodded encouragement.

“Come on, open it.”

You’d rather not. You’d really, really rather not. Why was it suddenly too hard to breathe? For a second you were about to slam the door in Anna Morgana’s face. But then from behind you came the sound of ruffling sheet, of a warm body stretching in a lazy summer morning light, the sun bright and shining and still going strong, still welcoming every new day.

With a shaky hand you opened the box and lifted up the thin, delicate moonstone necklace. Your heart was pounding, and the room was too hot.

“It matches the colour of your eyes,” you heard Anna Morgana say. “And this one won’t try to strangle you.”

“It’s beautiful,” came Cordelia’s voice. One of her arms slipped around your waist and drew you close to her. Your body relaxed. You glanced up at her for courage, like plants stretch towards the sun for life.

You managed to offer Anna Morgana a smile. “Thank you,” you said, your fingers closing around the necklace.

Cordelia’s fingers playfully tickled your hip and your thigh bumped hers in retaliation, just as something in your chest you had not really known was there loosened and took flight and disappeared out of the window to melt in the summer heat.

#ahs imagines #ahs #american horror story #cordelia goode x reader #cordelia foxx x reader #sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #cordelia goode #cordelia foxx #fics

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dumdumsun · 3 years

Text

Of Starlight

A/N: One more chapter!

Warnings: none that I'm aware of

Word Count: 4200

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Chapter 19: The White Violin

To say that Five was nervous would have been an understatement. Not only would he be meeting the children of the love of his life, but her mother as well. Just hours ago, he was trying to prevent an apocalypse, and fought for his life for the past eight days. Now he was worrying about whether or not Michael and Jada would like him? What a rollercoaster this week has been.

(Y/N) had made a pit stop at her home, mentioning she had to grab something. When she invited Five inside, he hesitated, but she insisted. So, he unbuckled himself and left the car, joining her at her doorstep. Once she unlocked the door, they stepped inside and then she left his side not too long after, telling him to “make himself at home”. Five instinctively shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts as he watched his love disappear down the hall to her bedroom. Letting out a quiet breath, he let his green eyes wander around the living room.

It was clear that (Y/N) had been living quite a comfortable life. Her home wasn’t as grand as their childhood mansion, but it wasn’t a small home either. All around her walls were framed abstract paintings, awards her novels had won, and family photos. On her wall across from the long leather couch was a seventy-two-inch flat screen television. On either side of the television was a bookshelf. Upon further inspection, Five noticed that the bookshelf on the left consisted of children’s story books, while the other was full of novels. As his eyes roamed, he noticed Vanya’s book in the ‘H’ section of the alphabetized system. He hummed and stepped back, wandering further into her home. He noted that the general theme of the interior was navy blue and white. A nice, calming touch. Something tranquil to come to after a hectic day. He shook the thought from his head as he approached the dining room. On the glass table was a cup that was knocked over. Five tilted his head and set it upright, wondering why (Y/N) hadn’t taken care of that. She didn’t seem like the type to leave a single speck of dirt around her home, but then again, she hadn’t been able to look after her home in days. He had himself to thank for that.

His attention was brought to the small table in the corner of the dining room, where a framed picture was facing down. Curious, he walked up to the table and picked up the photo, his stomach twisting in knots only slightly. It was a wedding photo of (Y/N) and Anthony. The man’s golden tan skin bathed in the sunlight, lighting up his lovestruck facial expression. He had dark black hair and full brows, sporting a well-groomed extended goatee the same color. His full body wasn’t in the frame, but it was clear he had somewhat of a muscular build and the way he held himself radiated confidence. His hazel eyes were gazing at (Y/N). Five couldn’t believe what puberty had done to her. She was the picture of perfection. Her (e/c) eyes sparkled naturally in the sunlight, the way her dazzling smile reached those eyes told nothing but the truth of how her life had truly changed for the better. The only time he had seen (Y/N) as an adult was the apocalypse, where he never had the chance to see her smile. The woman in this picture was a woman who had escaped the horrors of her childhood, who made something of herself, who didn’t let those horrors define her. A sense of pride swelled in Five’s chest the longer he stared at the photo. She had achieved true happiness.

And here he was, bringing all of that negativity back to her.

“Okay, I’m back.” (Y/N) announced as she stepped into the dining room. Five quickly set the picture down in its original place, but it was too late. The smile she wore faltered a bit, but when it returned, it was more melancholy. Her steps towards him were slow, cautious. “He reminded me so much of you, Five,” She whispered, her shoulder brushing against his as she turned the photo upright again. “He was so patient with my baggage, so gentle and careful. Like I was this porcelain doll to him. Not a single scratch could be left on me, it was so unbelievable sometimes.”

“Are you trying to say I’m gentle and patient?”

“With me, you are.” She giggled. She let her elbow nudge his as she shifted her arm. “I miss him… he couldn’t fill the void you left, but he was so wonderful to have known in life. A wonderful partner…”

Five’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry about Anthony, (Y/N)... He must’ve been pretty great if he was able to pull you out of… the dark? Is that what you call it?”

“Yes, the dark,” She whispered before her gaze shifted to his, which was already fixed on her. “Five, I-I hope you know I… I love you. I can never fully heal from Anthony’s death, but… I’m not going to just ignore this. What we have. Or had…”

“What we have.” He whispered back, stepping closer to her. Absentmindedly, (Y/N) set the photo back down as their lips grazed each other. Five’s hand gently gripped her arm and her free hand reached up to caress his cheek. Without another moment of hesitation, the two closed the gap between them, their lips colliding in a slow kiss. The feel of her soft, warm lips against his was almost enough to send his knees buckling, but Five held himself together. It was hard to, though, when the hand on his cheek moved into his hair. Tilting his head into the kiss, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her even closer. Five could have time travelled and spent forty-five years in the apocalypse over and over if it meant he’d come back to this. Come back to this person who could be the beginning and the end of him, who could easily end his life if it meant hers was saved, who could tear down his walls simply with the warmth of her graceful smile. His beautiful Starlight.

His lips chased hers when she slowly pulled away and she quietly chuckled at him. The moment their lips were separated, their gazes met. Nothing, absolutely nothing but pure love and adoration. And if her confession seconds ago didn’t tell him, the look in her eyes certainly did. Her hands slid from his cheeks down to his arms, gently patting his elbows as she raised her brows. “Well… shall we get going?”

-------------------------------------------------

“So, we’re telling them everything? The truth?” Five asked as (Y/N) pulled up in front of her mother’s small home. The girl, after turning off the car, slowly sat back with her lips in a thin line.

“Yeah… That was the original plan,” She whispered. Five frowned in confusion and when she looked at him, she sighed. “We’re gonna pretend to be neighbor kids…”

Five blinked. “You’re not serious, are you? I thought the whole purpose of this was to be honest with them.”

“Well, yeah, but just think of how they’ll react. If it actually registers in their minds that I’m a kid… Oh my god, Jada will bawl her eyes out… Michael’s gonna have a panic attack, I just know it. A-And then they’re not gonna let me comfort them and then my mom’ll have to do it and they barely even let her do it-”

“Starlight-”

“And then if I introduce you as my lover, they’re gonna think I’m trying to replace Anthony-”

“(Y/N),” Five took hold of her hands that were flailing about. She stopped and stared at him with frantic eyes. “We’ll go with your plan. Does your mom know?”

She nodded.

“Okay…,” He slowly freed her wrists, watching as she began to relax. “Ready to go?”

She nodded again.

She was not ready to go. The second the teenagers stood in front of Michael and Jada, (Y/N) froze. Five gently nudged her to start off. She blinked rapidly and cleared her throat, waving shyly. “Hey, there… Um, we just moved in next door and… wanted to meet the neighbors.” She awkwardly nodded. Michael perked up and held his hand out to shake.

“I’m Michael! And I’m six!”

“I’m Jada!” The little girl laughed as Five gently shook the boy’s hand.

“I-It’s nice to meet you, Michael and Jada…” (Y/N) whispered.

Jada bounced on the couch, widening her hazel eyes in curiosity. “What’re your names?” (Y/N) immediately turned to Five in alarm. The boy placed a hand on her arm to calm her. He very slightly smiled at the girl and nodded.

“Well, my name is Five and-”

“Five?!”

“Yes-”

“Like the number?!”

“Yes, and this is… Star.”

This only made the children even more excited, their faces lighting up.

“Star?!”

“Yes.”

“Like the shiny things in the sky?!”

“Yes.” Five sighed and stared down at his feet. (Y/N) giggled. She then slowly knelt down in front of the two. She gulped and took a deep breath before lifting her head to look them in their faces. This was so much harder than she thought.

“How have you two been?”

Jada was the first to speak, “Oh, uh, good! I miss Mama. But she’s at work…”

“Yeah, but we don’t know when she’s coming back,” Michael scratched his cheek. “Because um… I remember one time when Daddy went to work and then, uh… he didn’t come back. I think he was hit… by a car. And I hope Mama didn’t get hit by a car.”

Five looked to (Y/N), who was shaking. He quickly knelt beside her and took her hand in his. “Your mom is fine, Michael, trust me.” He whispered.

“How do you know?”

“We saw her… before we moved. We met her. And she said that… she misses you two a lot. And… there isn’t a second that goes by when she doesn’t think about you. She hopes you’re happy and healthy. She… told us you two are her favorite people in the world.”

“Oh, yeah, she wrote a song about it!” Jada squealed. “She wrote a song about us and she sings it all the time!”

“It’s Jada’s favorite song.” Michael smiled and tried to hold his sister close so she’d cease her bouncing on the couch. (Y/N) let out a laugh as she watched her kids with tender eyes.

“She also said,” She started off, inhaling deeply. “That she didn’t want to leave you two. And if she could, she’d bring you two with her everywhere she went. But she can’t because- Well, she can’t… A-And she,” She stopped to wipe the tears cascading down her cheeks. “She hopes you two don’t hate her f-for leaving you for this long. And that she loves you… so, so much… You two fill her with so much joy and she doesn’t know what to do without you a-and-”

“Why are you crying, Star?” Jada hopped off the couch and hugged her mother tight. (Y/N) immediately wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Why are you crying?”

“N-Nothing, Jada, I just… I just feel bad because she misses you so much…”

Michael plopped down onto the ground in front of them, joining the hug. “Don’t feel bad. She’ll be home with us soon. That’s what she sings every night. That she… um… she’s gonna wipe our tears away when she comes back.”

“You’re right, Michael,” (Y/N) tearfully laughed. “My god, you’re so right…”

Michael turned to Five with a small smile, reaching his arm out. The time traveller looked around with a frown before pointing to himself. The little boy nodded and motioned him closer. Five shuffled over to the three and was going to ask what he needed, but Michael only pulled him into the hug. He was shocked, to say the very least. He considered leaving the hug, but when Jada tugged on his jacket to pull him closer, he gave in and wrapped his arms around the little family.

All the while, (Y/N)’s mother watched from the side, grinning through her tears.

-------------------------------------------------

“What’d you think of the kids?” (Y/N) whispered as she and Five strolled down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand. After the tear-fest, the two decided to get some fresh air and walked around the neighborhood. It was abnormally normal for Five to simply walk down a sidewalk without a task at hand, without answers to find. But right by his side was the answer to all of his questions.

“I think… Jada looks exactly like you,” The two shared a laugh. “But I must say, they are very intelligent children. And so kindhearted, as well. I mean, they just met me and were so comfortable with me.”

“I don’t know where they get that from.” She chuckled. Five gently tugged on her hand, causing her to step closer.

“You’ve got to start giving yourself credit for things like this. They’re your kids. Where do you think they got it from?” He smiled, raising her hand to his lips. “You’re the most caring person I know, Starlight.” He pressed a tender kiss to her knuckles as she leaned into his side. This beautiful and peaceful moment was squashed, however, when Five glanced over at a newspaper stand and dropped (Y/N)’s hand frantically. He rushed to the stand and took out a newspaper. “No, no, no…”

“Five?” (Y/N) stepped closer, her hand hovering over his shoulder. “What’s wrong…?”

“(Y/N)... we need to get back to the Academy.”

“W-What? Why-”

“The apocalypse is still on.”

Her car sped towards the Academy, the two hoping to god no lives had been taken in their absence. Arriving at the Academy, there was… Well, there was no Academy. It was in shambles, fire acting as a source of light in the night. Thankfully, in the midst of all the wreckage, (Y/N) could count four of her siblings standing around. Unfortunately, she didn’t see Vanya anywhere. The two teens charged out of the car and towards their siblings. “Guys!” Five grabbed (Y/N) by the hand and pulled her with him. The four all turned to them with exhaustion written all over their faces and bodies. “This is it. The apocalypse is still on. The world ends today.”

“I thought you said it was over.” Luther stepped closer to them. Five held up the newspaper he’d been clutching in his hand since he found it.

“I was wrong, okay? This newspaper, I found it in the future the day I got stuck. The headline hasn’t changed.”

“No, that doesn’t mean anything.” Diego shook his head. (Y/N) detected tears in his eyes and walked closer to comfort him, but he only held his hand up in dismissal. Backing off, she turned back to Five. “Time could’ve been altered since that newspaper came out this morning.”

“You’re not listening to me. When I found it, I assumed this place came down along with everything else,” Five glanced around at the wreckage. “But here we are. The moon’s still shining, the earth is in one piece, but not the Academy.” Five was nearly cut off when Klaus snatched the newspaper from him, flipping through its pages.

“I’m confused…”

“Then listen to me, you idiot! Vanya destroys the Academy before the apocalypse. I-I thought Harold Jenkins was the cause, but he was the fuse-”

“Vanya’s the bomb...” (Y/N) sighed in realization. Five gestured towards his love with an exasperated huff.

“Someone gets it… Vanya causes the apocalypse.”

“We have to find her.” Luther muttered as the sound of helicopter blades and sirens could be heard above them. A blinding light shone on all six of them from one of the helicopters. Diego stood and shielded his eyes from the light.

“We have to get the hell out of here!” (Y/N) grabbed a hold of Five’s arm. The siblings began to disperse, Luther commanding them to regroup at the Super Star Lanes. Pulling her close, Five blinked both he and (Y/N) there.

The boy would have pulled off the employee’s head and shoved it up where the sun didn't shine when she told him they needed to pay to get in, but (Y/N) stepped up and slammed some money onto the counter. It was more than enough for them and their siblings. She quickly grabbed his hand and pulled him to one of the lanes, sitting him down in a chair. The boy’s leg was bouncing rapidly and she had to place her hand on it in order for him to look at her. “I know it seems next to impossible, but please keep a level head, bub.” She leaned in and pecked his lips. He let out a sigh and gently pulled her to sit beside him without a word. The two patiently waited for the four to show up and when they did, they all gathered in the seats provided. Silently. No words spoken amongst each other. By this time, (Y/N)’s legs were swung over Five’s lap, the boy resting his hands on her knees as he stared forward, deep in thought. He didn’t break out of his trance until Luther spoke up,

“Look, I hate to be the one to say this, but everyone needs to prepare.”

“For what?” Diego furrowed his brows.

“To do whatever it takes to stop Vanya.” His answer earned him a smack to the chest with the notepad from Allison. Luther stammered and sighed.

“We may not have a choice, Allison.”

“Bullshit,” Diego mumbled as Klaus picked up the newspaper once again. “There’s always options.”

“Yeah, like what?” Five tested, but only received an ‘I don’t know’.

“Look, whatever we decide, we need to find Vanya. And fast, okay? She could be anywhere.” Luther stood from his chair.

“Or… here.” Klaus’s voice turned everyone’s head in his direction. He shook the newspaper a bit before they gathered around him. In the paper was an advertisement for the performance of the Saint Pluvium Chamber Orchestra, with Vanya as first chair. (Y/N) leaned forward to read it, Five placing his hand on her back to keep her from falling over.

“That’s right. Her concert is tonight.” Diego whispered.

“Hello,” The same employee from earlier approached the family, everyone irritably turning to her. “I hate to intrude, but my manager says if you’re not gonna bowl, you gotta leave.” She shrugged, walking off as said manager slapped a pair of bowling shoes on the counter. Luther, absolutely over this whole situation, grabbed a bowling ball and carelessly threw it. The ball bounced a couple of lanes over before knocking all ten pins down.

“Strike.” (Y/N) lazily cheered. She looked over when she heard Allison tapping on her notepad she’d just written on.

SHE’S OUR SISTER

“We’re the only ones capable of stopping this,” Luther stared intently at her. “We have a responsibility to Dad.”

“To Dad?!” Diego raised his voice. “No, I’ve heard enough about-”

“He sacrificed everything to bring us back together.”

“I’m with Luther on this one,” Five spoke up. “We can’t give her a chance to fight back.” When he felt his love move her legs off his lap, he turned to see her frowning in distaste. “What, are you against this?”

“Of course, I’m against this, Five, I don’t want to have to hurt Vanya.”

“What other choice do we have?” Luther raised his brows at her.

“There are billions of lives at stake. We’re past trying to save just one, (Y/N).” The boy gently held her hand. The girl sighed and turned her head away from him.

“It’s just that we’ve hurt her so much already…”

“Hey, you know, guys, uh… maybe I could help.” Klaus suddenly spoke, hopefully glancing around at his siblings. Luther blinked and shook his head.

“Now is not the time, Klaus-”

“No, let him finish,” Diego interrupted Luther. “He saved my life today.”

(Y/N) stared up at Klaus with a small smile. “Really, Klaus? You did that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I did… take credit for it. In fact, the real hero… was Ben.”

The silence between the family was deafening. Diego, Five and (Y/N) were intrigued while Luther and Allison were doubtful. Klaus sighed and walked in front of them. “Today… Listen. Today, he punched me in the face. Remember, I told you, (Y/N), you saw it!”

“Well… I didn’t actually-”

“And earlier at the house, he was the one who saved Diego’s life, not me.”

Luther scoffed. “You’re unbelievable, Klaus.”

“You want proof, is that it? (Y/N), did you or did you not see Ben punch me in the face today?”

The girl stiffened when she felt all eyes on her. Her own darted from Five, to Luther, then to Klaus, who waited with a hopeful smile. Inwardly sighing, she nodded. “Yes, I saw it.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Luther hissed. “You’re always defending his reckless behavior-”

“No, Luther, maybe I’m just the only one who listens to him-”

“No, you encourage him!”

“Fine, I’ll give you some real proof!” Klaus interrupted and grabbed a bowling ball. Readying to throw it, he stared at the space behind (Y/N). “Showtime, baby. Catch!”

Five quickly pulled his love into the other seat with him before the ball could get anywhere near her. She felt her heart sink when the ball smacked against the floor, slowly rolling away to the next party lane. She looked to Klaus in disbelief, now feeling like the world’s biggest fool. Her brother slowly lowered his arms as he stared back at her apologetically. “Is there any way to silence that voice in your head that screams out to be the center of attention? Or the voice that encourages it.” Luther leaned towards (Y/N), who nearly lunged at him.

“Fuck off, Luther!”

“You know, I liked you a lot better before you got laid,” Klaus immediately regretted that when seeing the shock on both Allison and Luther’s faces. “Which was a complete… It- It wasn’t his fault, ‘cause he was ridiculously high, right? And- And the girl, she thought he was a furry-”

“Stop!” Luther shut him down. He then slowly turned to Allison, who grabbed her notepad and walked away from them. Luther called out to her and followed quickly. To make things even more awkward, a woman suddenly walked over to the siblings with her son.

“Excuse me!” She beamed, the four turning to her. “Excuse me, it’s my son Kenny’s birthday today, and… uh… wouldn’t your kids be happier playing with kids their own age? Assuming it’s okay with your two dads.”

(Y/N) got quite the kick out of this, burying her face into Five’s shoulder and quietly laughing as the boy tensed in anger. “I would rather chew off my own foot.” He spat. The woman’s face slowly fell before she escorted her son away. (Y/N) was still laughing as she leaned away when she felt Five get up from his seat.

“If I was going to date a man, you’d be the last man I would date.” Diego stated. Klaus, offended, turned to his sister.

“He’d be lucky to get me.”

“Oh my god, I love you guys.” She snorted into her hand. When her laughter finally died down, she turned to where Five now stood. He was clutching something in his fist and something in her knew he was about to blink away, so she stood quickly. “Five.” She called out and rushed over to him. He turned to her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

“Starlight, I have to take care of something.”

“But Five, you can’t.”

“I have to.”

“But where?! Where do you have to go?!” Her voice broke as she latched onto his sleeves. He glanced down at her hands before meeting her eyes.

“It’s The Handler. I need to… discuss something with her.”

“Five-”

“Starlight, I promise I will come back for you guys. I’ll come back to you,” He gently rubbed her shoulders. “Okay? I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. Five smiled warmly and leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss. She pressed hers right back to his as her grip on him loosened. When he pulled away, he gave her one last smile before blinking away. She willed herself to return to her seat by her brothers. They picked up on her anxiety immediately, watching her tap her fingers to her knee repeatedly as she bit her lip harshly. The two sat forward with concerned looks.

“(Y/N)?” Diego called, but she hadn’t heard him. Klaus reached over and grabbed her working hand.

“He’ll be back, dear. He wouldn’t just leave us, leave you.”

“I-I know,” Her voice broke, the girl cursing at the sound. “I just… e-every time he leaves, I’m terrified it’s the last time I’ll see him.”

—————————————

Taglist: @unfortu-nate-ly @43sparrows @sapphicsyn @m00n-sh @starcurrent @alexander-hamilhoe @youcandalekmyballs @wonderlandfandom @yrdadjstcallsmekatya @narikyuwu @sm0kingcrack @a-t-h-r-e-e-n-a @moatsnow @bubblegumflamingos @call-me-starstorm @rev-enviadhell @meowiemari @magicalgothpandamaker @simping-4-fictional-men @hehehehannahthings @harrystylescherrie @rhain3 @himikaphoo @zerocanonlywriteshit @xxeiraxx

#the umbrella academy #umbrella academy #umbrella academy x reader #tua #tua fanfic #tua x reader #tua five #five hargreeves #five hargreeves x reader #number five #number five x reader #five x reader #of starlight

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ckneal · 3 years

Text

About a month ago, I had a fairly random revelation that Lilith was to Lucifer what Adam was to Michael. Not in the sense that she was ever his vessel, as all humans capable of serving that role are purportedly descended from Adam and Eve, and, while it’s never specifically confirmed to be true for the Supernatural universe, most lore surrounding Lilith sets her up as being too old for that.

And I also don’t necessarily mean that Lucifer and Lilith were in love—Lucifer is too egotistical and arrogant for me, personally, to believe he’s capable of a true romantic bond, and it is twice stated that he lost his virginity to Kelly Kline, in settings that leant themselves toward his credibility on this subject (musing aloud to an uncomprehending Kelly in the privacy of their bedroom, and awkwardly grappling for something to say in his first unplanned meeting with Jack, respectively)—leading me to believe that the recognizable sleazy substitute for love (lust) was not present between these two either. But, I do think that there was a connection there, and I do find myself curious about it.

After all, Lilith was willing to die to set Lucifer free from the cage. And yes, I am aware that she had made a deal with Michael to help set off the apocalypse, and she was obligated to carry out her part, but has anyone ever wondered what exactly Lilith got out of the bargain? She’s not exactly written like Eve, from season 6. She is not mothering toward demonkind. I can’t see her sharing Michael’s motivation to bring God back. The one who stood to benefit from her sacrifice, was, in fact, Lucifer. (And Michael, obviously.)

I think that the bond Lilith and Lucifer formed was a bit similar to what Adam and Michael had, in that it came from a lack of choice. I firmly believe that Lilith and Lucifer spent a decent amount of time together in Hell, just the two of them. Likely for a much longer period of time than Michael and Adam did in the cage. We don’t know exactly when Lucifer made Lilith, but we do know that he was out and moving around for awhile after the apple incident that Gadreel was incarcerated for—after all, Cain was a grown man when he caught Lucifer circling Abel and agreed to take the Mark. And bible ages are a little strange, but let’s say that that’s a good couple of decades in earth time. That’s much longer in Hell. Assuming that Lilith was turned prior to Cain, that’s a long time with Lucifer and Lilith being the only two occupants of Hell. (Well, except for Ramsey and her hellpuppies; remember she was pregnant when Lucifer saved her from extinction.)

And I wonder if in that time, the two of them could have developed a begrudging sort of friendship? Just from the forced proximity—Michael was clearly capable of decimating Lilith on sight if she went back to earth, and there weren’t exactly a lot of humans wondering around that early on in the species to provide her with cover—not to mention a meatsuit. She was pretty much stuck there, while Lucifer was presumably laying low, while he got his schemes together. Setting up the horsemen, binding Death, somehow getting and hiding the demon tablet, creating the Princes of Hell, and such. . .Just a lot of stuff, and where he used to have a vast multitude of siblings to talk to, he now just had this snarky little corrupted human soul, and I think—I think—they became friends.

And Lucifer considers this to be the filthiest thing that he’s ever done—on par with the most torrid, disgusting affair that anyone has ever had, and he still hates everything about it to this day. That’s why Lucifer never once talks about Lilith. He is nauseated by the fact that they were the original frenemies, completely disgusted and powerless to resist their intense conversational chemistry, and if they saw each other tomorrow there’s a tiny part of him that will still light up because no one has ever been more thoroughly on his level.

And it’s fucking mutual. If they saw each other tomorrow, they would exchange the most vehement of insults, maybe even physically attack one another, shouting their hatred at full volume—and then a few hours later be spotted at a coffee shop, passionately talking trash on Sam Winchester, and set terrible, terrible plans in motion that will plague Sammy’s life for the next several years. When they part ways, they would both feel intensely dirty, telling themselves that this will never happen again—but Lucifer has never been one to resist temptation, and at 3am finds himself sending that text message he knows he’ll regret later. . . “So what are your thoughts on Dean? ;)” And off they go again, all night long.

And that’s why Lilith was willing to lay down her life to set Lucifer free. And it’s also why she had her moment of doubt, when she nearly got Sam to agree to that demon deal. She had a moment of realizing that she was about to die for an asshole she doesn’t even like.

I personally like to think that Michael was the archangel who nearly came blasting in to defend Chuck that night, when Dean pulled the plug on the deal Sam was about to make (and before you try to tell me that wasn’t a real deal because Lilith was planning a trap—rewatch that scene, Sam was the one who played dirty by reaching for the demon-killing knife; Lilith was busy eyeing his crotch through his jeans and feeling up his chest). After Lilith smoked out of her meatsuit, I like to think that Michael followed her and gave a kind of prep talk, telling her that it’s important that they remember their motivations, shameful though they might be

At which point, Lilith just bursts into tears, crying, “Oh god, you’re right. . .He’s my best friend—how did this happen? How did this—Oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m going to be sick!”

Lilith sobs into Michael’s wings, while Michael is just sort of stuck standing there, because Lilith is gripping one of his four heads with both hands as she cries, while the other three are looking around for help, intensely confused because he, of course, was talking about bringing God back, and now he has no idea what to do to get out of this uncomfortable social situation that he does not understand.

And thinking about Lucifer and Lilith and Michael and Adam as parallels, it gets me asking these questions about how things would go if the roles were reversed. Would Adam willing lay down his life to free Michael from the cage? As a fanfiction writer, I enjoy the idea of saying yes.

In fact, I’m a little enamored with the idea of a parallel world where everything is flipped. Where it’s Michael in the box, and Adam running around breaking seals, Adam on that final, fateful night—after having had his moment of doubt in which he’d lured Ramiel into a secluded spot and offered to stand down and nearly banged Ramiel’s brains out in the bargain—but that’s all past, and now he’s firm in his resolve. Adam standing in front of a mirror—but instead of the white gown that Lilith wore, Adam’s in a black suit, dressed as if it were his wedding day, though he’ll never see his groom. And Raphael appearing at his elbow, looking concerned—instead of some random follower of Lilith’s, and Adam telling Raphael to be happy. Everything is going to be okay.

And it’s Adam reclining against the alter, all serene anticipation as Ramiel—the second Prince of Hell, who rejected his place in the succession because all he wanted was to live out a quiet life with his fishing gear, well away from the Pit and the Life—comes storming into the church with Zachariah at his side, assuring Ramiel that he’s trained for this, he can do it—only to have Azazel come bursting in behind them, shouting, “NO, RAMMY! IT’S WHAT HE WANTS!”

#micahel & lucifer #supernatural lilith #my thoughts #supernatural archangels #supernatural ramiel #adam milligan

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herstarburststories · 4 years

Text

Make Me Yours

Day 4 of Kinktober: Body Ownership

Day 4 of Suptober: Branded

Pairing: Michael!Dean x reader

Summary: Michael wants you to be his.

A/N: I swear I'm not that pornography on daily basis I'm even more, but branding is very kinky here. I also strongly support you listening to False God while reading. @itsangelpie @deanmonandnegansbitch, this is the Michael one I was talking about xD

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, p in v, bit of power play, marking, brief fingering, grace

CATCH UP KINKTOBER & SUPTOBER

Michael enjoyed leaving a trace behind like any other powerful celestial.

Once, the loyal son convinced himself that it was because he wanted, not only humans, but his siblings, father, and any other being to know that he could be a savior like he was built to be. No matter what, he was a righteous warrior who would do anything his beloved father wanted him to. He was a perfect soldier, earning nothing but pride and all the head pats possible.

At least, that was before. It was back when Michael thought that God truly loved him and that he had a bigger purpose than gaining adoration from his fragile humans to overthrow Lucifer — his little brother, the archangel that was thrown away like a rough draft. Now, Michael couldn't care less about living up to his goody two shoes reputation. He didn't care about his brothers and sisters either, much less the humans. The archangel wouldn't say that he hated them like Lucifer foolishly did. His brother was wrapped in a bubble of jealousy that was almost embarrassing. No, breakable things didn't deserve attention. Michael just didn't care about them or their little world. All of his heaven-made goals had melted into one thing to look forward to — getting Chuck back to kill him.

So what if he had to burn a couple of dimensions and their human inhabitants? That was just an unfortunate side effect of Chuck’s little creations being the only thing that could catch his attention.

Burn a book? Get the author’s fury.

Michael was more than satisfied with the idea of leaving a trace of calamitous fire behind. It was such a beautiful legacy that would put fear into the atmosphere of the universe, and Michael would be God. He would be better one — the evolved version of what he’d always been as an archangel.

The torn holes of vulnerability inside of him had only grown wider, gaping into an open wound when his father left him as though Michael were as useless as a broken toy. That wicked, selfish side said it was because he wanted everyone to know how terrible he can be — fear him so no one will ever be close enough to hurt him again.

Terror had worked better than adoration for millenniums.

The archangel is good with that. Unlike his father, Michael's ego is as big as the amount of blood in his hands, not the people on their knees or the number of démodé cathedrals to worship him in the name of a bible that he never wrote. He doesn't need humanity’s adoration.

You bit your bottom lip to contain a smile, glancing at him. Michael could read from your mind and erratic heartbeat that you were both excited and curious about what was going to happen. Yet, he didn't need to. He knew your body — that perfect body — very well by himself with no help of his powers.

Correction: he needs one human's worship.

As mentioned beforehand, powerful beings like to leave a trace behind for multiple reasons: marking their territory like a big dog, making a point to gain respect through terror, or boosting their self-confidence.

“Get on all fours, little one.”

For the first time, Michael wanted to make someone a living reminder of him. He wanted to mark a human for being his: you.

You were obedient, quickly moving to the position that he had asked. You can hear Michael humming in satisfaction, moving in such a quiet way that you almost feel surprised when he placed his hand on your back.

Michael watched your body with care, his fingers dancing with tenderness on your skin. He used to believe that a vessel was everything a human body was worth. Sex was a foreign concept, nothing but an earthling’s attempt not to feel alone — if they weren't fighting, they were fucking. It got boring after the first few centuries.

And then, you happened.

“So marvelous, little one.” His words were laced with gruffness, startling a whimper out of you. “All of this…” He held your waist and pulled you back swiftly. You gasped, feeling his hardness against your ass. Michael didn't slide in, but he kept rubbing himself on you. “All of you…” One of his hands slid down your body, making way for his fingers to catch your sweet spot. You were so warm and wet: there was nothing on Heaven, Earth, or Hell as splendid your needy cunt. “Who do you belong to, Y/N?”

“To you, Michael. I belong to you. Please.” You should be ashamed of begging so early, but how could you judge yourself? Michael's hard cock behind you, making your ass dirty with precum along with two fingers inside your pussy and his possessive words stewing inside your head — you were still just a human, after all. “I need you.”

It was blissful, to have someone he was enchanted by to worship him as the Sabaeans did to the stars.

“Patience is a virtue, little one.” The archangel wore a proud smirk, adding another finger into your wet mess. You groaned in response, pressing your hips to his pelvis in an obvious attempt for more.

Michael's cock welcomed the growing arousal, dropping more precum than before and twitching. It was difficult not to give himself any relief, but he had to teach you a lesson before taking you again. Religion came with strict rules.

He pulled away from you, grabbing your neck from behind only to push your head on the bed. Your cheek to the mattress made it was painfully easy for reality to sink in: the archangel’s fingers on your bare skin, his fingers that were inside you. There was something uniquely blasphemous about sinning like this.

“You take what I give you, and you're grateful for that. Understood?” He howled, tightening his hold on you. “I picked you.”

“Yes, master.” The two words fought to leave your mouth before ultimately escaping. You know you should be afraid, but your soul refuses to welcome any feeling other than excitement. Michael didn't even use his grace yet. He wouldn't hurt you: at least, not enough for you to suffer. Everything he did to your body was a blessing.

“Good.” He exhaled, letting go of your neck. The archangel had been way too patient, and you waited long enough. You dared turn your head to look at him, and Michael was divine. His gorgeous body was crouched with his knees on the bed while he patiently observed you. His length was large and rock hard against your leg. You just wanted to give him release. “Like what you see?”

You gulped, nodding furiously. The archangel chortled before he slid his cock inside you without any other warning.

You let out a shamefully loud scream. What else could you do? His cock was fucking its way inside you, cleansing your body with the prayer of being everything you could ever need or want: to feel holy, to feel full. Michael grunted, grabbing your hips to pull you closer, and you moved back and forth in sync with him. Soon, the bed was the one clamoring with noise. Both of you became hollow when you were like this — hungry, craving for something to fill up your empty pieces.

Michael was the right hand of God, the protector — whatever treasures he chose to deify would be eternal because he could make it happen. And for Heaven, he adored you.

His cock found your G-spot, and his grace flooded into your veins as if it was meant to be there. Your walls were tighter and tighter around him, and you couldn't wait to feel his load inside you, marking you from inside. There was a wash of glowing pleasure in your body. You had never felt so light before. This felt like the precipice of your glorified religion, and God, you could make a church out of this.

“That's it, my love.” Michael moaned, his eyes bright blue as he fucked himself into you. You bit the pillow to keep another scream down. He squeezed your waist. There was something burning in your bones with a painful pleasure as his hand glowed. He was branding you as his, writing his symbol all over your soul, bones, and heart. And you were enjoying every single ache of it. “Cum for me. I want to hear you coming for me.”

He may be a false god, but he certainly brought you to heaven.

Your lips parted into a moan as your juice came all over his pulsating cock, and Michael came inside you in a rush. Everything hurt as if he had rearranged your bones, but it was as comfortable as if they were all snapped back together in the right places. You fell on the bed out of exhaustion, wondering if you'd live to see another day. All of you seemed to be on fire, much more than the other times. Your pussy was pulsing, and you could smell him all over your skin. He had made your body his. You were his.

Michael pulled away from you, a lopsided grin on his lips as he glanced at his possession. The archangel laid down, pulling your tired body to him. You clung to Michael while trying to breathe properly. What had just happened?

“Wh — What was that?”

“I marked you, little one.” Michael gave you a devilish grin while his eyes shone a dazzling blue. He was the apocalypse of your soul, and you couldn't wait for the sweet destruction. “Now, everyone will know that you are mine. Your pussy, all your body, and your soul. You belong to me, Y/N.” He had everything now. The world and you. He was ethereal. “I'm your god now.”

You made an altar out of him, and you'd always be a loyalist to this love, no matter the sacrifices you'd have to do for this.

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carryonmywaywardcaptain · 4 years

Text

What’s in a Name?

CarryOnCap’s Masterlist

Pairing: Michael!Dean x reader, Dean x reader

WC: 2,135

Summary: Weeks after Michael disappeared with Dean as his vessel, you decide to take some time away from the bunker. Nothing could have prepared you for the talk you have (or the tearful goodbye) when he pays you an unexpected visit.

Square Filled: Midnight Snack

Warnings: Season 14 spoilers if you haven’t seen it. Some angst. Sort of sappy fluff. Revelation of feelings and implied mutual pining. Minor mentions of injuries. Kind of a corny, abrupt ending. Also this gif by @teamfreewillbettertogether (I mean LOOK AT HIM.)

A/N: This is my first submission for #spndeanbingo challenge round 1 hosted by @spndeanbingo Inspired by this 14x01 gif and the end dialogue of 14x09. (I do not claim to own the dialogue from those episodes, I just paraphrased for this fic.) This was supposed to be a drabble but it got away from me. lol

You had just finished a case up north-- nothing big, just a few werewolves preying on teenagers who were exploring the woods on the outskirts of town at night for “something to do.” You had tracked down the last of the pack just in time to save a young girl from becoming an unfortunate midnight snack. After driving her home and observing a tear-filled reunion with her parents, you returned to the motel you’d been staying at.

You were exhausted, covered head to toe in cuts and bruises from the hunt, and you knew you needed some rest. But sleep didn’t come easily these days and, when it did, you often found yourself dreaming of Dean. It kept you up at night knowing he was out there somewhere locked away under Michael’s control, and dreaming about him only seemed to make you miss him more.

It was late, but you decided to venture to the gas station up the street to grab a midnight snack of your own, hoping the cool evening air and a little food might help ease your mind. After cleaning up a little, you slipped out of your room and back into the night.

It had been weeks and there'd still been no sign of Dean or Michael. Sam had been working tirelessly trying to find him, but so far he still hadn’t had any leads. In an effort to help with the search, you packed a bag and set out to connect with some of your old contacts.

...At least that’s what you told Sam.

Truthfully, you had decided to leave because you needed a break from it all. The bunker had begun to feel crowded with all of the new inhabitants from Apocalypse World. Sam, Mary, Cas, and Jack checked on you at all hours of the day because they all seemed to know about the feelings you harbored for Dean. You appreciated their concern, but the lack of alone time and space left you feeling suffocated and on edge.

On top of it all, the bunker somehow also felt eerily empty without your favorite green eyed hunter. Reminders and memories of him seemed to haunt every inch of the place. With how overwhelming everything had become, it was liberating to work a case or two while you took some time to grieve and process everything in peace.

After buying a sandwich, a six pack, and a mini pie, you thanked the cashier and began the short trek back to your motel. Still lost in thought, you had taken a shortcut down an alley when a noise from behind stopped you in your tracks. It was subtle and if you hadn’t recognized it immediately, it might’ve gone unnoticed-- drowned out by the bustle of cars, sirens, and drunken bar-goers still enjoying what was left of their night.

The familiar rustle of angel wings.

Realizing you’d left your angel blade in the duffel bag beside your bed, you tried to remain calm. Cas had no way of knowing where you were and you knew the few angels left in existence were doing all they could to keep heaven running. Grappling with the fear and hope you could feel rising in your chest, you wracked your brain for any other possible explanation for who could be behind you. But even before he spoke, you knew it was him.

“Hello Y/N.”

It wasn’t his voice-- not really. Even so, the sound was oddly comforting after so many weeks without it. If you’d kept your back to him, you might’ve been able to let yourself pretend it really was him. That he had managed to break free from the archangel somehow and track you down.

But it was the way he said your name that let you know who it really was. His voice was hollow. Almost formal.

One thing you’d always loved about Dean--whether he was angry or worried or teasing--was the way he said your name. There was always so much emotion behind it. Always a trace of the unconditional love he gave to everyone he cared about. When he spoke your name, there was always a deeper implication: no matter what he was feeling or what you had done, you knew he would always protect you and have your back. There was never a need for him to say those things outright, because somehow you’d always understood.

But this wasn’t him and those weren’t the feelings you had when your name rolled off of his tongue. Taking a deep breath, you slowly turned to face the man behind you.

“Michael.”

The corner of his mouth tilted into a smirk. He wore a gray three piece suit, a long coat, and a newsboy style cap. His head was slightly bowed, casting a dark shadow over his eyes. Instead of the relaxed, bow-legged stance you were accustomed to, his posture was stiff and typical of the angels you’d grown familiar with over the years.

“It’s nice to be able to skip the introductions.”

He raised his head and the motion seemed almost robotic. His jade eyes briefly flashed a bright electric blue and the longer you looked at his emotionless face, the more unsettled you began to feel. Everything about him seemed detached and unnatural-- a stark contrast to the man you knew.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want? It’s a little...ironic.” His lips stretched into a wry grin, but there was still an emptiness behind it. “That’s what I’ve been traveling all around this world asking people. ‘What do you want?’ Their answers are always the same: Peace. Power. Revenge. Love.”

You exhaled upon hearing the final word--recalling the countless number of fantasies you’d had about Dean confessing something similar to you.

“They say the things they think I expect to hear. Give answers they hope will ensure their survival. It’s all so very...weak. Pathetic. Human. But I will admit free will does keep things marginally interesting...how these ‘wants’ seem to motivate you. To give you a cause to fight for.”

You stood motionless, soaking in every bit of the speech he was delivering. The way he spoke was flat and unhurried. You reminded yourself over and over that it wasn’t him, but as his voice washed over you...the hold he had on you was undeniable.

He took a few steps forward, hands behind his back as he began circling you like a predator stalking its prey.

“He’s still in here, you know.” He tapped a finger on his temple when he circled in front of you again. “Resisting me. Squirming and trying to claw his way out. To get back to all of you.”

“Is there a point to this monologue?” Your voice wavered, sounding feeble instead of assertive.

“I can sense how vulnerable you are in my presence because of this pretty face. Haven’t you ever wondered what it is that Dean wants most?” He began slowly pacing back and forth in front of you. “I know his thoughts. His desires. His reasons for fighting. I know all that you’ve been through together...”

“He wants the same thing we all do. To take out as many of you douchebags as we can until--”

“You are what he wants.”

You tried to swallow, but your throat had gone dry.

“...what?”

“Why do you think he said yes to me? Why do all of you sacrifice yourselves for each other? Again and again...and again.” He paused and met your eyes when you didn’t say anything. “For love. For the fear of having to live without each other. For the ‘family business’ or whatever. Now, Sam? Mary? His angel pal and even the nephilim-- sure, he loves them. He would die for them. But you…well, there aren’t words for how devastated he would be if anything ever happened to you.”

“You’re...lying,” you whispered.

“I’m just a messenger, sweetheart.”

He spun on his heel and held his hands out to his sides, chuckling as he shook his head. You wanted to believe everything he was saying, but you had no reason to. Michael had lied to Dean-- why wouldn’t he do the same to you?

“Why are you telling me any of this? Why bother finding me at all?”

“Because his squirming is like an incessant gnat that simply won’t go away. So, as a small attempt to put his floundering to rest, I decided to pay you a visit. To say the things he never could. To put an end to his doubts...the worry and the fear and the anger that keeps him fighting. To show him there’s no need to resist me any longer. Lucifer is dead and all of you survived.”

“So you’re pretending to care about his well-being now?” you scoffed. “That’s your play?”

“He’s angry with himself for saying ‘yes’--but he wanted to save his brother and the boy. To beat Lucifer and, together, that’s what we did. He’s so worried about his family’s safety but, with my help, you were all spared from Lucifer’s wrath. Now, after everything I’ve told you...do you have any idea what Dean’s greatest fear is? His reason for continuing to resist me?”

As the gears turned and every fiber of your being seemed to have a hunch about what he meant, your mind refused to even consider the possibility. There was no way he could possibly mean--

“You,” Michael sighed impatiently. “You’re the one he’s most attached to. The source of his deepest fear and regret. Because what if something happened to his beloved Y/N? What if he never had the chance to tell you that he loves you? That he’s always been too much of a coward to admit it.”

Feeling like the air had been knocked from your lungs, tears began to well in your eyes at his admission. You weren’t sure if he was telling the truth, but if there was any way to reach him...you had to try.

“Dean? If you can hear me--”

“Dean’s not home right now. He’s served his purpose and his mission is complete. Now it’s time for mine.”

You knew you should ask what he meant, but right now you couldn’t care less about Michael’s mission. Taking a measured step forward, you gazed into his eyes and hoped he could hear you, no matter how deep he was buried.

“I love you too, Dean. More than you could ever know… And no matter what happens, none of this is your fault.”

Michael scoffed at your attempt before suddenly hunching over to stare at the ground. His expression quickly grew irritated and he shook his head as he rolled his shoulders back.

“So...very...pathetic,” he mumbled angrily.

“...Dean?”

He stood abruptly, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring as he closed the distance between the two of you. You watched as he curled his lip in disgust and placed two fingers on your forehead. When his pupils flash blue once again, your body went rigid as a warm energy spread from your head to your toes.

As he withdrew his hand, you breathed heavily and rolled your sleeves up to discover the wounds from your hunt had been healed. You glanced back at him with a puzzled expression and let out a small gasp when you noticed how drastically his demeanor had changed.

Instead of blank, dead eyes, you were met with tender emerald ones. He reached a hand out and lightly traced his fingertips along the edge of your jaw.

“Y/N…”

It was nothing more than a whisper; a silent plea for you to hear everything he didn’t have time to say. When the word escaped his lips, he drew his eyebrows together-- all of the raw emotion Michael had kept locked away painted clearly on his face.

You understood completely, hearing it all in the way he said your name.

“I know, Dean. We’re gonna find a way to get you back. Just hold on.”

He cupped your cheek and a sad, longing smile graced his lips when you leaned into his touch. Without warning, his eyes flashed blue once more.

In the blink of an eye he was gone.

Clenching the bag of food and beer in one hand, you wiped away a few stray tears and fished your phone from your pocket. After selecting a number from your favorite contacts, you began jogging toward the motel. The line rang several times before going to voicemail, but you quickly hung up and dialed again.

Arriving at your room, you unlocked the door and began frantically packing your bag. You huffed in frustration when the call went to voicemail again but, on your third attempt, you finally heard Sam’s groggy voice.

“Hello?”

“Sam? It’s Y/N. So, get this--”

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

Text

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr | Also on AO3

Chapter 58: Jon Prime

Eleven months. Eleven months since Jon had come back in time, since he’d knocked on Tim’s door, since he’d had Martin in his arms again. Eleven months of regrouping, of planning, of worrying and fearing and hoping in equal measures. Eleven months, almost to the day, to the minute. All of it leading to this.

It was worth it for the look on Elias’s face when he spun around to face him.

In the entire time Jon had worked for the Institute, and especially since taking the Archivist position, he had never once seen Elias anything but calmly, coolly, smugly in control. Occasionally angry, although he’d more heard that than seen it when he listened to the tapes much later, but still, whatever emotions he might have been feeling, his bearing had always suggested that he held the upper hand and knew it. Now, though, there was none of that in his expression. For the first time Jon had ever seen, Elias Bouchard looked as though the situation had got away from him somewhat. His eyes—Jonah’s eyes—were wide with alarm, his jaw was slack, and even if he didn’t look afraid—yet—he was definitely at the very least taken aback. It was a start.

“Jon? What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You should be—” He stopped and inhaled sharply as he scanned Jon’s face, probably noticing the worm scars if not how much more grey was in his hair than his counterpart’s. “You’re not Jon.”

“Oh, but I am,” Jon replied. He was keeping his powers in check, but barely; he could feel the static building in his veins, thrumming and crackling like electricity through a power grid, and while he wanted to unleash it on the man before him, he couldn’t just yet. It was too much of a risk with Martin so close. “Just not the Jon you think I am.”

“What—no.” Jonah—there was no doubt it was Jonah Magnus regarding him now—turned pale. “You’re not—no. How can this be? Tell me!”

Jon tsked. “That was never your gift, Jonah. Compelling people. The Eye gave you the ability to pry, to pluck secrets out of heads and put secrets in…but you don’t get to ask for them, do you? You are no Archivist.”

There was definitely a part of him that was enjoying this more than he should. It wasn’t the power over Jonah he thrilled to—he’d never been the megalomaniac sort—but he definitely relished not being the one at a disadvantage for once. He’d spent years as little more than a pawn in Jonah’s game, and it was refreshing to be, if not a queen, at the very least a knight. It was satisfying more than anything.

But satisfaction wasn’t the goal. Victory was.

Jonah pulled himself together and drew himself up. Jon had to give him some credit—it obviously cost him a good deal of effort, both mental and physical. Martin had thrown him for a loop, probably several times, and then Jon had appeared from behind and totally disorientated him. Beyond that, Jon had seen, when he crept up behind him, the large dark stain surrounding the tear on the back of his usually immaculate charcoal suit. Melanie may have only pretended to actually try and kill him, but she’d certainly done a number on him anyway.

“Jon, I do not have time for these games,” he began.

“On the contrary. We have all the time in the world.” Jon took a half-step back and to the side, away from both the soft part in the wall that led, more or less, to the Institute and the tunnel where Sasha and Melanie had secreted themselves.

As he’d hoped, Jonah took the bait, taking a full step towards him and away from Martin. He had two inches on Jon and obviously intended to use them to the utmost effect in an attempt to intimidate and cow Jon. It was the same thing he’d done after the Apocalypse, when he’d stood over Jon and belittled him, making him shrink in on himself and bow under the weight of his own folly and shortcomings, highlighted all the places where it had been Jon’s decisions that led to that point.

Things were different now. Jon knew himself, he knew what his capabilities were as well as his limitations. And just as importantly, he had the evidence of his own eyes when he looked at Past Jon. Yes, Jon had made choices that led to the Apocalypse, but they’d been made with the limited information he had—information that had been limited because of Jonah. When he had all the data, he made much better decisions. Knowing, as they said, was half the battle.

In this case, perhaps, Knowing was all the battle.

Jon spared a quick glance for Martin. His smirk was almost a match for Jon’s own, and his eyes sparkled in a way Jon hadn’t seen in a long time. He stood tall and confident, shoulders squared and chin raised, and he still had a tight grip on the knife Melanie had pressed into his hand. He was also still far too close to Jon and Jonah, and not near enough to where he needed to be.

“Martin, get back. I don’t want you getting hurt,” he told him.

“Really, Jon, I don’t know what you think is going to happen,” Jonah said stiffly. “Whatever the issue is, we can settle it like gentlemen.”

“Ha!” Melanie’s disgusted laugh floated from the side. Jon looked over quickly to see her and Sasha crouched right in the entrance of the tunnel they’d found him in, arms linked tightly. Melanie’s other hand had a death grip on the rough stone of the tunnel’s arch. Jon knew exactly why. He’d heard the near-ethereal music, too, followed it down the tunnel, and realized the stone was ringing faintly with the tune from Denikin’s Calliophone, as though it were one of the pipes of the organ. If Sasha and Melanie hadn’t tumbled into him and told him they were ready for him, there was no telling how far he might have gone. Or how lost he might have been.

Something flickered over Martin’s face, but he did as Jon requested, taking three careful steps backwards until his heels hit the edge of the tower at the center of the Panopticon. He reached out with his free hand and steadied himself against it, then nodded once.

Jon stole another half-pace backwards, luring Jonah a little farther away from the others. “Settle this like gentlemen? You must be joking. What exactly do you think is going to happen? That you’re going to convince me to—to walk away from this? To just let it go?”

“You walked away from the Unknowing,” Jonah said tartly. “You left Tim alone to it with two people who, I am sure, could not possibly care less whether he lives or dies. And despite this—” He ran his eye over Jon’s face disdainfully. “—this getup, we both know that you walked away from Jane Prentiss and left Martin alone to her.”

Oh. That was a low blow. Jon stiffened, his rage nearly choking him. Despite knowing that it wasn’t true—that it hadn’t been true in either timeline—just the fact that Jonah would look him in the eye and even imply that he was the sort to abandon his people was enough to leave him momentarily speechless. And the fact that Jonah believed, or pretended to believe, that Jon would abandon Martin of all people…

He was about to explode, to start yelling, to reach out and strangle Jonah Magnus with his bare hands, when Martin started laughing. It was somewhere between the way he’d laughed when Jon had floated the idea of gouging their eyes out and running away together and the way he’d laughed when they’d been playing I Spy in the tombs. He sounded both incredulous and amused.

“You still have no idea, do you?” he said. “You still think you know what’s going on. This must really be embarrassing for you. Having to wait for an explanation.”

It was the last word that did it for Jon, grounding him and enabling him to recenter himself. Even if Martin’s voice hadn’t been enough, the reminder was. Once upon a time that no longer was, Jonah Magnus had forced Jon to monologue for him, forced him to recite his deeds and his plan before using him as a tool to trigger the end of the world. He had manipulated Jon at every turn, and then manipulated him once more at the end. And that was exactly what he was trying to do here. He was trying to goad Jon into doing something rash, into lashing out at him and tipping his hand too far.

He still thought he could win.

Jon didn’t take a deep breath; he wouldn’t give Jonah the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled him. But he did square his shoulders and let his lips curl into a sneer. “I know you can’t look into my head, Jonah. But can’t you guess? Even if your master won’t give you the answers, can’t you even attempt to figure them out on your own?”

Anger flashed in Jonah’s cold grey eyes, and Jon knew he’d scored another point. There would be no grading of this exam—it was strictly pass/fail—but the more he could build things up on his side, the easier it would be. He hoped. “Don’t prevaricate, Jon. This is hardly the time. Either tell me what you think you are doing, or allow me to get back to watching the people you should be watching.”

“The Jonathan Sims you employ is at the Unknowing,” Jon told him coldly. “Along with the Martin Blackwood you employ. I was that Jonathan Sims, once, but not now. I am from the future, Jonah Magnus. A future that is not and will never be.”

“If you are trying to make a joke—”

Jon ran the backs of two fingers over his cheek, indicating the worm scars. “Jane Prentiss, twenty-sixth July, 2016.” He touched his side. “The Distortion, otherwise known as Michael, second October, 2016.” He held out his right hand, palm outward, and notched another point in his credit when Jonah flinched, almost imperceptibly. “Jude Perry, twenty-fourth April, 2017.”

Jonah’s eyes widened—and then, not entirely to Jon’s surprise, a slow smile crossed his face. “The Corruption, the Spiral, the Desolation. And that scar at your throat—yes, I saw that. The Slaughter?”

“The Hunt. Daisy Tonner, twenty-eighth April, 2017.” Jon pulled aside the collar of Martin’s sweater—not the green one he’d worn since Martin wrapped him in it for comfort after he ended the world or the soft blue one that Martin wore more often than any other because Jon had complimented him on it without thinking long before either of them knew they would end up together, but the slightly lopsided red one that was Jon’s new favorite, because it was the one Martin had patiently worked on while Jon read statements to feed himself, the one that was proof he didn’t really need to be able to see to knit. “This is the Slaughter. Melanie King, twenty-fifth February, 2018.” He let the collar fall back into place and smoothed it out carefully. “The others don’t show.”

“But you have them all.” Jonah’s smile broadened. “It worked. The ritual was a success, and you came back…thinking you could stop me.”

“Well done, Jonah,” Jon said, in the same voice one might otherwise use with a child who had successfully tied his own shoes for the first time. “That’s all absolutely correct.”

“Oh, Jon.” Jonah’s voice took on an almost pitying tone. “And you thought telling me that would mean…what, exactly? You think it won’t work now? That you’ve warned your—counterpart, and now he can escape it? He has three marks already, at least.”

Behind Jonah’s shoulder, Martin silently held up his free hand, displaying all five fingers. Jon swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat as he realized Martin was right. Apart from the two he’d had before they arrived—the Web and the Eye—and being stabbed by and later traveling through the halls of the Distortion, Past Jon had been kidnapped and essentially tortured by the Stranger, and his encounter with Julia and Trevor in America was probably enough to give him a mark from the Hunt.

“And even if he escapes,” Jonah continued, oblivious to what was going on behind him, “there are still the others. Even knowing, it’s unavoidable, Jon. Fear comes for us all, in whatever guise it wishes, and the Institute is a lure many of them cannot resist. They will be marked, and when they are—”

“No,” Jon interrupted, and this time he let the static crackle through his voice. “They may be marked, Jonah Magnus, but it will not be to your advantage. This ends here.”

Jonah sneered, but Jon had already seen the flash of fear in his eyes. “You think you’ve learned enough to stop me? I have two hundred years of experience and Knowledge. What do you bring to the table? A few tricks? This cheap attempt at intimidation? You cannot overpower me, Jon. Not now when I can see my triumph within my grasp. Thwart me, and I will simply find another.”

“Oh, no.” Jon took another diagonal step, turning his shoulders as he did so; as he expected, Jonah followed him. “There will be no one else. Not from you. Never again.”

“How, exactly, do you intend to stop me?” Jonah demanded, drawing himself up.

Jon snorted. “I had considered taking you out the way you took out one of the others. I considered shooting you. Like you did to Gertrude.” He swallowed hard. “And Martin.”

“I never—ah.” Jonah’s unpleasant smile smeared across his face again. “Yes, I suppose that would be quite effective in slowing you down, wouldn’t it? If I were to—take him out, shall we say?” He slipped one hand under his jacket.

“You don’t have it with you,” Jon said with contempt. “I don’t even need the Eye to know that. If you had brought your gun, you wouldn’t have bothered trying to get into Martin’s head. Not once you were down here. After all…” He waved one hand around the room. “Who would be here to witness? Only the Eye.”

“Perhaps I think he’s too useful to kill,” Jonah said.

Jon curled one hand into a fist and fought back the anger and nausea the way Jonah’s voice curled around the word useful brought up. He had to keep it together. Had to keep this going. “I could have beaten you to death, too. Like you did Jurgen Leitner. And framed me for.”

Again he took a half-step back, rotating slightly this time, and again Jonah followed. Jon glanced at Sasha, her eyes glittering with excitement and interest even from that distance, and raised his eyebrows in silent question. She nodded once. Jon blinked his acknowledgment and swiftly returned his gaze to Jonah. He’d managed it right. He now had the tunnel to the Institute at his back and the Panopticon at his front. He was directly between the two access points for the Beholder. He had Jonah exactly where he wanted him.

“Jurgen Leitner?” Jonah repeated. “That pompous ass?”

Martin and Melanie’s snorts were nearly identical. Jon didn’t bother to repress his smirk. “He’s living in those tunnels, you know. Has been for years. He used to help Gertrude out, too. He was going to tell me some of those details you thought my counterpart didn’t know, and I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to shield my thoughts enough that you didn’t know I was talking to someone. You slipped in while I was out of my office, tormented him the same way you did Gertrude, and beat him to death with a length of pipe. Left the body there. Of course Daisy thought I’d done it.”

“It would have been quite difficult for me to use you if you were in prison.”

“Oh, you made it clear that you didn’t actually think I’d done it. But you certainly brought me to Daisy’s attention. Dangled me in front of her. You knew she would come after me eventually, knew it would mark me. You used her as much as you used the rest of us, long before she joined the Institute.” Jon met Jonah’s eyes. It was far easier than it had ever been before. “Never again, Jonah. I will never allow you to use anyone for your evil purpose again. You don’t deserve the power you want to wield.”

“You could join me, you know,” Jonah offered.

Jon almost choked. “What?”

“Join me,” Jonah said again, and if Jon thought for a minute that Elias Bouchard was the type, he’d have expected the next sentence to be something along the lines of Together we can rule the galaxy as father and son. “You’ve seen the world, Jon. The world we created, in your time. You know how very beautiful it can be. Rulers together of a forsaken world. Overseers of all. Imagine it. You could choose who lived and died. Control how much suffering was inflicted on those who suffered. You know what that fear feels like when it flows through you…imagine controlling it, drinking the whole world. I know you wouldn’t be here if you had had that power. You would never have wanted to leave it.” He spread his hands out invitingly towards Jon. “We would live forever. Imagine it, Jon. It would be so easy, and so rewarding. All you need to do…is say the words.”

Martin’s face went white as a sheet. Those freckles that hadn’t been bleached to pale shadows by the Lonely stood out clearer than Jon had seen them in ages, and his lips parted slightly. The naked fear in his sightless eyes was almost physically painful. He was scared, worse than he’d been in a long time.

And something seemed to tighten around Jon’s wrist.

Martin knew Jon better than anybody in the universe, maybe better than Jon even knew himself. He knew how close to the edge Jon had been at times, how close he’d come to succumbing to the Eye and becoming its conduit. How hard Jon had fought to keep from becoming like Jude Perry, like Mike Crew, like Jared Hopworth. And he knew just how hard Jon was tempted at times to give in, how much Jon wanted to know what would happen if he did. How tired he got sometimes of the constant daily struggle. He alone, out of anybody, knew that there was a part of Jon that wanted to say yes.

But not enough of one. Not nearly enough of one. There was no temptation in the world strong enough to lure him away from Martin, nothing in the universe he wanted more than to spend whatever time he was granted with the man he loved. Martin had promised to kill him if he ever came close to agreeing to what Jonah was proposing, and Jon had sworn to himself then and there that he would never force Martin to make that call. He knew that Martin would never be able to live with himself if he did. And Jon loved him too much to hurt him that way if there was any other option.

But Martin couldn’t see his face. For all he knew, Jon was seriously considering the offer. Jon would have to reassure him.

“If you think,” he said, “for one moment that I would agree to that knowing what it would mean, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought you were. And that, Jonah Magnus, is saying something.”

Martin drew in a sharp breath and closed his eyes for a brief moment, then seemed to relax. Jonah’s smile melted away. He opened his mouth to say something. Jon didn’t give him the chance. “I have seen your ‘forsaken world’, and I have seen what it cost everyone who lived in it. I have felt the pain and suffering of those within it, and I know that there is no one, Watched or Watcher, who escaped that pain and suffering. Even those who thought they wanted it, in the end, found they did not. Even you would have learned that, sooner or later.” He narrowed his eyes at Jonah. “And I would sooner gouge my own eyes out, here and now, than share any kind of power with you.”

Jon again saw the cold, pale fury in Jonah’s eyes that he had last seen when Martin defied him after the Apocalypse, but this time it didn’t go away. “That can be arranged.”

“I don’t think so.” Jon felt the static building up again, and this time, he didn’t try to hold it back. “Your time has come.”

Power thrummed through his veins. It was the way he’d felt when facing down the Not-Them both times, when he’d struck down Jared Hopworth, when he’d caught hold of Helen’s lie, but somehow it was stronger. Again he felt that tightening around his wrist, and he could feel a power flowing through that as well, fueling him, giving him strength and courage.

“For two hundred years, you have sat atop your ivory tower and pretended to rule,” he said. The words came easily, leading Jon to wonder if he was saying them or the Ceaseless Watcher was. “You have set yourself up as a god among men, and you have believed yourself to be untouchable. You have manipulated and pulled and lured, and through it all, you have believed yourself to be endearing yourself to your master. But It Knows You, and it Knows that it is not fear you have feasted on all these years, merely power over others. You have desired only your own ends and served no one but yourself.”

He was aware of an echo to his voice, as though someone else was speaking the words with him. At first he thought it was just that, an echo, or maybe the Beholder resonating through him, but he recognized the second voice for what it was at about the same moment Jonah’s eyes widened, and the fear in them wasn’t fleeting. It was Gertrude Robinson’s voice joining Jon’s, maybe prompting him, maybe lending her power to his. Maybe it was just a manifestation of his power after all, enhancing Jonah’s fear.

Jon could taste that fear. It was exhilarating and intoxicating. Whatever was around his wrist seemed to tighten further, reminding him that it was there, reminding him of what he was trying to do. Keeping him grounded. In that instant, Jon recognized it as a manifestation of his bond to Martin, the one Annabelle Cane had enhanced, and it gave him a renewed sense of conviction.

“Two hundred years of pain and death and misery,” he continued, “and all of it spent running from your own fears. Know now that Fear has come for you, Jonah Magnus. You cannot escape it and you cannot run from it.”

“No—no—no,” Jonah gasped, backing away from Jon, or trying to. “J-Jon, please—”

“For our Tim,” Jon snarled, and Gertrude Robinson’s voice and all their combined power joined in with him. “For our Sasha, and for Gertrude Robinson, and for all the others you have killed and trapped and harmed. For my Martin. For every life you took, every dream you destroyed, every ounce of pain and fear you inflicted on others—let it all be turned back on you tenfold. Feel it all, and for the first time in your life, Jonah Magnus, you will truly Know.”

“Jon—please—I don’t want to die,” Jonah begged.

“Neither did they.” Jon raised his voice and felt his hair stand on end. “Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this miserable, pathetic, wretched thing!”

The light in the room flashed as though struck by lightning, but a brilliant, blazing green, coming from both directions and centered directly on Jonah Magnus, who began to scream. Jon felt the fear slam into him, filling him near to bursting, thrumming through his veins and body like he’d simultaneously grabbed hold of a live electrical wire and tried to drink from a fire hose like a straw. Either Elias Bouchard’s body was shrinking or Jon had grown, or perhaps he was merely floating above the floor, but whatever the case, he was now looking down on the man from above.

In the exact same instant, Martin lunged forward and, with a roar of satisfaction and an accuracy that Jon Knew would not have been possible without their bond, drove the knife with both hands into the heart of Jonah Magnus’s body.

Elias’s scream rose to a fever pitch, joined by more voices—six, if Jon was any judge: the screams of the other five men Jonah Magnus murdered to extend his life, and the scream of the original Jonah Magnus himself, a dry, dusty sort of scream, desperate and frightened and pained. The green light flared up and filled the room in a blinding, soundless explosion—

—and then, suddenly, it was gone, leaving a vacuum of silence and the ruins of a prison guard tower.

Jon’s feet hit the ground—so he had been floating after all—and he stumbled slightly. Where Elias Bouchard had been, there was nothing but a scorch mark on the stone, and Martin was half-kneeling in the center of the guard tower, knife still in hand, but nothing remaining of Jonah Magnus’s original body but a scattering of dust.

Martin blinked twice, dropped the knife, and got to his feet, turning unerringly in Jon’s direction. “Jon?” he called.

“Martin,” Jon choked out. He reached out his hands desperately for Martin, wanting to hold him close, to tell him they’d done it, that they were safe, that it was over, that it had worked. That Jonah Magnus was dead and would never harm anyone else again. That they had won.

That he loved him, so very, very much.

He made it no more than a couple of steps before his strength failed him and he pitched forward, gasping. Two strong arms caught him and pulled him close. The last thing Jon heard was Martin desperately, frantically screaming his name.

And then everything went black.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #smiting #intimidation tw #manipulation tw #belittling tw #stabbing tw #mention of murder (inc. brutal pipe murder)#we're so close to the end y'all #I can't believe it

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earbuds-and-hightops · 4 years

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An Open Letter to Supernatural

[ Spoiler warning for 15x20, obviously ]

I understand that a well-contemplated complaint about this ending cannot be made without first reading the original, pre-COVID, script of 15x20, but in the long run, the initial plan is not what will be remembered.

What will be remembered is what this show created. What it became beyond two brothers driving around the country, hunting monsters. Characters were introduced and developed, and in that, Sam and Dean Winchester become so much more than two kids living on the road. In the past 15 years, the cast, and thus the family, grew to something that would be unimaginable to those who started this project back in 2005. Not only did the characters and their stories become meaningful, but the show itself grew into, well, a family. The fans who have kept this show alive since Day 1 have come together to form what I believe is the greatest community in pop culture.

What hurts the most is that this finale did not do any of that development justice.

The finale (and consequently the episodes leading up to it) reverts back to the story between only Sam and Dean. While some see this as an ode to who they are--their brotherhood and familial bond being the heart of their values and the root of their characters--I cannot help but see this as a rejection of their experiences this past decade and a half.

What’s worse, episode 15x18 confirmed one of the most pure and powerful and goddamn beautiful romances that television will ever see. This story of an angel who abandoned his family and the only beings he’s known for thousands of years, all for one person. I knew from the instant the screen faded to black on November 5 that the story of Castiel will always be remembered, even if his feelings were unrequited. Castiel will always be remembered.

And then there’s Destiel. I was genuinely impressed that this show would even grow to include a queer angel, more importantly, a queer character in a leading role. The queer-baiting and the “bury your gays” trope both make this confession and its lack of acknowledgement that much worse (and is worthy of an entirely separate open letter for another night). It matters less if Dean does or doesn’t reciprocate these feelings and more that it’s wrong that he completely ignores it. Cas’s love confession, this beautifully tragic and tragically beautiful emotion coming from a being who wasn’t supposed to feel emotions at all, is something that, unfortunately, will become a secret that dies with Dean Winchester.

It’s truly a shame that the writers of this show let that happen.

We haven’t even touched the fact that Castiel’s death was an act of sacrifice to save Dean. Dean’s limited reaction and lack of mourning* tears apart this phrase that has become pivotal to the entire show and fanbase: “Family don’t end in blood.” While it would be a lot to ask that Dean rescue Cas from the Empty and resume their cycle of rescue and resurrection, I think it’s only fair that Dean take the time to fully accept Castiel’s actions and words for what they mean instead of simply moving forward as if they never happened.

What’s more, Misha Collins is one of the greatest and kindest people in this world, and he’s poured his heart and soul into Supernatural, just like everybody else. He’s spent 12 years on this project, and the final two episodes hardly mentioned his character. He didn’t deserve this. It’s heartbreaking that his last credit on this show will be a prank call from someone trying to impersonate him, and not something that pays tribute to such an important character and important actor**

The most devastating part of this ending is what happened in 15x19. Pardon my French when I say that that episode, the ultimate climax of the season and latter half of the series, was a piece of dog shit. It’s incredibly frustrating to invest in 15 years worth of television and look forward to this ultimate battle between two average boys and God the Almighty Himself and to instead watch a 6-minute long fist fight on the beach with the only dialogue being variations of “seriously guys, stay down.”

My issues with 15x19 lie less in the storyline that was chosen and more in how they were presented. I am completely on board with Jack taking God’s power and eventually becoming the new God, but the episode was far too quick to have any real meaning, and, as stated before, Castiel’s sacrifice, which allows Sam, Dean, and Jack to do what they do in 15x19, is hardly mentioned.

Most fans agree that 15x19 was far too quickly paced. The plot with Michael and Lucifer was questionable to begin with, but should have been an episode on its own if it were to be perused at all. Michael’s story in particular could have been fleshed out to reiterate this theme of overly loyal sons and their fathers, as well as their relationships with less loyal siblings, but was instead reduced to about 20 minutes of screen time.

Though this is less important, Lucifer’s plan to make a new Death felt like a cheap cop-out just to close the storyline with Death’s book, but we can finish that discussion another day.

The general fan reaction to this atrocity of an episode was that this was meta, and according to Becky, the ending was supposed to be dog shit. This, along with the untouched storyline started when Cas died, gave fans so much hope that the finale would be this amazing piece of art that puts Supernatural in the history books.

While it’s obvious that an hour cannot perfectly tie up every single event and arc with a pretty little bow, it can at least...try. Any finale should, at minimum, pay tribute to what the show started as (which 15x20 did well) and what it became (which 15x20 failed to do miserably).

In addition, a reference to character back in season 1 is incredibly frustrating when recurring characters with actual, well, character go unnoticed. I mostly reference Eileen here, but this also applies to Jody and Donna. Nobody even mentions the other wonderful friends who have helped Sam and Dean along their journey to Heaven. If family doesn’t end in blood, then why doesn’t it extend to include Castiel, Jack, Mary, Rowena, Charlie, Kevin, Jody and her girls, Donna, and so many others?

Dean’s death was sad, I’ll give them that (and honestly, I was expecting it). However, considering that this man has defeated apocalypses, killed Death, and taken down God, his death via nail in the wall was incredibly anticlimactic, and something that could literally have happened at any point over the 15 seasons. While Dean’s death was obviously not my ideal ending, I think it could have worked if it were done properly, and in this case, it was not. That said, I do appreciate that Sam did not try to bring Dean back, as that would indicate literally no growth at all.

Dean’s funeral was...pathetic, to say the least. Sam being the only person there was depressing considering that Dean had lots of other close friends (and you’d think that Jack would pay his respects, but apparently not), however, this is likely a scene that was impacted by COVID and the availability of some of the cast, so I will not dwell on that scene.

Dean’s time in Heaven complicates matters even more. Firstly, Bobby confirms that Castiel is no longer in the Empty and has been in contact with Jack. I would have loved to see this reunion; Cas is essentially Jack’s father, and I would have loved to see how their upgrading/remodeling of Heaven brought them closer together. I understand that the writers were trying to focus this finale story on the brothers, this goes back to my earlier point that you cannot simply ignore everything that that this show has grown to include. Bobby’s explanation also begs the question of why Dean had no intention of seeing Cas (or Jack, for that matter) again now that he has the opportunity.

Secondly, Dean’s instinct to go directly for the Impala was very in-character, however, the editing implied that driving was all Dean did until Sam died. As we know, Sam dies of old age, likely (completely guessing here) upwards of 40-50 years from Dean’s death, and that is a very, very long time for Dean to simply driving around the mountains. It would have been nice to see Dean reunite with other family and friends who are also in Heaven, however, again, COVID restraints.

Sam’s ending was similar to what I and a lot of other fans imagined (not necessarily wanted, but predicted) it to be: kids and a wife, living a normal, monster-free, life. I hate to believe that he doesn’t end up with Eileen (to my recollection, his wife was a blur in the background, and it is unclear if she was meant to be Eileen) however that might just be my bias and appreciation of Shoshannah Stern. While I’m glad that this storyline gave Sam the room to grow and develop without his brother, it also completely ignores everything that he’s been through this past decade and a half, and that is something that should not happen. Sam grew and changed so much since he left Stanford and leaving that life, the life of a hunter, behind feels very counterintuitive.

Let’s not even discuss the wig that Jared wore. It reminded me of the Cain wig that Rob wore in the Hillywood parody.

What shocked me the most at the beginning of this episode was the lack of a “The Road So Far” compilation. I hoped for the full song with a recap of all 15 seasons, or, at minimum, the typical single-season recap. “Carry On My Wayward Son” is such an important part of the show and the culture of the fan base, that it seems almost sacrilegious that the season finale not begin with this song and a memorial to the events in the past season (or series).*** I’m very happy that it was included at all, but I was shocked when Neoni’s cover took over.

No disrespect to Neoni; those girls are incredibly talented and I love their music, however, a series finale of a 15 season long show does not feel like the place for a cover when they already have the rights to the original, and the original is so iconic.

Lastly, I want to acknowledge Jensen Ackles’s reaction to this conclusion. At a con panel about a year ago, he said that he needed to be talked into agreeing to this script by Erik Kripke himself, because the ending just wasn’t sitting right with him. So many fans took this to believe that he was homophobic and afraid that of Destiel becoming fully canon, and he got so much more hate than he deserved, because ultimately, he was right in his first opinion. This isn’t the way this story should have ended. Jensen explained that he had been “too close” to the story, and that it took a more holistic view from a step backwards (the audience’s perspective, as he puts it) to agree on this ending, but honestly, nobody knows Dean Winchester better than Jensen, and he knows what’s best and what would be the best way to finish this character’s arc. I think fans and Jensen alike agree that this wasn’t it.

I sympathize with all of the cast and crew members who disagree with how this show ended but are bounded by contract to support this show no matter what. Especially Misha and Jensen.

Over all, I believe that Supernatural will go down in history (in internet communities, at least) as one of the greatest shows ever. While I do agree that the writing quality in terms of both dialogue and plot declined as years passed, the community, the family, that this show created cannot be ignored because of a poorly written/planned ending. I think that the fandom will collectively let go of this disaster of an ending that we were given and will, just like Sam and Dean, write our own stories. I have full faith and confidence that Supernatural will not be represented by this finale episode, but by the beautiful stories, amazing characters, and the family that this show created and what the fans have chosen to do with it.

Sincerely,

A Fiercely Frustrated but Fiercely Loyal Fan

* I do not count that last clip of Dean crying on the floor as mourning. In my mind, that was a reaction, not an emotional healing and overcoming, if that makes sense. I argue that if Dean were to fully mourn and process everything (like Sam did in 15x20) we would have seen at least a bit of that on screen.

** This is where I would have loved to see some of the original scripts. I hope that the writers initial intentions were to have Misha more involved in these last two episodes than what was likely a voice memo created in 10 minutes tops at Misha’s house.

*** The strange montage at the end of 15x19 makes so much more sense. I still would have preferred that montage at the beginning of 15x20. This also shines light on the video that Misha posted. What would we do without him :)

#supernatural #spn #spn season 15 #spn finale #spn 15x20 #an open letter #no beta we die as men #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #jack kline #erik kripke #robert singer #andrew dabb #that god awful finale #i spent 4 hours drafting this

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beemusik · 3 years

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How David Bowie Invented Ziggy Stardust

Jason Heller’s book Strange Stars: David Bowie, Pop Music, and the Decade Sci-Fi Exploded is the story of how science fiction influenced the musicians of the Seventies. Out now in hardcover via Melville House, Strange Stars also examines how space exploration, futurism and emerging technology inspired the sometimes-cosmic, sometimes-mechanistic music the decade produced. In this section, Heller delves into the creation of Bowie’s most-famous alter ego, Ziggy Stardust.

A small crowd of sixty or so music fans stood in the dance hall of the Toby Jug pub in Tolworth, a suburban neighborhood in southwest London, on the night of February 10, 1972. The backs of their hands had been freshly stamped by the doorman. A DJ played records to warm up the crowd for the main act. The hall was nothing fancy, little more than “an ordinary function room.” The two-story brick building that housed it – “a gaunt fortress of a pub on the edge of an underpass” – had played host to numerous rock acts over the past few years, including Led Zeppelin, Jethro Tull, and Fleetwood Mac. Sci-fi music had even graced the otherwise earthy Toby Jug, thanks to recent headliners King Crimson and Hawkwind, and exactly one week earlier, on February 3, the band Stray performed, quite likely playing their sci-fi song “Time Machine.” The concertgoers on the tenth, however, had no idea that they would soon witness the most crucial event in the history of sci-fi music.

Most of them already knew who David Bowie was – the singer who, three years earlier, had sung “Space Oddity,” and who had appeared very seldom in public since, focusing instead on making records that barely dented the charts. His relatively low profile in recent years hadn’t helped his latest single, “Changes,” which had come out in January. Despite its soaring, anthemic sound, it failed to find immediate success in England. But the lyrics of the song seemed to signal an impending metamorphosis, hinted at again in late January when Bowie declared in a Melody Makerinterview, “I’m gay and always have been” and unabashedly predicted, “I’m going to be huge, and it’s quite frightening in a way.” Bowie clearly had a big plan up his immaculately tailored sleeve. But what could it be?

Before Bowie took the stage of the Toby Jug, an orchestral crescendo announced him. It was a recording of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, drawn from the soundtrack to A Clockwork Orange. To anyone who’d seen the film, the music carried a sinister feeling, superimposed as it was over Kubrick’s visions of grim dystopia and ultraviolence. Grandiloquence mixed with foreboding, shot through with sci-fi: it couldn’t have been a better backdrop for what the pint-clutching attendees of the Toby Jug were about to behold.

At around 9:00 p.m., the houselights were extinguished. A spotlight sliced the darkness. Bowie took the stage. But was it really him? In a strictly physical sense, it must have been. But this was Bowie as no one had seen him before. His hair – which appeared blond and flowing on the cover of Hunky Dory, released just three months earlier – was now chopped at severe angles and dyed bright orange, the color of a B-movie laser beam. His face was lavishly slathered with cosmetics. He wore a jumpsuit with a plunging neckline, revealing his delicate, bone-pale chest, and his knee-high wrestling boots were fire-engine red. Bowie had never been conservative in dress, but even for him, this was a quantum leap into the unknown.

Then he began to play. His band – dubbed the Spiders from Mars and comprising guitarist Mick Ronson, bassist Trevor Bolder, and drummer Woody Woodmansey – was lean, efficient, and powerful, clad in gleaming, metallic outfits that mimicked spacesuits, reminiscent of the costumes from the campy 1968 sci-fi romp Barbarella. The Jane Fonda vehicle had been a huge hit in England, and it became a cult film in the United States, thanks to its titillating portrayal of a future where sensuality is rediscovered after a lifetime of sterile, virtual sex.

In the same way, Bowie’s new incarnation was shocking, lurid, and supercharged with sexual energy. Combined with his recent admission of either homosexuality or bisexuality, as he was then married to his first wife, Angela, Bowie’s new persona oozed futuristic mystique, which Bowie biographer David Buckley described as “a blurring of ‘found’ symbols from science fiction – space-age high heels, glitter suits, and the like.”

But what bewitched the audience most was the music. Amid a set of established songs such as “Andy Warhol,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud,” and, naturally, “Space Oddity,” the Spiders from Mars injected a handful of new tunes, including “Hang On to Yourself” and “Suffragette City,” that had yet to appear on record. Propulsive, infectious, and awash in dizzying imagery, this was a new Bowie – cut less from the thoughtful, singer-songwriter mold and more from some new hybrid of thespian rocker and sci-fi myth. These songs bounced off the walls of the Toby Jug’s no-longer-ordinary function room. The audience, whistling and cheering, was entranced. A show eye-popping enough to dazzle an entire arena was being glimpsed in the most intimate of watering holes.

Although the crowd was sparse, people stood on tables and chairs to get the best possible view. The stage was only two feet high, but it may as well have been twenty, or two million – an elevator to outer space designed to launch Bowie into an orbit far more enduring than that of Major Tom in “Space Oddity.”

At some point, amid the swirl and spectacle of the two-hour set, Bowie announced from the stage the name of his new identity: Ziggy Stardust.

Like an artifact from some alien civilization, Bowie’s fifth album, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, was unveiled on June 16, 1972. By then, Ziggy had become a sensation. After the Toby Jug gig in February, concertgoers embraced Bowie’s new persona in music venues around the UK. Attendance swelled each night, as did a growing legion of followers who dressed themselves in homemade approximations of Bowie’s outlandish attire.

Just as the album was released, he and the Spiders appeared on the BBC’s revered Top of the Popsprogram, performing the record’s centerpiece: the song “Starman.” For many of a certain age, watching Bowie on their family’s television that evening was tantamount to the Beatles’ legendary spot on The Ed Sullivan Show in the United States eight years earlier. “He was so vivid. So luminous. So fluorescent. We had one of the first color TVs on our street, and David Bowie was the reason to have a color TV,” remembered Bono of U2, who was twelve at the time. “It was like a creature falling from the sky. Americans put a man on the moon. We had our own British guy from space.”

Musically, “Starman” was an exquisite and striking slice of pop songcraft, exactly what Bowie needed at that point in his career. Lyrically, he smuggled in a sci-fi story that centers around Ziggy Stardust, who was both Bowie’s alter ego and the fictional protagonist of the Rise and Fall concept album, as loose as it was in that regard – it is more a fugue of ideas that coalesce into a concept. Through the radio and TV, an alien announces his existence to Earth, which Bowie describes in lovingly rendered sci-fi verse: “A slow voice on a wave of phase.” The young people of the world become enchanted and hope to lure the alien down: “Look out your window, you can see his light /If we can sparkle, he may land tonight.” But that alien is reticent, and his shyness makes him all the more magnetic.

Bowie sang the song on Top of the Pops clad in a multicolored, reptilian-textured jumpsuit, which Melody Maker called, “Vogue’s idea of what the well-dressed astronaut should be wearing.” In that sense, “Starman” is a self-fulfilling prophecy: before he could truly know the impact the song would have, he used it to describe its effect on Great Britain’s young people in perfect detail. He was the starman waiting in the sky, and the kids who saw him on TV soon began to dress like him, hoping to sparkle so that he may land tonight.

If Bowie intended “Starman” to be an overt reference to [Robert A.] Heinlein’s Starman Jones, the book he loved as a kid, he never publicly confessed to it. But the admittedly sketchy story line of Rise and Fall parallels another Heinlein work: Stranger in a Strange Land, the novel that had influenced David Crosby in the ’60s and, later, many other sci-fi musicians of the ’70s. The book’s hero,Valentine Michael Smith, comes to Earth from Mars; in Rise and Fall, Mars is built into the title. And both Valentine and Ziggy become messiahs of a kind – androgynous, libertine heralds of a new age of human awareness. Bowie claimed he’d turned down offers to star in a film production of Stranger in a Strange Land and had few positive words to say about the book, calling it “staggeringly, awesomely trite.” Be that as it may, he clearly had read the book and developed a strong opinion of it – perhaps enough for some of its themes and iconography to seep into his own work.

The opening song of Rise and Fall, “Five Years,” elegiacally delivers a dystopian forecast: the world will end in five years due to a lack of resources, and society is disintegrating into a slow-motion parade of perversity and moral paralysis. It’s a countdown to doomsday, with the clock set at five years. The song’s ominous refrain, “We’ve got five years,” is sung by Bowie with increasing histrionics, his voice sounding more panicked and deranged as he repeats the phrase. “The whole thing was to try and get a mocking angle at the future,” Bowie said in 1972. “If I can mock something and deride it, one isn’t so scared of it” – with “it” being the apocalypse.

“Five Years” set a chilling tone, but Rise and Fall didn’t entirely wallow in it. The coming of an alien rock star named Ziggy Stardust is relayed in a multi-song story that’s equally melancholy and ecstatic, tragic and triumphant. On tracks such as “Moonage Daydream,” “Star,” and “Lady Stardust,” Bowie wields terms such as “ray gun” and “wild mutation.” He also claims, “I’m the space invader,” as though he were channeling the ideas of his sci-fi heroes Stanley Kubrick or William S. Burroughs, particularly the latter’s 1971 novel, The Wild Boys.

As Bowie explained, “It was a cross between [The Wild Boys] and A Clockwork Orange that really started to put together the shape and the look of what Ziggy and the Spiders were going to become. They were both powerful pieces of work, especially the marauding boy gangs of Burroughs’s Wild Boys with their bowie knives. I got straight on to that. I read everything into everything. Everything had to be infinitely symbolic.” The photos of the Spiders from Mars inside the album sleeve of Rise and Fall were even patterned after the gang of Droogs of A Clockwork Orange; Droogs are mentioned by name in the Rise and Fall song “Suffragette City.” Furthermore, Bowie posed on theback cover of the album, peering out of a phone booth – just as though he were that other cryptic British alien who regularly regenerates himself and is often seen in a phone booth (specifically a police call box), the Doctor from Doctor Who.

Bowie also drew from work of the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. Born Norman Carl Odam, the Texan rockabilly artist released a twangy, oddball 1968 single titled “I Took a Trip (On a Gemini Spaceship)” that Bowie wound up covering in 2002; it was from Odam that Bowie borrowed Ziggy’s surname. And after going on a record-buying spree while touring the United States in 1971, he bought Fun House by the Michigan proto-punk band the Stooges, whose outrageous lead singer was named Iggy Pop. He jotted down ideas on hotel stationary while traveling the States, resulting in a name that was a mash-up of Iggy Pop and the Legendary Stardust Cowboy. Ziggy Stardust was a fabricated rock star, one whose sleek facade flew in the face of the era’s reigning rock aesthetic of laid-back, unpretentious authenticity. Instead, Bowie wanted to puncture that illusion by taking rock showmanship to a previously unseen, self-referential extreme.

When it came to Bowie’s urge toward collage and deconstruction, Burroughs remained a prime inspiration. A pioneer of postmodern sci-fi pastiche as well as the literary cut-up technique, in which snippets of text were randomly rearranged to form a new syntax, Burroughs straddled both pulp sci-fi and the avant-garde, exactly the same liminal space Bowie now occupied. Rock critic Lester Bangs accused Bowie of “trying to be George Orwell and William Burroughs” while dismissing him as appearing to be “deposited onstage after seemingly being dipped in vats of green slime and pursued by Venusian crab boys” – a description that sounded like it could have been cribbed straight from a Burroughs book.

In 1973, Burroughs met Bowie in the latter’s London home. The meeting was arranged by A. Craig Copetas from Rolling Stone, and the resulting exchange was published in the magazine a few months later. In the article, Copetas observed that Bowie’s house was “decorated in a science-fiction mode,” and that Bowie greeted them “wearing three-tone NASA jodhpurs.” The ensuing conversation ranged across many topics, but it circled around science fiction – and in particular, the similarity Bowie saw between Rise and Fall and Burroughs’s 1964 novel Nova Express, a surreal sci-fi parable about mind control and the tyranny of language.

In an effort to convince Burroughs of the similarity, Bowie offered one of the most revealing analyses of Rise and Fall as a work of science fiction:

“The time is five years to go before the end of the Earth. It has been announced that the world will end because of a lack of natural resources. Ziggy is in a position where all the kids have access to things that they thought they wanted. The older people have all lost touch with reality, and the kids are left on their own to plunder anything. Ziggy was in a rock & roll band, and the kids no longer wanted to play rock & roll. There’s no electricity to play it.”

Bowie went on:

“[The environmental apocalypse] does not cause the end of the world for Ziggy. The end comes when the infinites arrive. They really are a black hole, but I’ve made them people because it would be very hard to explain a black hole onstage.”

Curiously, it took him another twenty-six years before casually revealing in an interview that a sci-fi song called “Black Hole Kids” was recorded as an outtake during the sessions for Rise and Fall. He called the song “fabulous,” adding, “I have no idea why it wasn’t on the original album. Maybe I forgot.”

But Bowie dropped the biggest revelation about Rise and Fallin the 1973 conversation with Burroughs. Ziggy Stardust, according to his creator, is not an alien himself; instead, he’s an earthling who makes contact with extra-dimensional beings, who then use him as a charismatic vessel for their own nefarious invasion plan. But like Frankenstein’s monster being erroneously called “Frankenstein” to the point where it seems senseless to quibble with that usage, Ziggy Stardust continues to be widely considered the alien entity of Rise and Fall. Considering the shifting identity and gender of Bowie’s most famous alter ego, that ambiguity may well have been his intention. Talking to Burroughs, he ultimately labels Rise and Fall “a science-fiction fantasy of today” before reiterating its similarity to Nova Express, to which Burroughs responds, “The parallels are definitely there.”

Rise and Fall has always been as fluid as Bowie’s facade itself. Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion cast a shadow over Ziggy Stardust, especially the glammy incarnation of the many-faced character known as Jerry Cornelius – who was adapted to the big screen in 1973 for the feature film The Final Programme. It coincided with Ziggy’s own ascendency, not to mention the New Wave of Science Fiction and its preference for fractured narratives and multiple interpretations over linear stories and pat endings.

During their mutual interview, Burroughs brought up the then-current rumor that Bowie might play Valentine Michael Smith in a film adaptation of Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. Bowie again dismissed it. “It seemed a bit too flower-powery, and that made me a bit wary.” For his part, Bowie’s fellow sci-fi musician Mick Farren of the Deviants later admitted he always thought Michael Valentine Smith was a major influence on Ziggy Stardust. “I was certain someone would call him out for plagiarism,” Farren said. “Nobody did.”

Bowie may have denied his affinity for Stranger in a Strange Land by his boyhood go-to author Heinlein, but he was not shy about professing his love for one of the authors Lester Bangs compared him to: George Orwell. Almost as a footnote, Bowie told Burroughs, “Now I’m doing Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four on television.” That project would never come to pass, but it would lay the groundwork for his next, less famous sci-fi concept album – a jagged, atmospheric song cycle that plunged Bowie into the darkest extremes of dystopia.

#David Bowie #Ziggy Stardust #article

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brywrites · 4 years

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Omg you made me so happy with that story of Eliza, now I know this is a stretch but can we get a update on Halloween where you left off with them going trick or treating with everyone🥺🙈 ?

Ask and you shall receive, anon! I really never get tired of writing Spencer and Bianca, and I really didn’t give myself the space to explore what their lives as parents would look like so it was fun to to take that a little further with this one! Here’s just some pure domestic Halloween fluff.

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They arrived at JJ’s house just as the sun was beginning to paint the autumn sky golden. Before the door had even opened, they could hear Henry shout, “Mom! They’re here!” Seconds later it swung open, and Henry, dressed in red, white, and blue, greeted them with a grin. “Hi Uncle Spence! Hi Aunt Bianca!” He gave each of them a quick hug. “Wow, you brought a tiger!”

“It’s me!” Eliza said, giggling. Henry pretended to be shocked as she threw her arms around them.

“Let me guess… Captain America, right?” Spencer asked as they stepped inside.

“Yeah, he’s my favorite superhero!” Henry’s excitement faltered for a moment and he straightened up a little taller. “I mean, I know I’m kind of old to go trick-or-treating, but I promised Michael I’d come.”

“Henry, if I have taught you anything you should know by now that you’re never too old for Halloween,” Spencer replied.

His words brought a smile back to Henry’s face and he said, “Wait till you see my shield! I painted it all by myself!”

The inside of the LaMontagne-Jareau househould was already bustling. JJ, dressed as Black Widow, was finishing Michael’s Hulk-green face paint. Hotch and Jack had moved back to the DC area two years earlier, and Garcia was excitedly talking to Jack and his girlfriend Mabel. The two teens had donned the costumes of Ben Solo and Rey from Star Wars, while the BAU’s former tech wizard wore a bright pink dress and golden crown as Princess Peach. Hotch and Beth, masquerading as Han Solo and Princess Leia, were being regaled by one of Rossi’s stories while Krystall laughed. Rossi’s suit and tie didn’t quite make sense as a costume until Bianca realized that Krystall’s white dress and curled hair made her Marilyn Monroe, and Rossi must have been JFK.

“It’s about time you showed up Pretty Boy!” Morgan quickly cut through the room to make his way to them, ruffling Spencer’s hair. “And my favorite little lady,” he said, embracing Bianca. Then squatting down to Eliza’s height, “And littlest lady, too, Miss Eliza Lou!”

He lifted Elizabeth up into his arms. “Why do you have hair Uncle Derek?” she asked, pointing to Morgan’s head.

“Because zombie Michael Jackson has hair in the “Thriller” music video,” he replied, as though that context meant anything to a five year old. “And that’s who I’m dressed as for Halloween.”

“You look funny with hair,” the little girl replied.

Morgan put his free hand over his chest, and feigned melodramatic offense. “Oh, ouch! You wound me, Eliza Lou!” Eliza giggled as her godfather set her back on the ground. “Now what exactly are you two supposed to be?” he asked, gesturing between Spencer and Bianca.

Spencer wore a red zippered sweater with a tie and blue Converse, while Bianca had on a floral pink 70’s style prairie dress. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” Spencer replied.

When Morgan just raised an eyebrow, Bianca said, “Mr. Rogers and Lady Aberlin, from Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood!”

“You see,” Reid explained, “Elizabeth had her heart set on being a tiger, so we tried to come up with costumes that could go along with it. And Fred Rogers used a number of puppets on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood to help act out situations of learning and vulnerability in healthy ways, one of which was Daniel Striped Tiger who was the most recognizable from the show. It’s actually funny, the tiger puppet was a gift to Mr. Rogers the night before the very first episode was s-”

“I get it,” Morgan said, holding up a hand. “I’ll read the Wikipedia article later, I promise.”

“Oh come on now, babe, I think it’s cute.” Savannah appeared beside her husband, linking her arm with his. “It’s good to see you two.” She still wore nurse’s scrubs and had a stethoscope around her neck.

“Did you just come from work?” Bianca asked. Savannah and Morgan’s daughter, Ainslie, had just turned one and Savannah had gone back to full-time shifts at the hospital.

Savannah laughed, shaking her head. “Thank god, no. Hank wanted to be a zombie, so Derek came up with the idea of going as “Thriller” MJ to match. I figured if it’s the zombie apocalypse in our household, I might as well be the nurse on the frontlines trying to fight them off.”

“Uh oh,” Morgan said. “I don’t know how long you’ll last out there. The zombies are pretty handsome, I hear.” He kissed her cheek as she rolled her eyes. Turning back to the Reids, he asked, “So are we ready to take on trick or treating?”

Bianca winked. “Well Spencer here was born ready, and I think that after seven Halloweens together I’ve learned a thing or two.” The four of them had been chosen as the designated chaperones for the kid’s festivities while the rest of the adults finished up a Halloween feast at the house. Once all the kids were accounted for and everyone had a pillowcase in hand, they set out into the DC streets in search of spooks and sweets.

Spencer’s boundless enthusiasm was contagious, spreading even to Jack who seemed torn between being excited about Halloween and trying to look cool in front of Mabel. But once it became clear Mabel was into the scary stories Spencer told while they walked, Hotch’s son visibly relaxed. It was a good group of kids – at every house Henry, Jack, and Mabel made sure that Michael, Hank, and Eliza got candy first, and a chorus of thank you!s followed them from doorstep to doorstep.

Spencer’s delight for the present was carrying over to the future. “When she’s a little older,” he was saying, “we can go to a haunted house or two. Maybe even a haunted corn maze. And we can watch a midnight scary movie screening and she’ll be able to carve her own pumpkins!” Bianca laughed and he glanced her way, bashful. “What?”

“I just love seeing you excited about this,” she said. His eyes always lit up in a way that made her heart skip a beat after all this time. “And thinking about all the holidays we’re going to have together and how we’ll get to make all these new traditions as she grows up.”

Spencer stopped suddenly on the sidewalk and before she could react he was hugging her close. The fabric of his sweater was soft against her cheek. “What was that for?” she asked him, looking up, her arms still wrapped around his waist.

“I wouldn’t be doing any of this without you,” he said. “I would probably still be at the BAU. I wouldn’t have anything worth leaving for. I wouldn’t have someone I get excited about growing old with. But I have a home because I have you. I have a home and someone who will plan obscure Halloween costumes with me and I have a daughter and it’s all because I fell in love with you. Because you loved me.”

“And because you loved me,” she echoed. She wouldn’t have wanted it with anyone else. He was the only person who made her feel safe enough to trust him with every part of her. He made her feel brave enough to take on the world and to start a family. When nothing else made sense, he was there to anchor her with a warm embrace and all the words she needed to hear and promises to stay. He knew her better than she knew herself. Bianca stood on her toes to kiss him sweetly, not caring that there were people all around them.

“When you two are done being all lovey-dovey,” Morgan called, “we’ve still got one more block to hit.”

“Lovey-dovey, lovey-dovey!” Eliza sang, skipping beside them. Spencer smiled and kissed Bianca’s forehead as he interlaced his fingers through hers with one hand and reached down to hold their daughter’s hand with the other. When the final houses had been visited, they descended upon the LaMontagne-Jareau household once more, with pillowcases full of candy.

During their absence, more familiar faces had appeared at the house. Prentiss and Mendoza were drinking wine with Rossi in the living room and Luke, dressed as Mario, had his arm around Penelope while they talked with three of the newer BAU members.

“Aunt Alex!” Eliza’s bag of candy was temporarily forgotten as she ran to hug Alex Blake who was at the kitchen table with JJ, Will, and her husband James.

“Why Elizabeth,” she said, “aren’t you the most ferocious tiger I’ve ever seen?”

“I’ve been practicing!” Eliza replied. She furrowed her eyebrows and held her hands up by her face like claws. “Rarr!” Her godmother gave her around of applause for her performance, happily doting on her while everyone gathered around the table for dinner.

It was warm and inviting in the living room, feeling every bit like a cheerful Thanksgiving dinner except for the costumes and the spooky decorations. There was plenty to be discussed, whether it was Emily’s new position as Director of the Bureau or the book Rossi and Matt had just published. The Simmons clan were the only ones absent, their children having made plans already to spend Halloween with their friends in their own neighborhood. Bianca felt right at home among the people who had come to feel as much her family as they were Spencer’s. She swapped stories of international travels with Alex and James and was delighted to talk to Tara and her girlfriend, Elena. The two women were dressed as Cinderella and Prince Charming, and she had to admit that Tara could certainly pull off a suit. When Penelope begged Morgan for a chance to babysit Hank and Ainslie soon and Rossi said, “You know you could just have some of your own,” she and Luke both turned red.

“Hey now,” Luke said. “We’re just trying to get through the wedding first, okay?”

“Yeah, you never know, I could still change my mind,” Garcia teased, elbowing her fiancé.

“You say that at least once a month,” Luke laughed. “But I don’t think we can get our deposit back on the venue at this point, so it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

There was enough food and to go around, and a generous amount of libations courtesy of David Rossi. Bianca’s contribution was an array of desserts – pumpkin cheesecake, salted caramel brownies, and chocolate cupcakes with vampire fangs and raspberry filling – that were immediate hits, and Spencer’s contribution was agreeing not to consume them before the party. After dinner the kids went down to the basement to watch Hocus Pocus, Jack and Henry promising they’d look after everyone, while the adults settled into the living room.

“Eliza,” Bianca called. “How about you pick out a few pieces of candy for now, and we’ll keep the rest up here so you can have some later, okay?” The little girl was about to follow her cousins downstairs with her whole bag of sugary treasures. “If you eat too much candy at once you’ll get a bellyache.”

Eliza considered this, then nodded. “Okay, mama.” She dug through the pillowcase, choosing a few treats, then handed the bag back to her mother asking, “But how come daddy gets to?” She pointed to Spencer who sat on the floor of the living room, gorging himself on a plate of sweets. He looked up sheepishly, caught red-handed about to take a bite of oversized brownie.

“It’s because I’m old enough to anticipate the consequences of my actions,” he said. “I know when to stop before I feel sick.”

“You go have fun with your cousins, okay?” Bianca said, giving her daughter a quick hug before watching the tail of the tiger costume vanish the stairs. She sat down next to Spencer, shaking her head. “You’re such a bad liar,” she laughed. “You’ll be complaining all night that you feel awful.”

He shrugged. “What can I say? I just can’t help myself around something sweet.” Spencer put his arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap, leaning in to kiss her. “See?”

She smiled. “You’re lucky, Mr. Rogers, that I like you just the way you are. Insatiable sweet tooth and all.”

Spencer grinned. “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Mimicking the song from the old children’s show, he sang, “Would you be mine? Could you be mine?”

“You know what my answer is,” she said. She let her head fall against his shoulder. Nestled close in his embrace, she sat listening to the BAU recount stories of the glory days and valiant acts of the past. Spencer traced circles on the back of her hand, resting his cheek against the top of her head with a sigh of contentment, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was – that there was a relief in knowing that the monsters were in only in their yesterdays and nightmares. That there was no danger waiting around the corner for him anymore. Nothing to steal him away too soon. There were endless tomorrows stretching out ahead of them, but for now they could reminisce with the family that had been built by that shared past. And Bianca could think of few sweeter treats than that.

#tkow #the keeping of words

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lifeisdabubbles-undersalmondean · 3 years

Text

La Pomme ~ Chapter Eight

Pairing: Sam x OC (eventual Dean x OC and Dean x Castiel. And I mean eventual.)

Series summary: George is a casual French-Mistake-universe Supernatural fan living in no-COVID 2020, who's life is upended when she's suddenly launched between realities, two years into the boys' past (S13E22). What begins as an insane, immersive fan experience turns into more when Jack goes missing and George offers up her AU information to help track him down. Soon it's discovered that she and Sam may actually have history. But that's impossible, right?

Word Count: 3,900

Warnings: {smut, fluff, angst, show level violence, swearing, mentions of suicide} ***Detailed warnings will be tagged for specific chapters.

A/N: Following the events of my prequel Paradise and second story From My Eyes Off. Reading those first gives context but isn’t necessary to start this one.

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Collapsing into one of the comfier library chairs set between some stacks, George took a sip of the small glass of whiskey she figured she'd earned. She'd just scolded a fucking demon from hell. What was she thinking?! It had been pretty cool, but pissing off an evil, powerful being was maybe not the smartest. She could have gotten herself killed!

It had been unavoidable though; upon realizing that Demon Tim must have been the reason they suspected her of being involved in Jack's disappearance, she had been furious. Not only was it not true, it was insulting, humiliating, and just plain rude. It was also simply a bad plan. So, she took it upon herself to enlighten him and to correct his offensive insinuations. Hopefully, it wouldn't come back to bite her in the ass.

Her focus shifted then to Jack. Reflecting over her time there, there were things she remembered having happened on the show. The refugees in the bunker, AU Michael attacking, Jack losing his powers, Lucifer dude being just a regular human dude now; all of it was familiar, even when it terrified her (see: AU Michael attack). But, when they told her Jack was missing, she was thrown off at first. It wasn't something she remembered seeing on the show. Then again, she'd only just finished binging from season 10 to the end of 13 a couple weeks ago and hadn't started 14 yet. So, maybe she was past the point of being able to tell when things were part of their prescribed timeline or not? Therefore, even if Jack had been kidnapped on the show, she wouldn't have any info for them, right?

The problem was, the more she thought about it the more she began to believe she had seen something about this storyline. Jack being missing, the three of them going to save him-

Was it Ryan telling you about some episode where they rescued Jack in the redwoods? They had filmed it on location at some tourist spot you went to as a kid all the time and she thought you'd think it was cool… where was that?

She couldn't remember, and it frustrated her. She was also worried that she was making this all up just to be helpful.

Taking another sip, she allowed her thoughts to wander between episode scenes like an internal microfiche as she tried to nail down her recollection, No, I can definitely picture all four of them in the woods and fighting. Someone had kidnapped Jack, wanting his powers for something… was it the angels?

"Well, that was interesting," Dean stated, startling her out of her thoughts. The three of them were walking into the library a surprisingly short while after she left them with Tim.

Looking up at them, she set the glass down on a nearby shelf and stood up. Dean didn't elaborate further while he poured his own glass. The expressions each one wore were indiscernible and she grew nervous.

"Oh?" George raised a brow and looked between them, "Did he talk? Because you know, I've actually been sitting here thinking about this whole situation and something about Jack going missing is very familiar. Now, unfortunately, I am a few seasons behind, and-""

Dean took a sip, looking at her with curious amusement, and interrupted, "I was talking about you."

George looked surprised and then grimaced, "No, no. I'm not interesting, not at all. I'm the exact opposite of interesting. I'm-I'm… I'm…"

"Uninteresting?" Castiel offered helpfully as she struggled to find the words. Sam and Dean rolled their eyes in unison.

"Right! Thank you, Castiel. I'm highly uninteresting." She gulped a bit and wrung her hands as the three of them kept watching her. In the silence, she nervously looked in Castiels direction and blurted quickly, "I'm also George! Hi! Really nice to meet you! Big fan!"

"Nice to meet you," Castiel smiled awkwardly and nodded a greeting, looking at the other two with a confused expression, "...fan of what?"

"Right, positively boring," Sam interjected sarcastically before he could stop himself. He definitely thought she was interesting. First she's just a beautiful woman, then she's a beautiful woman he may or may not have had a life altering dream about ten years ago, and now she was a beautiful woman from an alternate reality where his life was a prime time television show… who he may or may not have had a life altering dream about ten years ago. 'Uninteresting' was definitely not an adjective he'd use for her.

Dean snorted, "Yea, boring is the last word I would use to describe that scene earlier. You caused Tim to sing like a canary, by the way."

Her jaw dropped in disbelief, "Say what?"

"I almost say we hire her to be our monster torture hypeman," He joked, looking at Sam with a raised eyebrow.

Sam ignored him and addressed Geroge's question, "After you left, Tim-"

"Cleetus," Dean interjected sarcastically.

"Cleetus… well, he sort of... started crying? He said he'd tell us everything we wanted to know if we promised to keep you away from him." Sam looked strangely apologetic and she let a few nervous chuckles escape, unsure whether to believe what they were saying.

"We think you hurt his feelings," Castiel explained further. "Which fortunately seemed to motivate him to talk, so thank you."

"I guess his demon mommy didn't teach him about sticks and stones," Dean cracked, taking another swig.

"Huh. OK. Neat!" George didn't know what to say; she was confused and strangely proud of herself. But she didn't want them to think she wasn't chill, so she shrugged nonchalantly, "You're welcome, I guess. Anyway, as I was saying, I'm not caught up to the current season of my timeline but I think I remember this whole Jack-gone-missing thing a little bit. I want to say you all track him down somewhere in… Oregon? Washington? I'm getting a Northwest-ish feeling." She began unconsciously pacing around the room, gesturing energetically with her hands. "I can picture a battle taking place in the woods...Jack being in danger, you all being in danger, too...some fighting...maybe someone losing the fight? Or getting really hurt," She glanced worriedly at Castiel. He'd be the only actor they'd axe of the three of them, so it stood to reason he'd be the most likely to die if she was right.

Dean and Sam shared a look before Dean asked, "Fine, I'll bite. Do you know a city? A time-frame? Who we're fighting? Anything specific?"

George paused and then slumped a bit in defeat, "No. I've only really watched up through, like, literally now. Other than random things I've heard or seen in passing, I don't know anything that's happened since ya'll got back from the apocalypse world. Been purposefully trying to avoid spoilers, too, which is a decision I now regret, obviously."

"OK, well look, sweetheart, it's OK," Dean began, in an embarrassingly condescending, douchey tone, "We don't expect you to help us. I mean, we're grateful about the assist with Cleetus, obviously but this-" Dean vaguely motioned in her direction and she raised an offended eyebrow, "-was obviously just a weird magical mess that Rowena left for us to clean up yet again. So, you just sit back and relax, and once we find Jack we'll figure out how to get you back home in a jiff, OK?" He winked and finger gunned at her, adding, "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it." In his way, Dean was trying to convey to her a sense of ease and comfort that they would take care of things. But, unsurprisingly, he came off incredibly dismissive and patronizing. Her cheeks flushed an angry red; she'd had it up to here with him by now.

Sam and Castiel exchanged nervous glances at the look on her face and Sam tried to stop it before the inevitable happened, "Uh, Dean, mayb-"

Cutting him off, George slowly walked toward Dean, eyes blazing, "Listen sweet cheeks." She had a polite smile on her face as she tried her hardest to muster up the same condescending, silky, sweet Dean-tone, "I'm sympathetic to the fact that you can't help but be an insufferably arrogant ass most of the time-that's just how you were written," for a split second she saw Dean's cool-guy-smug-face falter and she relished it. She could tell she landed a blow, even if it was a small one, "but maybe you could do us all a favor and try to ignore your cro-magnon dated natural urges and attempt to be open minded for once in your life? Just try to consider the fact that, like it or not, I might not be a total useless red-shirt? That maybe I-once again the lone female in the entire world according to Supernatural-might actually be useful? Hmm? Might actually have useful-albeit vague-information for you? Or would taking your lead from a woman be too threatening to you overbearing, uber-macho, 'we-get-it-you're-totally-straight' masculinity?"

Dean's head jerked back in offense, "Now, wait a minute! What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it," She mocked him in a deep, goofy tone, high-fiving herself internally. Nailed it! She'd always hated how damn smug his character was. Yes, fine, he was hot and charming and smart as fuck and right at least like 75% of the time, but he didn't have to be so fucking arrogant about it all the time. She preferred a man with some humility.

Sam was smirking at the look on Dean's face and muttered teasingly, "How does it feel, Cleetus?"

"Except, you actually don't." Cas interjected begrudgingly, as he thoroughly enjoyed watching Dean get verbally bitch-slapped. In fact, he could watch it all day, but they needed to focus on Jack.

"Scuse me?" She said, maintaining her sweet tone while staring daggers at Dean. "Don't what?"

"Have useful information for us," the angel said begrudgingly matter-of-fact.

"Er," Sam interjected seeing the look on her face, "Uh, well, it's just according to Tim-Cleetus-whatever, Jack is being held captive inside an old church in a small ghost town outside Butte."

Dean slapped his hands over his mouth in mock surprise and then, taking a few steps toward George, he mimed a balloon being popped by an impractically large needle. He had an impossibly large grin spread across his face.

"She still has a point, Dean," Sam sighed in an annoyed, if not slightly embarrassed, tone at his brother's display.

Cas nodded in agreement, "Yes, you were incredibly condescending and unfriendly in your attempt at being friendly earlier. Even though she's wrong about Jack, she's right about your inability to relinquish control-to anyone, though, not specifically women."

"You all suck." Dean said flatly.

George ignored him and shook her head. She was more and more sure about her information by the second; despite her doubts she could feel she was right. "Listen, I'm telling you, Jack is not in some bullshit church in Montana. He's…" She struggled to remember. "Erg, somewhere rainy and wooded!"

"Rainy and wooded, you say?" She cringed angrily at the sound of Dean's voice. "That's really great, very helpful. Say, maybe we should look up your little murder buddy-OwnsHisOwnAxe69, was it?-and ask if he's got Jack stashed in the Marin Headlands?" Dean's voice dripped with sarcasm.

George shook her head at him and closed her eyes tight in an effort to block out his negativity. Walking slowly away from him and into the map room, she started talking to herself, in a pointedly loud voice. Her focus bounced between episodes from the show and conversations with her friend, Ryan, a Supernatural Encyclopedia. She was hoping she could piece together something useful.

"OK, hang on, Jack is born, gets sucked into Apocalypse World, comes back, has his grace stolen but he's safely with you guys, he's happy, he's great-albeit, moody and not the best at video games. Then he disappears and you can't find him, yadda yadda."

While she rambled, her mind's eye began conjuring images of what she assumed were scenes from the episode she was trying to think of. While helpful, it was also disconcerting since she'd never actually seen it. She thought perhaps she'd seen clips on youtube while watching bloopers? She never could stay away from them, even if she hadn't seen the episode yet; they were just too funny. Maybe her overactive imagination was just creating scenes around what little knowledge she did have, "...and there's an epic-potentially deadly-fight scene at the end of one of the last episodes of the season. An episode that was, oh so noteworthily filmed on location iiiiinnn…" She tried to demand that her memories behave for her but it was challenging, considering she shouldn't have any memories of having watched the damn thing at all. "...where? Fuck me!" She snarled, chasing desperately after her murky visions as they swirled too abstractly for her to discern.

In a sudden moment of unusual clarity she could see the words displayed behind her eyelids. '...False Klamath? Where the fuck… why does that sound familiar? She flashed to the location in her memories and saw big wooden statues towering outside the scenic little tourist trap

Her eyes popped open with a gasp, "Johnny Appleseed!"

"Johnny Appleseed?" Dean teased, mock exasperatedly, "We're trying to find JACK."

"The Johnny Appleseed statue at The Trees of Enigma! Just outside False Klamath, Oregon!" She slammed both her hands down on the table in front of her in uncontrollably jubilant victory. "HA! Take THAT!" She jumped up excitedly and punched her fist in the air. "I did it! I remembered!"

"Sam, can you translate any of this?" Dean asked, annoyed.

"On the show," She started smugly, before Sam could say anything, "the battle that you two get into when you find Jack, takes place at a tourist spot called The Trees of Enigma. The episode was filmed on location at said tourist spot, in-say it with me now-False Klamath, Oregon. Oregon, Dean. A place that is known for being both rainy and wooded." Her finger was placed on the map table in the general area of Oregon, "that's where you'll find Jack. I'm sure of it." Her adrenaline was pumping and she was so stoked. It felt really good to be useful; like she was part of the show!

"Yea, that's great, sounds fun," Dean started dismissively, though toned down a bit, "but we're not risking Jack's life to follow your hunch."

"Excuse me. Why is my so-called hunch less believable than a demon's word? Especially a demon named Cleetus. Rude," George looked particularly offended now.

"Tim gave us real, solid intel and we've never had a problem when we've relied on our trusted resources in the past," He answered confidently. George's head jerked toward him like she hadn't heard correctly and she gave Sam and Castiel some crazy eyebrows.

"Sorry, you understand that I do watch the show, right?" She asked rhetorically, with a doubtful expression. When he rolled his eyes, she let out a frustrated huff. "Dean, think about this! He's a demon! He lies! Look, I know you have no reason in the world to trust me but you've got to; just think about it. Even IF it is demons that have Jack, don't you think it's possible that the prisoner demon you're threatening to torture might give you a false lead? Especially if he's naive enough to think he'll be able to escape and doesn't want to get in trouble with his bosses? C'mon, this is not-the-sharpest-tack-Tim we're talking about!"

Sam and Castiel had agreeably expressions but Dean's was stubbornly disagreeable, though she could tell he knew she was right. The thought of them going to Montana gave her a dreadful, suffocating feeling, like death.

So, she tried one more tactic and held her hands up in prayer, "Dean please, I don't know what and I don't know how I know, but I know in my gut that if you go to Montana, something terrible will happen. And Jack's not there, I promise you." She dropped all the bullshit and gave him her best seriously-just-listen-to-me face but Dean still wasn't budging.

"Christ, I knew you were stubborn but this is ridiculous, ugh. OK, fine!" She threw her hands up and turned on her heel, heading toward the dungeon.

"Wait, where are you going?" Sam asked quickly.

"Obviously I didn't hurt his feelings badly enough the first time, so I'm going to go have another chat with Cleetus and get him to admit that he's a liar, liar, pant-"

"Er-you... can't do that," Sam cut her off apologetically.

"Sam, he's handcuffed to a chair. I appreciate the concern but-"

"He means you really can't," Dean added. George looked toward him annoyed and Dean continued, "After he gave us everything we needed we pretty much, chk," he finished, slicing a finger across his throat in demonstration. When she looked like she wanted to strangle him, he shrugged and offered, "RIP Cleetus."

George rolled her eyes in exasperation, "But he was lying! Don't you confirm the information before you cut off the source?! Oh my god, why am I even asking? You're the Winchesters, of course you don't." The three of men looked between each other guiltily and she placed her hand on her hip, "What if that was just an act and Tim saw an opportunity. Feeding you some bullshit so that you couldn't actually find Jack? Or, maybe Tim has nothing to do with Jack at all, and sending you to Montana is just a good old fashioned ambush?!" She paused for a moment and gave a surprised, appreciative nod, "Hmm, maybe I underestimated ole' Cleetus a bit. Could have been smarter than I thought."

"She does have a point, Dean. The chances that he was lying are incredibly high," Cas conceded slightly, giving Dean a questioning look. "We have no proof that his lead is any better than hers. Demon's lie."

"Damnit, alright, fine," Dean said, sighing angrily. "Sam and I will go to Oregon to look for Jack; Cas, check out Butte-carefully, strictly recon, do not engage-and call us if you find any trace of him." He shot a quick warning look at George. "We'll turn around and come right to you. Sound like a plan? Great, let's go."

"Wait, no! Don't send him to Butte! Didn't you hear me? If it's an ambush, he'll get his ass kicked!"

"Hey." Cas looked hurt and George softened her face at him.

"Oh, I'm sorry Castiel. You're a total badass when the plot calls for it, otherwise, getting beat up is just kind of your MO." Ignoring the confused look on the angel's face, She turned back to Dean, "and besides you need Castiel in Oregon, Dean. I've seen it!"

"Oh? I thought you hadn't 'seen this episode yet'?" Dean said sarcastically.

"I-I… Well, OK, I haven't, but I've seen the three of you and Jack all together for this fight. Just trust me, you need him there. What if Jack is hurt when you find him? Cas can heal him, right?" She made a questioning face to Castiel; at the moment she couldn't remember the extent of his powers on the show and he was always losing one or another for whatever reason, anyway. But if she was right, she figured that even if Dean wouldn't trust her gut, he might trust that having a healing angel on their journey would be a benefit. "Is that a power you have? I feel like I've seen you do that."

"She's right, Dean. I can heal him if we find him injured," Cas offered her helpfully and she shot him a grateful expression, actually looking him in the eyes for the first time, albeit fleetingly.

"Have you seen Jack get hurt?" Sam asked her, trying to help, too. He remained a neutral party at this point, but if he was honest with himself, he believed her. Maybe a little too much, which is why he was trying to stay impartial. If he was being blinded by his confusing memories and the undeniable-yet-currently-being-denied feelings he was developing for her and ended up wrong, Jack could be killed.

"Uh… I mean, no… not definitively, but it's pretty standard for the show. You're all constantly getting hurt during fights and when it's close to a season finale the danger factor is skyhigh for anyone who isn't you two…" After motioning to the brothers, she trailed off, afraid that this reasoning was going to hurt her more than help her.

Sam gave her a long, contemplative look before finally offering, "I can have a small team go check out Butte. Maybe Garth can join? Last time I talked to him he was near there."

Dean's teeth and fists were clenched as he took a deep, exaggerated breath, "Fine. We'll send a group to Butte and call Garth from the road-No arguments!" He held up his hand to her as she opened her mouth to speak. "The three of us are going to Oregon, just as you demand, but I'm not leaving anything to chance on some alien's hunch. Garth can handle himself."

She made an indignant face at him-she wasn't an alien, she was from an alternate reality! Get it right. But, while she was afraid of someone getting hurt in the obvious trap that had been set for them in Montana, the thought of Garth going instead didn't give her the same full-body fear shudder. So, she figured she'd take what she could get and not push the issue further. Besides, she knew Dean wasn't going to be happy about her next move and she had to pick her battles.

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfic #sam winchester x original character #sam winchester x original female character #swearing #humor #eventual smut #eventual relationship #slow burn #eventual dean winchester x oc #eventual dean winchester x castiel #bi dean

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

A Cunning Plan

(This is a ButterOmens submission, expanding on @kaz3313‘s initial fic, “A Good/Bad Idea.” All continuations and expansions in any medium are welcome!

(CW: While this is the least distressing Hell story I’ve yet written, with almost no physical violence, it’s also not entirely played for laughs. The abuse is mainly psychological. The threats get intense and there’s a strong sense of exactly how bad it could be. Happy ending, though, unless you’re rooting for Team Hell, and there is comfort after the hurt.)

10575 words.

Michael glared at the telephone on her desk – an older model, with cords and physical buttons, instead of the sleek device she preferred. It almost never did anything anymore, but now it was giving off a horrific, shrill rrrriiiiing over and over. The blinking red light – not quite coordinated to the noise – told her it was an external call, to the general line.

Good. Someone else could answer that.

Rrrrriiiiing.

Except she had work to do and she couldn’t concentrate around that infernal –

Rrrrriiiiing.

After more than a minute of this abject torture, Michael gave in and snatched up the handset. “Hello?” she demanded, making no attempt to hide her irritation.

Her lip curled in disgust when she heard the voice on the other end of the line. She should have known. “No, I am not Gabriel’s…secretary, as you put it. Why would he give his personal line to you?”

Beelzebub’s grating voice seemed slightly less bored than usual. If this kept up, ze may even make it all the way to annoyed.

“Well, I believe he also said that we would be in touch. That means, don’t call us, we’ll –”

A scowl. “No, I will not transfer you.”

She stood up, very nearly losing her composure. “Or take a message. I told you, I’m not his secretary. You’ll get your paperwork back in a week. If you want to arrange a meeting then –”

Michael reluctantly listened to the demon’s reply. “Well. You had your chance for revenge, and as I recall, it didn’t work out, did it?” A pause. “No, I suppose things didn’t go well on our end, either. Not that that’s any concern of yours.”

Michael drummed her fingers on the desk, staring at the pile of paperwork. Everything since the failed Apocalypse had been paperwork and committee meetings, one scramble after another to create new plans for a world that stubbornly refused to end.

This wasn’t what she was designed for. She was built to lead the angels in a glorious war that should be going on right now. If it weren’t for those traitors…

“Fine. I’m listening. What is your plan?”

Two angels and two demons sat around the wrought-iron café table, awning shading them from the early-autumn heat, eyes watching the bookshop on the corner.

The pale one, Hastur, had a stench that had cleared out most of the outdoor seating area immediately, and Beelzebub’s swarm of flies had taken care of the rest. The flies coated every surface, every chair, the windows, the ground, and the little plate of pastries they’d brought as camouflage. Already the croissants were starting to rot.

Gabriel and Michael sat across from the demons, each with a cup full of bitter coffee. Neither would actually stoop so low as to drink a debase, earthly liquid. In fact, Michael had barely managed to convince Gabriel to sit near the cup, and he kept eyeing it as if afraid it would move closer of its own accord, spill all over his latest suit.

Michael pretended to take a sip, as the vile liquid tried to burn her fingers through the thin paper cup. It was annoying, so she immediately dissipated the heat. Somehow, it smelt even worse cold.

Beelzebub had some enormous, frothy monstrosity, to which ze was adding packet after packet of creamer, leaving the empty containers strewn about for zir flies to explore.

Only Hastur seemed to be enjoying his, devouring the cup one mouthful of shredded paper at a time.

“There,” Michael nodded down the street, the opposite direction from the bookshop.

Tall, clad all in black, dark red hair – the demon Crowley – and the round, pale shape of Aziraphale, in that absurd outfit he always wore, bowtie and all. The disgraceful angel was eating some form of confection while the demon talked at length, long arm waving in every direction.

Between them, their hands were clasped, fingers tangled together. It made Michael’s skin crawl just to look at it, and she slid her chair a little farther from the two revolting creatures at her table.

“This is what they do all day?” Gabriel demanded, incredulous.

“As far as we can tell,” she confirmed. “Go for walks. Eat foods. Sit in the bookshop. Touch each other.” Incomprehensible. Thousands of years of subtle defiance – so subtle even Michael herself nearly missed it – only to openly rebel against Heaven for a life of…nothing.

“Szoundsz miszerable,” Beelzebub muttered, echoing Michael’s thoughts, though the Prince of Hell had barely glanced at the two traitors. Instead, ze reached for the saltshaker, trying to add a pinch to the awful concoction. At the first shake, the cap came off, dumping several ounces of salt into Beelzebub’s beverage. “Great. Now it’sz ruined. Who doesz that?”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, grinding his teeth so hard Michael thought they might crack. “He’s always loosening the tops in the Hell canteen. Thinks its…” he spat. “Funny.”

Michael and Gabriel shared a grimace. Hell was full of evil and cruelty, but what neither of them could stand was the unprofessionalism. “Regardless,” Michael tried to continue her report, “our experts have assured me they are indulging in several major sins. Sloth. Gluttony.” As they watched, Crowley paused, laughing. His thumb brushed crumbs away from the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. “Lust.”

All four beings at the table shuddered this time, and four chairs shrieked as they moved apart, grating across the concrete floor. Despite being only a few meters away, the traitors didn’t notice – they would see and hear nothing of their observers, unless one of Beelzebub’s flies broke the barrier Michael had meticulously set up.

“Diszguszting,” Beelzebub declared as Aziraphale caught Crowley’s thumb and pressed it briefly to his lips. Several dozen flies buzzed agreement.

“When do we grab him?” demanded Hastur, ripping another bite out of his cup.

“That’s the tough part,” Gabriel said. “We have to wait until he’s alone. There can be no chance the demon is anywhere in the area.”

“Really?” The carefully maintained boredom in Beelzebub’s tone carried a note of mockery. “Are two Archangelsz afraid of one demon?”

“I don’t know, is the Prince of Hell afraid of him?” snapped Gabriel.

“Crowley is not the concern here,” Michael interrupted, glaring at both parties. She could not work like this, not if Gabriel was going to stoop to their level. “It’s Aziraphale.”

Hastur made a noise like an explosion in a swamp. “That cringing little nothing? Could take him apart with my bare hands.”

“No doubt you could, under normal circumstances.” Michael tried not to look at the hands in question – particularly the filthy, discolored nails. “But Aziraphale is a Guardian. He has extraordinary strength when acting in defense of one of his charges, and for some unfathomable reason he counts Crowley among them.” She glanced at the two demons sharing her table, neither of whom was paying enough attention for her liking. “Let me make this absolutely clear. He cannot access that strength in self-defense. That isn’t how he was designed. But if he thinks for one second that Crowley, or anyone else, is in danger – you will lose control of this.”

“Fine,” growled Hastur, who clearly lacked any patience, along with intelligence, grace, and good sense. “We grab the angel at night, when Crowley leaves.”

Michael pressed her lips together.

The look of horror slowly grew across Gabriel’s features. “Does the demon leave at night?”

“About half the time,” she admitted.

Another shriek of four chairs shifting apart.

Four nights later, Hastur watched the bookshop through the van window. Michael had manifested it, after spending five minutes mocking Hastur’s own attempt. He’d thought his imitation of a human automobile was good enough for the job, but Captain Fancy Wings wanted something convincing and realistic and with a functioning air conditioner. Little cardboard trees that he wasn’t allowed to eat sat on every surface, and Michael was spritzing the air with something that smelled foul and flowery.

“Stop that or I’ll rip your arm off,” snapped Hastur, as the spritz came too close to his eyes – and nose – again. The seven demons in the back grunted agreement.

Michael just raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to try.”

Hastur turned back to the shop. Crowley had finally left, and now the little cream-colored puffball was sitting in a chair with his eyes closed, sipping on a glass of something Michael had repeatedly insisted was not blood, though it was certainly red.

“Look. He’s alone. I say we go in now,” Hastur growled. This plan was taking far too long. If he’d been in charge, the angel’s hacked-off arm would be growing cold on Crowley’s doorstep by now.

“Not. Yet.” Michael’s voice was tense. “Believe me, I’m not going to keep you all a second longer than –”

They didn’t hear the telephone ring, but Hastur saw the angel jump to his feet and hurry over, sappy smile growing all over his face. “Ugh. They’ve been talking all day. What the Heaven else do they have to say to each other?”

The call went on for eternity, every expression on the angel’s face even more vomit-inducing than the last. Finally, he hung up and leaned back in his chair again.

“Now can we –”

“Our intel says after their conversation, Crowley always goes to sleep. So, yes, it should be safe to –”

Hastur kicked open the van door, emerging from the blessed potpourri cloud that Michael held them captive in. “Right, team, hit him hard and grab him quick. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t exactly the tactical strike Michael wanted, but it would do.

The doors to the shop had been magically reinforced, but they were no match for eight demons, one of them a Duke of Hell. In seconds, they swarmed through the shards of glass and red-painted wood.

She watched from the van as Aziraphale leapt to his feet. His fury at the intruder quickly shifted to horror when he saw what he truly faced, and he stumbled backwards. Michael smiled. “Not so brave now, are we, traitor?”

The first demon to reach him got a nasty knock in the teeth. Michael had warned them Aziraphale knew how to fight. Even without his Guardian strength, he was easily a match for any demon, possibly even two demons together.

But as he dashed to the phone, four jumped on him, dragging him down in a flurry of feathers, the traitor panicking so hard his wings manifested. Disgraceful.

When the demons finally had him immobile, Hastur stepped over and slammed a bar of metal into the back of Aziraphale’s head. Michael smiled again, imagining the crack it would make. Pity she couldn’t deliver it herself.

After a pause, she saw Hastur’s arm rise and fall again. Then a third time.

Really. That was just brutish overkill.

At last, Hastur and his smelly horde emerged from the shop, six of the demons carrying Aziraphale between them. That shouldn’t have been necessary. She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, annoyed at the delay.

When the back door opened and the demons began wrestling the angel’s body inside, she snapped, “It took you long –” And fell silent as she saw Aziraphale’s eyes, wide open and alert.

“Michael.” With a flutter of white wings, he wrenched himself free of his captors, settling against the far wall of the van, trying to look like he was there by choice. “I wondered who the brains behind this would be. Just when I thought you couldn’t disappoint me any further.”

She glared at Hastur, who moved to sit beside Aziraphale. “You incompetent – I told you to make sure he was unconscious!”

“Won’t go down.” He jerked Aziraphale’s head forward by the hair, studying the back of his skull.

“What do you mean – you just didn’t do it right!”

“Listen, wanker, I know how to knock someone out. Know how to do a lot worse if I want. Something’s not right here.”

“Yes, I’m obviously too powerful for you,” Aziraphale said, but Michael could hear the tremble behind the false bravado now. “If you let me go, I – I won’t try to take revenge.”

Hastur hit him across the face so hard, the impact echoed off the metal walls of the van. And pulled away his hand with a shout, clutching his fingers to his chest. “How are you doing that?” Aziraphale barely even looked dazed, but the worry was blossoming into full-blown fear.

“We’re going,” Michael snapped. “Sit on him if you have to, we’ll figure it out once we get there.”

Hell had never captured an angel alive before. Beelzebub was nearly excited at the possibilities.

But ze was also aware it could go wrong, like at Crowley’s trial – instead of hundreds of demons witnessing the destruction of a traitor, they saw him boldly defy zir authority and shrug off gallons of Holy Water as if it were nothing. The damage control from that incident would never be over. Beelzebub couldn’t afford a repeat.

The cell ze prepared was deep in the twisted corridors of Hell; it had been designed to hold a Hellhound, so it should be enough to keep the angel contained. The chains that would bind him were forged from celestial orichalcum and stygian iron. Ze had added some fancy cameras, provided by Heaven, so the torture could be broadcast to all of Hell, but open plaza outside was to be kept clear.

“I like this,” Gabriel said, inspecting the cell. “Very thorough. Very dark. And the smell, that’s a good touch.”

“We don’t need your approval,” Beelzebub reminded him. “We know how to do our jobsz here.”

Gabriel grabbed one of the chains and pulled it with his whole weight. “But you’ve never had an angel before, have you? There’s a lot to consider. After all, angels and demons have very little in common –”

“The main differencze isz that angelsz are much more arrogant.”

The Arch-wanker finally turned to face Beelzebub, storming over to tower over zir, to try and intimidate zir. Pathetic, really.

“May I remind you that I’m here because you asked me for assistance.”

“Which you already provided. You’re now here asz a courteszy, nothing more.”

“A courtesy?” Gabriel demanded.

“Yesz.” Apparently, he thought puffing himself up and pulling a face would somehow impress someone who spent zir life ordering literal demons to stop chewing on each other for five minutes and do some blessed paperwork. “He isz our captive. We deczide what happens to him now. But asz he isz your traitor, and asz a szign of our goodwill, you can have a turn torturing him, when we are finished.”

“Listen here,” Gabriel pointed a finger. Wow. A finger. Beelzebub had never seen one of those before. “That little shithead has been a pain in my side for thousands of years, and if you think I’m just going to sit back and watch while your side takes him apart –”

“If you szat back and watched, you might actually learn szomething.” Beelzebub frowned. “But that would probably ruin your image.”

“Let me tell you something about…” But it seemed Beelzebub would go the rest of eternity without whatever wisdom Gabriel had been about to shit out, because they were interrupted by his flashy mobile phone ringing. He held up his finger and wandered off. “Michael! How’s the extraction going?”

Turning back to more important matters, Beelzebub made sure there were sufficient implements of torture in the cell. The one remaining issue was how to choose one of Hell’s many skilled torturers to work on the angel; despite Hastur’s insistence, he was clearly not the best choice. The camera set-ups were reminding Beelzebub of that reality TV thing Crowley used to write about in detail, and that was giving zir some interesting ideas for a competition…

“What do you mean there’s a problem?” Gabriel’s voice demanded, and Beelzebub sighed. Something else for zir to sort out, it seemed.

It was the second time Aziraphale had been led into Hell in chains, though the others didn’t know that.

It was harder this time. Not just because the manacles dragged at his wrists and ankles, each one connected to a different demon marching along beside him; Hastur led the way, pulling the chain for the collar around his neck. Two more demons held his wings in grimy claws.

It was humiliating, but that wasn’t all of it. Aziraphale found it had been much easier to be brave when everyone thought he was Crowley.

The routes they traveled were as wide as a city street, but the crowds pressed in on either side, reaching for him – he sometimes felt their hands brush his face, his wings, clutch at his shirt as he passed – and the shouting. Oh, the shouting.

I hope you brought enough angel for everyone.

Hey, angel, not so high-and-mighty now, are we?

You better hope they don’t leave you alone, angel, or I’m going to break into your cell and –

Hey, angel, I can’t wait to get my hands on your wings and –

What’s the matter, angel? Us demons not good enough for you?

Hey, angel –

Angel –

Empty threats, but no less terrifying for it. He tried to raise his hands to cover his ears, but the demons holding his chains jerked them back down.

It was fairly obvious which cell was meant to be Aziraphale’s: the one with two Archangels waiting outside it. He didn’t know how Michael had gotten there first. Probably took a more private route; the demons wanted to parade their captive in front of all of Hell, but they were still ashamed of their allies.

He tossed his head and tried to keep the quiver out of his voice. “Gabriel. I’d say it’s good to see you again, but I promised Crowley I wouldn’t lie so much anymore.”

“Aziraphale. What the hell have you been up to?”

“Is that…supposed to be funny?” He honestly could never tell with Gabriel.

Any trace of good humor vanished from the Archangel’s face, and Aziraphale felt a familiar fear tear through him. He can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you…

“Take him inside,” Gabriel ordered. “String him up.”

“You don’t give the commandsz around here,” Beelzebub said, and there was a distinct note of anger behind the blandness.

“I thought you were supposed to be the expert,” Gabriel snapped. “We don’t argue in front of the prisoner. Take him in. Now.”

“What do you mean, he can’t be harmed?” Beelzebub demanded, rubbing zir forehead in annoyance.

“I mean, I bit him, hit him, scratched him – everything I could think of, but he barely felt anything.” Hastur looked offended, as if this was a professional insult.

“Barely felt anything?” Gabriel asked, trying to make sense of what passed for a report in Hell. “What did he feel?”

“Sometimes he flinched,” Hastur shrugged.

“Yes, but when did he –” Gabriel sighed. “Never mind. Michael?”

She nodded and stepped towards the cell.

“Sztop.” Beelzebub blocked her. “I told you, he isz our priszoner, and we get first –”

“Nobody is getting first anything until we know what’s going on,” Gabriel pointed out. “And unlike your…fine associate,” he gestured to Hastur politely, “Michael actually knows how to be systematic. Sit back and watch, you might learn something.”

Beelzebub’s face twisted, but ze stepped aside and let Michael go to work.

“Ah, Michael. Welcome to my new abode,” Aziraphale started, full of false bravery. Gabriel knew it was false. He’d known Aziraphale practically since the moment of the Principality’s creation. Soft and weak and anxious about absolutely everything. Right now he was standing in a dark, damp, filthy cell, arms and wings chained so they couldn’t even be lowered comfortably. He should be pissing himself already. But instead, he smiled that shaky, watery smile. “I’m sure they sent you to –”

Michael slapped him across the face, then shook her hand.

Aziraphale shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll find that –”

Michael punched him in the jaw. His head snapped back, then lowered again to look at her.

“You know, it’s rude to interrupt.”

Over the next ten minutes, Michael tried everything, including half the torture implements Beelzebub had prepared. Knives scraped across his skin without any affect; hammers slammed into his joints with no more reaction than “Ooh, that smarts a little.” Pulling his hair brought barely a grunt of pain. Plucking his feathers seemed promising at first, but after the first minute, he stopped noticing.

They could find nothing that actually hurt Aziraphale.

It was while Michael was trying, unsuccessfully, to break a finger that Gabriel realized what was going on. He marched into the cell, grabbing the prisoner by the collar. “You didn’t.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Aizraphale whispered, tongue poking out to wet his lips.

Gabriel ripped off the bowtie, throwing it on the ground, then tore open the front of Aziraphale’s shirt.

“Stop – Stop it!” Finally, the high-pitched fear Gabriel had been waiting for, but he ignored it. Pulling back the shirt, he found what he expected to see: a complex, serpentine sigil carved into the skin over Aziraphale’s heart.

“You let him mark you. You let a goddamn demon mark you. Of all the disgusting, depraved acts –”

“Really,” Aziraphale cut in, sounding close to tears. “That’s no way to speak about my husband.”

“Huszband?” Beelzebub found that somehow more disgusting than the thoughts of what the two traitors had been physically doing.

“That’s not important,” Gabriel said, though he clearly found it just as disturbing. “That mark is protecting him from any harm. As long as it’s there, we can’t touch him.”

“Crowley,” growled Hastur, clenching his fist so that the jagged nails cut deep into his own flesh. “Thinks he’s so bloody clever, pulling this shit –”

Fascinating as his latest temper tantrum wasn’t, it was time to focus on the problem. “If the angel isz marked, it can only be eraszed with the blood of the demon. Which brings us back to the original problem.” They didn’t dare try to capture Crowley. Not without knowing what powers he might have.

“I got a good look at it,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “It’s a demonic sigil, but an angelic mark.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, my good Prince of Hell, that it’s not powered by blood, it’s powered by faith.”

“Yeah? So?” Hastur got lost in conversations that didn’t feature disembowelments every few minutes.

Michael sighed. “There are two ways to break an angelic mark. Either he denounces his faith, or he loses it.” She frowned at her superior. “It might not be that easy. He believes he’s married to the creature. He won’t just denounce Crowley because you ask him to.”

Impossibly, Gabriel’s face grew even more smug. “Leave that to me. I know that idiot’s psyche inside and out. I’ll have him cursing that demon’s name by morning.”

Beelzebub frowned at the locked cell door. When they’d shut it, the angel had been smiling – he even waved at them. “I don’t szee how.”

“Trust me. He’s practically broken already. I’m going to need everything you’ve got on Crowley so I can sell this. Michael, if he’s marked, we’re going to need security a lot sooner than planned.”

“On it.” She walked away, tapping her phone. Then stopped and turned back. “Or I would be, if there was any signal down here. I need your Wi-Fi password.”

“We don’t just give that out to any angel who asks,” Hastur snarled.

“Hey,” Gabriel clapped his hands. “There’s no time for that. We’re going to be one big, happy family working together to break that angel, hmm?”

Beelzebub seriously considered just letting Aziraphale go and torturing Gabriel instead. It seemed like a lot less trouble at this point.

“Fine. Hasztur, go talk to Dagon. Get all filesz on Crowley, whatever she hasz... Michael, the code isz one-hundred-eighty-four zerosz followed by a one. Gabriel,” Beelzebub sighed. “Tell me how thisz isz going to work.”

“Oh,” the Archangel rubbed his hands together. “You’re going to like this one.”

Gabriel walked back into the cell, easy smile across his face. He placed a bright lamp beside him and settled into the folding chair Hell had provided. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was important he look at ease.

The light made Aziraphale flinch, smile turning into a grimace. Good. Already used to the dark.

“Well, Aziraphale, looks like I have good news and bad news.”

“You’ve found you can’t torture me, so you’re letting me go?”

Beelzebub melted into the shadows behind Aziraphale, pulling on one chain, then another. “We can’t hurt you, but we can sztill make you very uncomfortable.” Aziraphale’s arms jerked upwards, until he had to stand on his toes.

Gabriel shook his head sympathetically. “Demons,” he shrugged. “They don’t really think big picture. But you know all about that.” Another jerk of the chains pulled down his wings as far as they would go.

Aziraphale grunted, trying to find a way to balance himself. “Crowley does. He always has a plan.”

“Yes, I’m sure he does,” Gabriel waved dismissively. “In fact, we’re waiting for him to show up. I assume that’s what his mark does, alerts him when you need help. Angelic marks are like that,” he added for Beelzebub’s benefit. “One is the protected, the other the protector.” The profane mark on Azirapahle’s chest was bright red against pale skin.

“Fasczinating,” the Prince of Hell muttered.

“He knew the moment you took me,” Aziraphale said, voice a little tighter. “He’ll be here within the hour –”

“Actually,” Gabriel glanced at his watch, “it’s been over two hours already.” It was almost impossible not to smile at the flicker of worry that crossed Aziraphale’s face at that lie. “No matter. When he finally shows up, we’ll bargain for your release.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing much, really. Just certain assurances you’ll stay out of our way.”

“We’ve been staying out of your way!” He tried to take a step forward, then gasped and pulled back. Looks like Beelzebub’s theory was right – they couldn’t hurt Aziraphale, but he could still hurt himself, pulling against his chains. Interesting. “Look,” the angel tried again in a calmer tone. “All we want is to be left alone –”

“Then there’s no reason for this to be difficult. As soon as he –”

Gabriel’s phone rang, exactly on time. He smiled as he stood, pulling it out. “That’ll be Uriel’s team. Don’t worry, not much longer now.” Hurrying out of the cell, he pretended to take the call.

Beelzebub followed a moment later, scooping up the lamp, and Aziraphale’s tie from where it had fallen. “In casze we need proof that we have you. Enjoy the dark.” The cell door shut with a satisfying slam.

Gabriel waited just long enough for the dark and silence to press in on the prisoner. Then he shouted as loud as he could, “What do you mean he left?”

Exactly seventy-eight minutes after they’d dragged the traitor through the lobby to Hell, his demonic partner arrived. Michael had moved as quickly as she could, pulling eight of her best angels to guard the escalators, armed with every Holy weapon she could think of.

The demon Crowley burst through the lobby door with some sort of elaborate pump-action water pistol in his hands, a dark expression behind his glasses. When he saw the flaming blades, he slowed his march, lowering the plastic gun slightly.

“I’m afraid Holy Water isn’t going to work on us,” Michael smiled sweetly. “Did you have another plan?”

“Working on it,” Crowley grunted, eyeing the swords. She was relieved at that; she hadn’t been completely certain a demon immune to Holy Water would still fear heavenly weapons. “Why don’t you save us all some trouble and let him go? You can’t –”

“Can’t hurt him? You honestly believe that little mark is going to stop us?”

His lips twisted at that. So much for the infamous flash bastard. Crowley lowered his toy weapon to the ground and took a few steps closer, arms wide. “What do you want? Hmm? You want to negotiate? Give me your terms, I’m here.”

“We don’t negotiate with demons,” Michael started.

“No, you just raid bookshops with them.” Her phalanx took a step forward, and he jumped back. “Right, fine, touchy subject. I get it. Don’t want to be judged for the company you keep. Though, I’m pretty sure I smelled Hastur’s distinctive odor, and I am judging you.”

Even behind the glasses, Michael could see the way his eyes darted. He was testing her. Trying to find a weakness in their defenses. More clever than she’d expected.

“Just go home, Crowley,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

“When?”

“When we’re satisfied with the number of pieces he’s in, you can come and collect them.”

It really didn’t take that much to crack his composure. Michael almost expected him to charge their swords that second. “You can’t – he’s safe –”

“Because he trusts you? Let’s see how he’s doing right now.” Michael held up her phone, turning on the feed from Aziraphale’s cell. It wasn’t live, of course. Too risky. Gabriel had agreed to send her useful clips as the interrogation proceeded.

The first one played out, and Crowley made a wonderful noise of pain when he saw how the angel was chained up and collared, shirt torn open, Gabriel and Beelzebub confronting him in the harsh lamplight.

“Where isz thisz Alpha Czentauri?” demanded Beelzebub.

Aziraphale’s eyes darted from one to the other. “It’s…it’s just a place. Crowley mentions it sometimes.”

“And is that part of his rescue plan? Uriel says that’s where he’s heading. Took off in his car with,” Gabriel glanced at a list on his phone, “thirty-seven potted plants, a hundred and five discs of music, and all the wine from your shop. Not really sure what he’s planning to do with all that.”

“You’re…how could you…” The angel pulled his arms against the chains. “He wouldn’t go…”

Crowley turned astonishingly pale. Michael had been very impressed with the thoroughness of Dagon’s records, including a little snippet of conversation from the days after the failed Apocalypse, when the two traitors had made certain plans. Case of emergency, Crowley had said. If we ever have to run, we need to know exactly what we’re taking.

Michael slid the phone back into her pocket. “How long do you think his protection is going to last, once he thinks you’ve betrayed him?”

Crowley clenched his fists, but didn’t move closer. Instead, he threw back his head and howled: “Aziraphale! Can you hear me? I’m here! Aziraphale!”

Michael actually laughed. “That won’t work. He’s –”

“Hellhound pits? Thought I recognized that cell. Fine, he might not be able to hear me, but he still knows I wouldn’t leave him.” He picked up his water pistol and thundered out the door. “I’ll be back.”

Gabriel considered Hastur again; he was aggressively intimidating, which was good, but also aggressively stupid. “All I really need is for you to go in there and act like you want to rip him apart.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard.” Hastur grinned…well, it was like a grin, only horrible.

“Remember, he thinks he’s been in the cell for six hours.” It had only been three, but deprived of light, sound, and anything to occupy it, the mind lost all sense of time. “Just play along with whatever I say.”

“I know what I’m doing,” the demon snapped.

Gabriel opened his mouth, and one of the Beelzebub’s flies immediately zipped inside. He coughed, spitting it back out, and it buzzed away, unharmed. “That was rude.”

“You talk too much. Juszt open the door.”

The Archangel reached for the bolt that kept Aziraphale’s cell locked, but spun to point at Hastur again. “Whatever you do, do not threaten any harm against Crowley,” he hissed.

“I threaten whoever I want.”

“One word, one suggestion might be all it takes to set him off, even with the serpent nowhere nearby. Do. Not. Try it.”

The lanternlight pierced the darkness. The pale shape of Aziraphale slumped in his chains, limbs quivering from the strain. His eyes were closed, and he was mumbling to himself, a steady stream that didn’t pause with their approach.

Gabriel settled into the chair. “Saying your prayers, Aziraphale?”

One blue-grey eye cracked open, just a glint in the dark. “Our wedding vows. He will come back for me.”

Hastur snorted, picking up a twisted knife. “He’d’ve turned around by now if he was going to.” It would have been more convincing if he hadn’t immediately smirked at Gabriel.

“I’ve been in worse spots than this. He always comes.”

The voice was still tense, but not as shaky as Gabriel had hoped. The Archangel nodded for Beelzebub to begin pulling at the chains again, moving Aziraphale’s limbs into new, uncomfortable positions.

“You know,” Gabriel started. “If you were actually married, Heaven would have a record of it. We looked. Guess what?”

“It wasn’t under any authority but our own.” Now both eyes opened, looking past Gabriel towards the outline of the door. “We didn’t think it necessary to inform you.”

“We’d still have a record.” Gabriel had never looked at a marriage record in six thousand years, but he could pretend to be an authority on anything. “Unless, of course, one party didn’t really believe in that marriage. Just going through the motions.”

“I know what you’re trying to do.” Aziraphale’s eyes drifted over to the knife Hastur held, and his voice started to tremble. “It won’t work. Crowley will come for me.”

“Yeah,” Hastur gave another maybe-grin. “And if he does –”

Beelzebub grabbed the metal collar around Aziraphale’s neck, jerking his head back as far as ze could. “If he doesz, we let you go. Until then, you’re oursz.”

Gabriel would berate Hastur later. Thoroughly.

“Sorry, Aziraphale. Like I said, not big picture thinkers. They really don’t like that they went through all this trouble and didn’t get to hurt anyone.”

“Well,” Hastur grunted, stepping closer to breathe into the ear opposite Beelzebub. “Not yet, anyway.” He traced the tip of the knife across Aziraphale’s finger.

The angel’s eyes darted from one to the other. “You can’t –”

“Do you know what happensz to an angelic mark when the partiesz are four light-yearsz apart?” Zir tone was as bored as ever, but with the right question, it was still menacing.

“It’s never been tested before,” Gabriel said. “But our models show it fading long before then.”

Hastur dropped his knife and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, biting the soft part of his hand.

The angel gasped and pulled away; but thanks to whatever Beelzebub had done with the chains, his wings twisted against each other. Aziraphale gave a cry of pain, lost his balance, limbs jerking like a tangled marionette.

While the demons laughed – well, Hastur laughed, Beelzebub made what you might call a buzz of delight – Gabriel helped Aziraphale find his balance again. “See? It’s already starting,” he said, in soothing, comforting tones. “And it’ll just get worse the farther he goes.”

“That wasn’t…he isn’t…” Now Gabriel could see the confusion, exhaustion and fear he’d come to expect in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you want from me?”

Gabriel smiled beatifically, the smile he saved for his most important Messages. “Aziraphale. Just denounce Crowley. He’s leaving you, anyway. Do you want to wait here for hours while your protection fades? Letting the pain grow a little at a time? Giving Hastur a chance to think of something really creative to do with that knife? Denounce him, and we can get it all over with.”

“I…” Aziraphale’s eyes squeezed shut. “I…I know he’s coming. He is coming.”

With a noise of disgust, Gabriel shoved Aziraphale away. The angel gave an undignified squeak as he struggled not to fall again. “If that’s what you want, stand there and suffer. Just remember, every moment I’m down here waiting for you, is a moment I’m feeling less charitable. Let’s go.”

When the door was shut and locked behind them again, leaving Aziraphale alone in the dark with his thoughts, Gabriel allowed himself a laugh. “He’s nearly there.”

“You call that nearly there?” Hastur snarled.

“Agreed. Thisz isz taking too long.”

“I told you, I need one night. Just a little finesse. Not every problem can be beaten into submission.” Gabriel pulled out his phone. Fifteen missed messages from Michael?

“Can if you hit hard enough,” Hastur started, but the Archangel was no longer listening, scrolling through the text messages.

“Can demons make their own Hellfire?”

“Don’t be abszurd.” Beelzebub rolled zir eyes. “It comesz from the firesz of the pitsz. You can’t make it.”

“Yeah,” Hastur added. “It’s in the name. Hellfire. Why?”

As a precaution, Michael had doubled the guard at the escalator, but when the first fiery jar exploded at their feet, they had run screaming in every direction.

She’d retreated to Hell’s main gate, watching back down a corridor now completely consumed by too-hot flames. Strange flames, clinging to surfaces that shouldn’t burn, smoldering with black smoke. Flames that spread and grew in water.

She pointed her sword at the black-clad figure walking unconcerned through the fire. “Out of the way, Michael.” He still held two jars of fire, and the plastic gun strapped to his back.

“I don’t know what these flames are,” she said, calmly as possible, “but I heard back from Gabriel. I know it isn’t Hellfire.”

“Well, close enough. Greek fire. Little something I learned to make in Byzantium.” He threw another jar at her feet.

Michael didn’t flinch, even when the strange, sticky flames exploded across her legs. She forced the heat to dissipate, leaving nothing but a black, tarry substance. “I hope that wasn’t your only trick.”

Cautiously, she took a step towards him, trying to suppress the nearest flames. They were more resistant than normal fire, but once she knew they couldn’t harm her true self, it was easy enough.

Crowley backed away a few steps. She couldn’t see his eyes – the glasses reflected the light and flames – but she knew they’d be darting around again. Looking for a way past.

“Give up, Crowley. Or I’ll find out just how effective this sword is.”

“Let me see him again,” the demon demanded. “Show me Aziraphale and I’ll go.”

She could still hear the screams of her guards upstairs. He might not be able to cause harm, but the panic and chaos he brought was bad enough.

“Not here. Go home, send me a picture of yourself nice and comfortable. And I’ll send you a video of the angel. That’s the only deal you’re going to get.”

He clutched at the jar in his hand, but they both knew throwing it would be a meaningless gesture. With a sneer, Crowley spun and walked away. “This still isn’t the end, Michael!”

Once he was gone, she sighed in relief, and prepared to lecture her soldiers on proper discipline in the face of new weapons.

Crowley sat in the bookshop, in Aziraphale’s favorite chair. He’d cleaned up the spilled wine and shattered glass, gathered together the white feathers from the carpet.

It was nearly midnight.

The video played again.

“What’s so special about Alpha Centauri, anyway?” Gabriel asked, voice soft and calm. He sat in that folding chair like it was the Throne of Creation.

“It’s…just a place Crowley likes.” It hurt to look at Aziraphale, the way the chains pulled his wings back, his neck forward, his arms to the side. They weren’t supposed to be able to hurt him, but they’d still found a way. More than one; the strain in his voice had nothing to do with that on his limbs. “I don’t know why he went, but he’s coming back.”

“When did he first mention it?”

“During…when we thought the world would end.” He shifted his feet, one arm stretching to the limit. “Nn. He wanted to run. I didn’t. He came back.”

“Not this time.”

“He’s going to come. I know he’s going to come back.”

Crowley paused the video, rubbing his eyes. It was a trick he’d taught Aziraphale. Don’t try to be smart. Don’t be clever. It’s not like the movies. Just pick one thought, any thought, doesn’t matter what. And repeat it, over and over. Don’t think about anything else. Crowley should have known that he would be the thought Aziraphale picked.

He could hear the uncertainty creeping in. Was the mark on his chest looking paler than before?

He needed to reach Aziraphale, now.

Michael had doubled the guard again.

It wasn’t easy. Rumors of what the demon was capable of were spreading faster than his trick fire had.

But when Crowley sauntered up to the lobby at 1:45 AM, he found the room ringed with thirty fully armed angels.

She’d hoped he would be intimidated. Instead, he just waved.

“Lovely night for a drive, isn’t it?”

“You won’t get past us again, Crowley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Just popping in for a friendly greeting.” He lounged against the glass door, opening it as far as it would go. “Say hello to my little friends.”

A swarm of rats – fifty, sixty, seventy, more – poured in through the door, flooding the lobby, scrambling over the feet of the guards, descending the escalator with a speed she wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Ooh, I can see you’re busy. Have fun, Michael.”

Beelzebub paced outside the cell. It had been over six hours, and so far they’d only succeeded in making the angel tired and uncomfortable.

Gabriel insisted it was going well. That the angel would break any minute. Just act like the result is inevitable, and sooner enough the prisoner will accept it.

The theory was interesting enough, but it still made for the most boring torture session in six millennia.

Some noise down the corridor. Beelzebub sent a few flies to investigate, buzzing around between the heads of demons.

Fifteen rats making their way down the hall, darting under feet and around tentacles, biting, scratching, but moving with more purpose than rats usually did.

These would be the vermin Crowley had unleashed. According to Michael, there were a lot more, but Hell was already full of rats. Did he think this would impress them? Make any difference in…

Something was different about these rodents.

Walking as fast as ze could, Beelzebub reached the edge of the commotion – the barriers keeping the crowds of Hell away from the angel’s cell – just as the first rat slipped out into the open. Ze snatched up the struggling creature, studying it. Brown fur, four scratchy paws, long bald tail –

There was a scrap of fabric tied to the tail, in a little bow. Tartan. Beelzebub scrambled in zir pocket and pulled out the angel’s tie. It matched exactly.

Nine more rats broke free of the crowd, racing towards the cell with tiny tartan bows dragging behind.

A message.

Beelzebub kicked apart the barrier and shouted at the demons behind. “Grab thosze ratsz! I want every rat in Hell captured, now! Move!”

The door to Dagon’s file room burst open.

She leapt across her desk, teeth bared. Who would dare interrupt her day? Four nothing demons? Armed with clubs? “This better be good,” she snarled, “or you’re going to wish you were swimming in a sulfur pool.”

“We…” the lead demon took one look at her teeth, and lost all nerve. “We’re looking for rats…”

“Rats? Rats? Look at this room –” Dagon gestured expansively to the overstuffed filing cabinets, the row on row of shelves filled with books and boxes and scrolls and, in the farthest corner, clay tablets. “Do you think I allow a single rodent in my domain? If you’ve come here to waste my time…”

She paused. Something wasn’t right. A noise she couldn’t account for. Rustling.

Gesturing for the others to follow, she stalked down the row of shelves, filled to bursting with files on every temptation, every misdeed, every demonic report since the dawn of time.

There – the fourth case down, on a shelf six feet high, one of the boxes vibrated with faint movement. Something was shuffling around. Skittering, even. As they approached, a little brown head popped out, scrap of paper in its mouth. It wiggled its whiskers at them.

“Get it!” shouted one of the demons, and all four raced forward, clubs falling, scrambling up the shelves.

“No! Stop! Don’t –”

With a crack, the case started to lean, slowly topple, and then crashed into the next.

And the next.

A hundred shelves overbalancing and collapsing like dominoes, a hurricane of paper filling the air, and Dagon stood in its eye, ready to scream.

The rat darted past her toes, a tiny bow on its tail.

In every corridor of Hell, demons raced after rodents, scrambling for them, grabbing them up only to drop them once the biting started.

Hastur chased after his prey as it got closer and closer to the prisoner’s cell. As it crossed the last meter, he dove to the ground, snagging the end of its tail.

The skin of the tail ripped free in his hand. But so did the little bit of fabric. The rat escaped, wriggling through a hole in the cell wall smaller than a demon’s hand, but without its message.

With a snarl, Hastur went in search of another.

Aziraphale was determined not to cry. He just didn’t know how much longer he could last.

His whole body ached. He told himself that it was just the chains, the way he’d been hanging in them for hours and days and eternity. It wasn’t a sign that Crowley had abandoned him, it wasn’t.

He just wanted to sit down.

One of the chains shook. He looked up into the darkness, wondering what new torment this was.

A rat dropped onto his shoulder, tail bleeding, claws scrambling at the heavy collar around his neck.

The first sobs started to escape.

Crowley paced outside the lobby of Heaven and Hell as the lead rat reported in.

“No, I’m sure you did your best. Did everyone make it out?” Tiny rat fingers ran across its whiskers. “That’s something at least. Shit.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to think. It would be dawn soon. They’d had Aziraphale all night.

“Right. No more nice demon. Time for plan B.”

The rat squeaked.

“I don’t know, D? E? It’s not like I’m keeping count.” He eyed the pack of angels in the lobby, larger than ever. “I’m not going to get many more chances. This has to work.”

He knelt down and looked carefully at his agent. “I need you to tell me exactly where they’re holding him, got it?”

Gabriel held the pile of fabric scraps in both hands. “Is this all of them?”

“Isz it?” Beelzebub demanded of Hastur.

“Well?” Hastur turned to the small group of demons who had declared themselves Hell’s best rat catchers. They all shifted their feet uneasily.

“We think so,” one offered, and the others nodded agreement. “We can’t find any more.”

“You think so,” Hastur started. “And that’s –”

“Enough,” Beelzebub interrupted. Gabriel and his psychology, Hastur and his noise. This wasn’t how things were done. “If I szee another rat, bow or not, I’ll feed one of you to the Hellhoundsz. I don’t care which. And I’ll keep going until there are no more of you left. Undersztand?”

The group of demons glanced at each other. “We’ll…we’ll look again.”

Gabriel looked almost impressed, but right now he could stick his condescension up any and every orifice in his coroporation. Beelzebub grabbed the fabric out of his hands. “Bring the lamp and don’t szay a word. I’ll show you how it’sz done.”

Crowley’s phone buzzed.

He looked up from the map of Hell he was sketching on a receipt from Aziraphale’s favorite bakery. It was going to take a lot of careful planning, but his idea was finally starting to take shape. He just hoped his Angel could hold out a little longer.

A text from Michael. “Thanks!” Followed by emojis: a rat, a bow, a smiling angel.

Then the video file loaded.

Beelzebub walked into the cell, in that way every demon in Hell knew meant find some way to look busy on the other side of the world. This time it was Gabriel who trailed behind.

“We caught up to your huszband,” Beelzebub spat. “Gave him our proof. You know what he szaid?”

The hope dawning on Aziraphale’s face looked painful. It certainly ripped Crowley’s heart to shreds.

Beelzebub dropped something at the angel’s feet. The lantern light shifted forward: dozens of scraps of tartan, a bowtie shredded to ribbons.

“Lying,” the angel said numbly. “Coming back.”

“No!” The Prince of Hell’s flat disdain rarely cracked; the anger that leaked out was something few demons had ever seen, and even fewer had survived. “He’sz not!” Ze picked up a knife, sharp edge glinting in the uneven light. “Crowley isz never!” The blade slashed across Aziraphale’s palm. “Coming!” Across his face. “Back!” Across his stomach – and this time left a bright red line, glaringly visible below the pale trace of his sigil.

It wasn’t a cut. But it was a mark. An injury.

Beelzebub pressed the point of the knife into Aziraphale’s chin, forcing his head back. “Szo you’re going to be our gueszt. Forever.”

When ze pulled the knife away, there was a drop of blood on it.

Aizraphale collapsed in his chains, sobbing, heartbroken.

And Beelzebub turned and smiled directly at the camera.

The video ended.

Crowley stared at his blank phone, at the map on the receipt. And threw them into the back of the car.

“Fuck planning,” he snarled. “Time to improvise.”

Beelzebub bolted the cell door.

“That,” Gabriel said, voice full of some kind of emotion. “That was amazing! You just –"

“Shut up,” Beelzebub snapped. Satan, why had ze even invited the Archangel for this? He had done nothing to help, just dragged his feet with his stupid mind games. “I’m getting the torturersz. You can play with the angel until we get back. Then he’sz oursz.”

“Of course. You’re sure I should have Michael send this video to Crowley?”

“I don’t care. What’sz he going to do? Send more rodentsz?”

In a way, Michael was enjoying herself.

Trying to keep out one highly determined demon was almost as much fun as planning a war. Twenty angels scattered around the lobby itself, four more making a line across the escalators. More than that, and they just got in each other’s way. She’d switched off the escalator to Heaven, stationed a dozen more with arrows all along it. And five scouts up and down the street outside.

Whatever Crowley tried to do next, they were ready for it.

Something like thunder rumbled in the distance, except the sky was perfectly clear. She could see the last stars, giving way to the pre-dawn light.

And some other sound. A strange, discordant clanging, perhaps? But very faint.

“What is that?” she demanded.

Were there words in the clanging?

…lords and lady preach…

“I’m not sure, sir,” said the nearest angel dutifully, “but it sounds horrible.”

“Well, naturally,” she agreed.

…descend upon your…skies…

“I think,” said another with a frown, “that’s what the reports call bebop.”

…command your very souls you unbelievers…

Three of Michael’s scouts burst through the doors, waving their arms frantically. “Move!” one managed to gasp. “Out of the way!”

Bring before me what is mine…

“Of what?”

With a squeal of tires, the long black demonic car burst through the glass windows of the lobby, roar of the engine echoing off the walls, mixed with the sound of music screaming about The Seven Seas of Rhye. Flaming arrows rained on it from above, and bounced off with no effect.

The car crossed the lobby in seconds, and it was accelerating.

There was really no way a vintage car should have been able to fit down that escalator, but the Bentley was very good at getting places she didn’t belong.

He knew he’d hit a few angels on the way through the lobby, but they’d survive and he didn’t actually give a damn, a shit or any fucks at all.

Up ahead, someone was trying to close the main gates of Hell. With a grin, Crowley shifted gears, stomped on the throttle and cranked the music up even louder.

Storm the master marathon I'll fly through By flash and thunder fire I'll survive, I’ll survive, I’ll survive Then I'll defy the laws of nature and come out alive Then I'll get you…

Gabriel stood beside Aziraphale as he broke down, weeping messily. He could see the last few strands of faith holding that pale mark in place, but they would break very soon.

“I know it hurts, Aziraphale, but you really should have expected it. He’s a demon. He tempted you away from Heaven, and then he betrayed you. It’s what they do.”

The bound angel shook his head. “No. My choice. I – I – I wanted to…to live. To love.” The door opened and his head jerked up, but it was just Beelzebub, and Hastur, and five other demons, each nastier than the last. Another strand of faith broke. “Crowley, please,” he whimpered.

“If you’re going to quesztion him, aszk if he would rather sztart with bladesz or fire.” The glimpse of anger had vanished, buried again under that mask of boredom. It was actually an impressive bit of psychological warfare. They should talk about it sometime, compare notes.

“You did say you wanted choices,” Gabriel reminded him.

“I…I want to go home…” That broken tone was music to the Archangel’s ears. “Please…just let me go…I won’t…I’ll stay out of your way.”

“Too late for that,” Beelzebub said, as the other demons began selecting their tools.

“Tell you what,” Gabriel put an arm around Aziraphale. “When they’re done, you can come back to Heaven. Would you like that? I mean, we can’t reinstate you, but I’m sure there’s some role we can find for you.”

Once the demons had done their work, he’d have some better ideas for Aziraphale’s punishment and execution. Given the rumors that were circling, he’d have to make it very public this time, and he couldn’t afford any more misjudgments.

Hastur pushed his way past the other demons. “This was my idea. I’ve waited fucking long enough. I get to go first.”

Gabriel stepped aside, giving Aziraphale one last pat on the shoulder.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

Looping his grubby fingers around the metal collar, Hastur pulled Aziraphale off the ground entirely. “I am going to introduce you to whole new kinds of pain, angel.”

“Juszt leave szome limbsz for the reszt,” Beelzebub reminded him.

…comes the black queen…

Some kind of commotion had started up, across the empty plaza.

Gabriel glanced out the cell door, half expecting to see more rats. No, just that strange thunder again. “What is that?”

…Fi-fo the black queen, marching single file…

Both Hastur and Aziraphale turned towards the door, recognition dawning on their faces.

“No.” Hastur growled. “No, no, no –”

“Crowley…”

“NO!” The anger Beelzebub had let slip in the night was nothing compared to that moment. Ze raced out of the cell, arms waving at the crowd. “Szomeone sztop him! Whatever you have to do!”

Gabriel’s legs brought him even further. “Release the Hellhounds! Get the fire, anything – destroy him!”

“You will not,” came a quiet voice. Slowly, Gabriel and Beelzebub turned back towards the cell door, which was still wide open. Aziraphale was standing straight, deadly calm. “You will not hurt Crowley.”

“Shit.”

A voice from behind me reminds me

Aziraphale stepped forward, shaking off his chains as if they were cobwebs, dispelling the gloom with the glow of his wings and the demonic sigil on his chest, bright as daylight.

Hastur didn’t back away fast enough, and Aziraphale threw him clear across the plaza, to crash into the far wall.

Spread out your wings, you are an angel

“Shut the door!” Gabriel and Beelzebub threw their weight against it, driving the bolts home.

With one kick from the angel inside, it crumbled like paper.

Remember to deliver with the speed of light A little bit of love and joy

“You will not. Hurt. My husband.”

Aziraphale held a length of chain in his hands, stygian iron and celestial orichalcum. It glowed as his angelic powers flowed through.

“Your husb – oh, Crowley.” Gabriel held up his hands, backing away. “Is that who that is? I thought it was some new breed of demon.”

“I have no idea what anyone isz talking about.”

“You’re liars.”

Everything you do bears a will and a why and a wherefore A little bit of love and joy

“I think liars is taking it too far, Aziraphale, you know –”

“You said he left me. You lied. And I believed you.” The chain flashed out, ripping their feet out from under them. “But I will not let you hurt him.”

“No one isz going to hurt the traitor,” Beelzebub insisted. “You want to leave, go!”

In each and every soul lies a man Very soon he'll deceive and discover

“Oh, I’ll leave.” He grabbed them each by the front of the shirt, lifting them clear off the ground. “But not until I’m sure he’s safe from you.”

But even 'til the end of his life He'll bring a little love

The Bentley wasn’t as bad as the day he’d driven it through a burning M25, but it was still less than pristine. The front end was all bashed up, the sides scratched and scraped, and he’d probably be digging demon teeth out of the grille for weeks.

But he finally broke free of the crowd, and there ahead stood his angel, looking worn and tired, shirt in tatters, but alive. And smiling.

Behind him stood a cell of some kind, the door held on not by hinges, but a web of black and gold chains. There was probably some story there, but Crowley didn’t care.

He spun the Bentley in a wide circle, and came to a stop in front of Aziraphale, pushing open the door. “Did you call for a lift?”

“Crowley…” He climbed into his usual seat and shut the door. “I should very much like to go home now, if you don’t mind.”

Crowley ran his hands along the steering wheel.

What he wanted was to grab his husband into a hug that never ended, to apologize, to swear it was all a mistake, a lie, he’d never leave…

But Crowley recognized that look. Aziraphale was barely holding together, and any display of that kind would utterly destroy him.

So, ignoring the tearstains streaked across Aziraphale’s face, Crowley put the Bentley into gear. “Why don’t you pick out some music for the ride?”

Michael was still standing.

Not by much, but she was.

Her soldiers had abandoned their posts. All the demons in Hell seemed to be hiding. She couldn’t reach Gabriel. But she was still standing.

She planted her feet in the hallway, facing the gates of Hell, sword pointed ahead, waiting for that blasted machine to return. She could hear it coming. A noise like thunder. The terrifying, unrelenting baseline of the next song.

She was not going to move.

The hallway stretched before them. The escalator. Freedom.

And in between, Michael.

There are plenty of ways that you can hurt a man And bring him to the ground

“What do you want to do?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned up the music. “I believe the term is ‘floor it,’ dear.”

You can beat him, you can cheat him You can treat him bad and leave him when he’s down.

Crowley shifted into fourth, and took his husband’s hand.

The car came, faster and faster. The sound of it, the heat of it, filled the corridor.

But I’m ready, yes, I’m ready for you

Michael could see their faces inside. She met their eyes, held their gazes. Stared them down.

I’m standing on my own two feet

Aziraphale smiled and waved. Crowley did, too, but with only two fingers.

Out of the doorway the bullets rip

And Michael…leapt out of the way at the last minute.

Repeating to the sound of the beat…

“Ta very much,” Crowley shouted out the window. “Let’s never do this again.”

“Wanker,” Aziraphale called.

The car, impossibly, climbed up the escalator, and shot across the broken glass of the lobby, escaping into the sunrise.

In the dark of the cell, Gabriel crossed his arms, glaring at all the other demons trapped in here with him. That one in the corner looked like he might be trouble. The Archangel hoped he wouldn’t have to make examples out of any of them.

“So. While we’re stuck here. Who’s fault was all this again?”

Beelzebub rolled zir eyes and glared at Hastur, just recovering from his head-first meeting with the wall.

And Hastur bit his hand so hard it leaked foul black blood, then howled: “Crowley!”

Afterward

Aziraphale lay in his four-poster bed, wrapped in every blanket Crowley could find. Already the table beside him held three mugs of tea – black, green, and chamomile – and one of hot cocoa. There was a bowl of soup, a tray of chocolates, and another plate with a dozen different pastries.

Crowley frowned, trying to find space to fit the sandwich. He carefully re-stacked Aziraphale’s three favorite books to make a bit more room.

“Thank you, dear, that’s quite enough.”

“No, no it isn’t. There’s no ice cream. You want ice cream? And pie. Let me go get some pie.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called sternly. “There’s only one thing I need right now.”

“What’s that? I’ll get you anything, Angel, whatever you want.”

“I need my husband.” There was the faintest quiver in his voice.

In a flurry of movement, Crowley crawled into the bed, wrapping his limbs around Aziraphale, pulling him into his embrace. “I’m here, Aziraphale, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, I’m never ever going to leave you.”

“I – I do know that. I promise. I – I won’t doubt you again. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no.” Crowley twisted around to cup his face, wiping away the tears that were starting to fall. “You don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I should have gotten there sooner. Michael and her bloody guards. I won’t let them take you, ever again.”

“Oh, dear, no, don’t blame yourself. What could you have done?” He sniffed, and wiggled a little deeper into his blanket-cocoon. “Besides, you’d have to stay with me every minute of every day. I can’t ask that of you.”

“Too bad. I’m asking it of you.” He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. “I know we said we wouldn’t rush into living together, but I’m ready. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, not for a second. Not after this.”

“I…yes, Crowley. I feel the same.” He sighed. “I’d like to hold your hand now, but –”

“No. You’re still in shock. Stay in your blankets.” He rearranged himself one more time, draping himself across Aziraphale like another blanket, looping his arms around his angel’s neck, resting his head on his husband’s heart. “I’ve got you now. You just rest. I’m here.”

Thanks for reading! The Bentley’s Queen songs were “Seven Seas of Rhye,” “March of the Black Queen,” and “Another One Bites the Dust.” I don’t write the demon crew very often, so I hope they were entertaining!

I’ll probably post this tonight to AO3. Check the notes for a link.

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queen-of-deans-booty · 4 years

Text

Hammer of the Gods: Part Two

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,172

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

“An elephant?” you ask, not believing Dean’s story at all.

Apparently, he walks by a room with the door open, saw a full-grown elephant with a towel, only to double check and see a big black man in its spot. There is nothing else left to check, so you three head back to the lobby.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs.

“Like, an elephant?”

“Like, full-on Babar.”

“So, what the hell is... where is everybody?” Sam trails off once he gets a look at the lobby.

Every single person is gone, and so is Chad. The lobby is deserted. You and Dean stay put while Sam goes to check the front doors. Just like you suspected, they are locked.

“Let me guess—it's locked. So, what, the roaches check in and they don't check out?” Dean asks.

“Think about how we got here. That detour on I-90? The fucking hurricane?” Sam exclaims.

“Are you saying we were led here?” you wonder.

“Like rats in a maze.”

“Who would want us?” you ask, and both brothers give you a bitch look since you’re asking an obvious question. “Who would want us and a hotel full of people? Usually, they come after us wherever we are. We don’t get led to places. Plus, where did everyone else go?”

“We should stick together this time,” Sam says.

You take the lead on this one and walk into the dining hall. There is no one in the room, so you continue on your way into the kitchen which is also empty. You take one step at a time, slowly making your way through the kitchen. There is nothing out of the ordinary except for a pot on the stove that’s bubbling. This should not be left alone, especially in a hotel. Dean walks closer to it with a scared look on his face.

“Please be tomato soup. Please be tomato soup,” he mutters and lift the ladle that’s resting inside the pot. As soon as it surfaces, two eyeballs do as well. He lets go of the ladle in disgust. “Motel hell.”

“I knew something wasn’t right,” you sigh and continue on your way.

There is something about the meat freezer that’s in front of you. There’s nothing wrong with it visually, but it’s like something is pulling you to it. When you get face to face with it, a hand slams against the tiny glass and a face appears.

“Help us! Get us out!” a man screams.

This must be where the hotel guests have gone. Sam reaches in his jacket to take out his lock picking tool kit, but you wave him off.

“I got this,” you say and your eyes turn blue.

Magic courses through your body from your eyes to your fingertips, showing off a stream of bright blue magic from underneath your skin. It’s like the magic is showing everyone how it works and where it’s going.

“Hurry up!” Dean yells.

“You know, I would go a lot faster if you didn’t,” you yell and turn around only to stop short when you see who is behind him, “rush me.”

“There's somebody behind me, isn't there?” he asks without turning around.

All you can do is nod slowly just as the color in your eyes and hands die out.

The three men who were behind Dean grabbed you, Sam, and Dean with force and brought you to the grand ballroom. They are a lot stronger than you, so you can’t use your magic to get yourself out of this one. The doors open and they shove you in to reveal a handful of people that look like they want to eat you.

Your eyes flit around the room and at the name badges these people wore. The big black man that Dean saw, his name is Ganesh. Ganesh is the elephant-head Hindu God of new beginnings. There is another man who is a lot older with a white beard—Odin. Odin is a war God in Norse mythology. A black woman with gorgeous black hair is named Kali. Kali is the Hindu Goddess of death, time, and doomsday. Another black man is named Baron Samedi. Baron Samedi is a Haitian God of the dead. There are others, but you assume they are also Gods of other things.

“Something tells me this isn't a Shriner convention,” Dean comments.

Chad, who is now named Mercury, pushes a food table into the room to serve dinner. Mercury is the Roman God of messengers. You knew there was something off about him.

“Dinner is served,” he announces and takes off the silver top that’s covering the course.

Like you suspected, there is a human head and his innards lying on the table for the Gods to eat. A round of applause erupts once they see the dinner plate. A spotlight suddenly appears and shines on the three of you. You shield your eyes from the brightness, and one of the main hosts steps forward with a smile. His name is Baldur, another Norse God that you can’t remember what he does.

“Ladies and Gentleman, our guests of honor have arrived,” he smiles. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. Although in all my centuries, I never thought I'd see this. This many gods under one roof.”

“Gods?” Dean whispers to you and Sam.

The men who brought you here shoves you three to chairs and makes you sit with you in the middle of the brothers. Every single God took their place at the dinner table so that everyone is sitting except for Baldur.

“Yeah, don’t you know your mythology?” you whisper back.

“Now, before we get down to brass tacks, some ground rules. No slaughtering each other. Curb your wrath. Oh, and uh, keep your hands off the local virgins. We're trying to keep a low profile here,” Baldur continues.

“Oh, we are so, so screwed,” Sam whispers.

“Now we all know why we're here. The Judeo-Christian apocalypse looms over us. I know we've all had our little disagreements in the past. The time has come to put those aside and look toward the future. Because if we don't, we won't have one. Now we do have three very valuable bargaining chips. Michael, Amara and Lucifer's vessels. The question is, what do we do now? Anybody have any bright ideas? Speak up. This is a safe room.”

Zao Shen, the kitchen God of Chinese folk and mythology, stands and speaks in Chinese. His tone is angry, and Dean turns to you and Sam with his eyebrows raised.

“Oh I do not like his tone,” he scoffs.

“Kill 'em? Why? So the angels can bring them back again?” Ganesh responds to the Chinese God.

“I don't know what everybody's getting so worked up about,” Odin speaks his mind. “'Cause it's just a couple of angels having a slap fight! There's no Armageddon. Everybody knows, when the world comes to an end, the Great Serpent Jormungandr rises up, and I myself will be eaten by a big wolf!”

Zao Shen speaks again in his native tongue, and Odin rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“Oh yeah? And why is that?” he asks as if he can understand the language. “Because your beliefs are so much more realistic? The whole world's getting carried around on the back of a giant turtle? Ha! Give me a break!”

Zao Shen hisses back in his native tongue with his finger pointed at Odin. The Norse God gets up as if he’s going to jump across the table and bitch slap him. Yours, Sam, and Dean’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

Zao Shen responds back in Chinese. You have no clue what they are talking about, but this might be your clue to get out of here while they are fighting. They keep up with their verbal argument, and you look at Sam and Dean. They know what you’re thinking, and you three stand up to leave the room. As soon as your back is turned to the Gods, the chandelier by the door unhooks and drops to the ground in front of you.

“Stay,” Kali interrupts as she stands. You turn around to look at her with a glare. “We have to fight. The archangels—the only thing they understand is violence. This ends in blood. There is no other way, it's them, or us.”

“With all due respect, ma'am,” Mercury speaks up, “we haven't even tried talking to them.”

There is a brief pause as Kali stares at Mercury with slit eyes. He begins to choke up blood, and he claws at his tie as if that’s going to help him breathe.

“Kali!” Baldur stops whatever hold she has on the Roman God.

“Who asked you?” she points her question to Mercury.

Just then, the double doors to the grand ballroom opens and Gabriel comes wandering in like he owns the place.

“Can't we all just get along?”

“Gabriel?” you ask, but he cuts you off with a swipe of his fingers.

Whatever he did to you, he did to the Winchesters because you can’t speak at all.

“Sam! Dean, Y/N... It's always wrong place, worst time with you muttonheads, huh?”

“Loki,” Baldur sneers.

Wait, Loki? Do they not know who he is?

“Baldur. Good seeing you too. I guess my invitation got lost in the mail,” he chuckles.

“Why are you here?”

“To talk about the elephant in the room,” Ganesh begins to stand up, indignant, but Gabriel points a finger at him to stop him. “Not you. The Apocalypse. We can't stop it, gang. But first things first,” he turns to you three with a sarcastic smile. “The adults need to have a little conversation. Check you later.”

Gabriel snaps his fingers, and suddenly, you’re in your hotel room. Your eyes widen and you start stuttering to figure out what the hell just happened.

“Okay, did that—holy shit!”

“Yeah, tell me about it. By the way, next time I say let's keep driving, uh, let's keep driving.”

“Yeah, okay, next time,” Dean mocks.

“Okay, I guess we need to figure a way out of here. First things first, we need to save the people in the freezer. Then, if we’re lucky, we kill some Gods.”

“When are you ever lucky?” Gabriel says from across the room.

He is sitting on the black leather couch with his right leg crossed over his left.

“Bite me, Gabriel,” you glare.

“Maybe later,” he winks at you.

“I should've known. I mean this had your stink all over it from the jump,” Dean interrupts with a scoff.

“You think I'm behind this? Please. I'm the Costner to your Houston. I'm here to save your asses.”

“You wanna pull us outta the fire?”

“Bingo! Those guys are either gonna dust you or use you as bait. Either way, you're uber boned.”

“Wow, 'cause a couple of months ago you were telling us that we need to “play our roles”. You're uber boning us!” Dean yells.

“Oh, the end is still nigh. Michael and Lucifer are gonna dance the lambada, but not tonight. Not here.”

“Why do you care?” you ask.

“I don't care. But, me and Kali we, uh, had a thing. Chick was all hands. What can I say? I'm sentimental,” he chuckles and gets up to stand in front of you three.

“Do they have a chance against Satan?” Sam suddenly asks.

“Really, Sam?” Dean scoffs.

“You got a better idea, Dean?”

“It's a bad idea. Lucifer's gonna turn them into finger paint. So, let's get going while the going's good, hmm?”

“Okay, then zap us out of here,” you shrug.

“Would if I could, but Kali's got you by the short and curlies. It's a blood spell. You three are on a leash.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it's time for a bit of the old black magic,” he chuckles and takes out breath spray.

He applies two spritzes in his mouth with a smile.

“Whatever. You do that, and we're gonna take the people in the freezer with us.”

“Forget it. It's gonna be hard enough sneaking you mooks outta here,” he rolls his eyes.

“They called you Loki, right? They don’t know who you really are?” you say and step forward to make sure he knows you’re not to be messed with.

“Told you. I'm in witness protection.”

“Okay, then how about you do what we say, or we’ll tell those Gods about your secret identity. They don’t seem like the pro-angel type of crowd,” you chuckle.

“I’ll take your voices away.”

“We’ll write it down,” you say as you take one step closer.

“I'll cut off your hands.”

“Do you really think that’ll stop me?” you ask as your eyes glow blue.

“Fine,” he huffs and backs off.

The color leaves your eyes, and you smile sweetly as he vanishes from the room. You turn to the brothers with a victory smile.

“That’s how you get things done around here.”

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langdxn · 5 years

Text

devotion | fire and reign!michael x fem!reader

SUMMARY: It’s the first Cooperative meeting and Michael gets familiar with one delegate.

WARNINGS: Domesticated fluff, anxiety, a bit of comedy, severely shameless smut, vaginal sex, vaginal stimulation, Barry Manilow.

WORD COUNT: 2.9k (sorry I got really carried away with this one. I haven’t proofread it yet so apologies in advance!)

Striding into the Cooperative meeting hall with all the arrogance he could muster, Michael wrung his red leather-clad hands together, his gaze lingering on the streams of expressionless masks lining the conference table. Every face was obscured, a last-ditch attempt at anonymity for the first time in their charmed, infamous lives.

Their grasp at obscurity was futile. He’d seen the seating plan ahead of schedule. He knew he was to speak two feet away from Bill Clinton, that some kid called PewDiePie was perched halfway down the table, that Jeff Bezos sent his apologies for his absence mere minutes ago, that Julie Andrews requested a seat at the last minute and paid in cash.

The Antichrist shouldn’t suffer stage fright, but Michael hadn’t often addressed a number of people at once, least of all the most financially powerful mortal figureheads in the world. He meticulously prepared his speech the night before, scrawling the highlights on a scrap of paper he stuffed down his left glove, small enough to look inconspicuous when he retrieved it yet large enough to not lose it on the journey to the conference hall.

As his expensive leather boots clacked to the head of the table, Michael swallowed hard and forced his focus on Ms Mead’s advice - find a spot at the far end of the room to concentrate on and talk to it. He chose the far right corner of the seemingly endless table, an anonymous pair of black gloved hands that rested studiously on the glass table.

“Esteemed members of the Cooperative,” he announced, swinging his hands behind his back to clasp them together. The less they saw how they were shaking in their crimson incarcerations, the better.

“World leaders, tech giants, media moguls, cultural influencers,” he proclaimed, catching his breath, “and Mrs Langdon.”

His gaze hardened on the gloved hands in the far corner. The black-clothed figure leaned forward in its seat, revealing a golden face creating a stark contrast with the sea of masks. Cascading y/h/c curls framed the feminine face, mysteriously sparkling black lipstick and deep eyeliner outlining fierce y/e/c eyes. A revealing black dress draped over her figure, her chest pouring out of its low neckline.

A knowing smirk caught the corner of Michael’s lips as he nodded in recognition. He balled his leathered hands into fists and landed them authoritatively on the table’s edge.

“The rumours you’ve heard are true: my name is Michael Langdon and I am the Antichrist.”

———

“You know you don’t have to wear a mask, honey,” Michael comforted you as he leaned his elbows on the kitchen island, planting his chin on one balled fist. You glanced over your shoulder at him as you carefully flipped an omelette in the pan.

“I know baby, but it’s the first one and I want to make a good impression,” you giggled. “After all, they’re the ones who sold their souls already. Mine’s still up for sale.”

Michael snickered under his breath, standing straight and gliding his way over to you, snaking his arms around your waist and squeezing gently, relishing the embrace.

“Is that so?” He breathed into the nape of your neck, dropping a loving kiss where his words ghosted so sensitively that goosebumps haunted your skin. You jerked the pan over to a nearby plate, tipping the omelette out and returning the pan to a cool hob ring.

“But should I wear makeup underneath? What’s the dress code for this sort of thing?” You tugged at the collar of the baggy black shirt draped over your frame — Michael’s from last night, how he adored seeing you shuffling around the kitchen the next morning wearing his discarded shirt after your night between the sheets.

“Darling, you could wear a garbage bag and I’d still be the happiest man alive to introduce you as my new wife,” butterflies flitted between both your stomachs as he called you that word you’d waited so impatiently to hear drip from his tongue.

“I also take it I’m not sitting next to you?” You enquired half-heartedly, knowing any distance between you pained you both no matter how formal the situation. Recalling the times you sat beside each other for dinner at Madelyn’s house, how Michael’s hands charted their course towards your inner thighs before starters even hit the plate.

“So who am I going to be rubbing shoulders with tonight, Boy Wonder?” You ducked into his embrace as his breaths laced your neck with shivers.

“Let me see,” he pondered, as if conjuring the seating plan in his mind. He settled for retrieving a document from the pocket of his velour jacket and pulling it in front of you. Scanning the plan from over your shoulder with a hum under his breath, he nodded towards the red marker pointing to your seat in the farthest corner.

“That’ll be Zach Braff on your left, so no getting any ideas,” he squeezed your hips in jest, “and David Hasselhoff at the head of the table in front of you.”

“Really? You’re trusting me to sit facing The Hoff? Oh honey, your trust is severely misplaced,” you cracked, gripping onto his remaining hand that rested on your hip.

“Oh I’m sorry my darling, would you prefer Barry Manilow on the left?” He tickled you gently, tossing the sheet of paper into the air and watching it cascade to the tiled floor beneath you. “How on earth do you know all these people anyway? They’re all just names to me.”

“That may be because I didn’t age a decade overnight, Mr Langdon,” you joked, “I grew up on pop culture, that’s all. You were born after all these people became popular.”

“I also didn’t run a globally successful Tumblr which single-handedly forced the entire internet to stop talking in peaches and cucumbers—“

“Eggplants, Michael, they’re eggplants,” you giggled heartily into your hand to stifle a full-scale laughing fit. “Did the Antichrist just admit he married me for my influence?”

Michael scoffed, landing a sweet peck of agreement into your neck.

“Speaking of influencers, exactly how much power do you have in choosing new Cooperative delegates?”

“Providing they’ve sold their souls to my father already, it’s an open court. Who do you have in mind, baby?” He cooed into your ear.

“I think it would serve us well to save Benedict Cumberbatch. Hell hath no fury like Cumberbitches when they find out Sherlock was exterminated by the Apocalypse.” You turned to face Michael with eyebrows raised, proffering the omelette plate before him.

“I’ll take your word for it, Mrs Langdon. Anybody else?”

———

Michael had barely got to the crux of his introduction to the Cooperative before disembodied voices grew concerned. Each member wore a voice manipulator built into their identity masks, a second, painfully virtual line of defence that reminded you of Robocop having a domestic. It wasn’t until you could hear their discordant mechanical voices over your husband’s that you focused back into the room.

“What about my wife?”

“What happens if the Outposts are overrun?”

“Will I get to see my kids again?”

“What if the missiles don’t kill everybody?”

“When will it be safe to walk around on the surface again?”

“Will we die down there?”

“What’s your backup plan?”

Michael was nervous, almost obsessively wringing his palms in an effort to disguise the shaking that had consumed him. He was drowning in a blur of desperate, panicked queries firing from all angles — for the first time in your relationship, he looked lost. Powerless. Terrified. Aimless syllables tumbled off his tongue as he tried to regain composure.

He couldn’t lose them. Not yet.

The sudden, ominous clink of your stilettos across the polished floor immediately silenced the cacophony. You strode elegantly and purposefully toward the head of the table, relishing every second of precious silence from the present number as you made your way to your husband’s side.

“What my beloved husband is attempting to articulate is that our repopulation plan is foolproof,” you ran your hand across the top of Michael’s leather coat, resting on his left side and gently leaning on him as if the angel arriving on his shoulder to save the day.

“We’ve eliminated all possibilities of unsatisfactory reproduction for the new world. We’ve limited the number of British survivors in order to reduce the risk of poor dental health — no offence Mr Cumberbatch, wherever you may be seated,” you searched in vain across the faceless entities lining the table in the hope any glimpse of body language could give your chosen one away.

“Your families will be as safe as we can possibly keep them, with the help of your investments and the security you use on a daily basis above the surface.”

Your vision darted pointedly to the far left corner of the table.

"Mr Smith, you and your wife will be situated in Outpost 4 while Jayden and Willow will reside in Outposts 1 and 2 respectively. That way, if any Outposts are compromised, we won’t have an overpopulation of Fresh Princes of Bel Air.”

A collective yet nonetheless strained chuckle filled the air.

“As for your safety against the rabid cannibals that the rest of the human race will no doubt be reduced to, that all depends on how much you’re willing to contribute to the cause. I’ll hand you back into the capable hands of Mr Langdon.”

Michael turned to you with a smile of relief and appreciation, you let loose a casual wink of reassurance before stepping back to return the floor to him.

Michael breathed in sharply and assumed his power stance, crimson leather palms pressed flat on the gleaming table, focus now fixed on the masked figure at the opposite end of the room.

“Turn to page six, section one - Outpost Construction."

———

“I don’t know what I would’ve done without you back there,” Michael sighed through both his hands, wearily wiping down his face in an attempt to erase the last few hours from his memory.

You pushed aside Michael’s hastily discarded red gloves and draping leather jacket, some desk lamps and leftover instruction manuals on the table to perch on the edge, drawing Michael between your legs by the waistband of his coat.

“You did just fine without me, my love,” you cupped his face in your hands, his angelic curls tumbling around his countenance as you planted a loving kiss on his full, if slightly bitten lips. He drew you in even closer, his kiss deeper than the azure blue of his eyes he had now clenched firmly shut.

If there was one thing you knew Michael loved more than anything, it was kissing you. When you handed each other washed dishes after dinner, when you waited impatiently in the queue at the grocery store, when you finally found something decent to watch on TV. He adored locking his lips against yours at any possible opportunity, crashing teeth and dancing tongues. He worshipped the power he had over you when you were compelled to close your eyes to kiss him, the freedom he could use to surprise you while you so innocently shut out the rest of the universe.

“How can I ever repay you, Mrs Langdon?” He breathed into your mouth as he towered over you, one hand roaming your hair and the other ghosting on top of your knee.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way, Mr Langdon,” you charmed, kissing him again as deeply as possible. This time Michael refused to separate from you, maintaining the searing connection between your lips.

Hitching your black silk dress up your thighs agonisingly slowly, Michael opened one eye to savour every centimetre of your legs revealing before him with subtle gasps catching on the tip of his tongue against yours. As the hem reached your hips and exposed your core, Michael moaned greedily in your mouth.

“No panties?” he hummed as your teeth clashed, “no wonder you were so fucking sassy earlier.”

Meeting no obstruction, his soft fingertips wasted no time in trailing between your thighs and finding their home pressed gently onto your clit. As soon as his skin made contact, your hips bucked and you felt a stream of your arousal escape your folds.

Michael could smell it before he felt it. His fingers coursed down to collect the precious droplets, raising his digits to your conjoined mouths so you could both taste you.

“You’re so fucking wet for me baby,” he cooed down your throat, his lust-blown voice reduced to a husky croon. You opened your eyes to meet his for a brief moment but your gaze was met not by his cerulean tones, instead his irises were pitch black, seductively demonic and terrifyingly sinister at the same time. Avoiding their scorching stare, you closed your eyes to kiss him again.

Michael’s hand returned between your thighs and deftly slipped a soft finger through your folds, eliciting a gentle moan from the back of your throat. Returning his fingertip to your entrance, another digit joined it and coursed inside you, curling against your walls to make your hips follow their lead.

Michael grunted into your mouth as he retrieved his fingers, jealous of the warm arousal his fingers witnessed. Tracing his tongue across your teeth, you whimpered at the loss of his touch but replaced by the rustle of Michael setting himself free from his dress pants. You trailed a hand down his chest, making light work of his shirt buttons. Before you could reach his waistband, you felt the head of his cock tracing the outline of your folds, begging for permission to enter.

“Is this okay?” He asked politely as your teeth crashed together. His reconnection with the new Ms Mead skilfully reminded him of the basic courtesies he lost sight of on his sojourn, a time he never seemed comfortable to talk about with you. A time he would rather forget.

You hummed in agreement against his lips and hooked your legs around his waist, gently nudging him closer as his cock stretched your entrance. Slowly, carefully, respectfully.

Your moans drew out longer as he took his time pouring every inch of him inside you. He craved your response when he entered you, he thrived on the ecstasy your husband gave you.

Bottoming out in one smooth thrust, his hands shot up to the back of your neck to prize you from his lips. As you opened your eyes, you met his black pupils as they shot you a determined, ecstatic glare.

“Sell your soul to my father, please. We can live forever, together,” his syllables dragged as he thrust slowly into you.

You needed no persuasion, your mind was made up on the day you married the Antichrist, the only delay was the plans for the apocalypse had taken over. However, you weren’t prepared to let him think he won you over that easily, especially while his cock was urging at the entrance of your cervix.

“What is it with you and deep conversations while you’re balls deep inside me?” You quirked an eyebrow and he forced an aggressive thrust in response. Your back arched suddenly and your eyes retreated into the back of your head, the fast motion driving you closer to your orgasm than you expected so soon.

Protectively wrapping your arms around him and lightly digging your nails into his back, you pretended to need more time to think on his proposition but another sharp snap of his hips broke your facade.

“You realise I won’t let you cum until you agree, don’t you, my darling?” He raised his hand to your throat with a gentle yet purposeful squeeze on your airways while slowly pulling his cock back out of you until just the tip rested in your entrance. He knew from extensive experience that you couldn’t say no when he teased you like this.

“Fuck—ugh fuck, okay I will, now please Michael,” you pleaded weakly, trying to pull him back inside you but he placed a forceful palm on your chest in resistance.

“Say the words honey, say the words.” His black hole stare burned through your eyes into your soul as you rolled your eyes.

“Fine. Michael Langdon, I will sell my soul to Satan,” you breathed emphatically, digging your nails into his back harder.

Your eyes trailed down between your legs to make sure he kept his end of the deal. Sure enough, he poured every inch back inside your folds, meeting your wetness inside with a greedy moan escaping his lips. Gone was his sensual tempo, overtaken by a furious thrust that made his cock twitch as it explored inside you.

“Good girl,” he cooed into your open mouth while you caved into the burning inside you as he pounded you, the familiar dynamite that only Michael knew how to ignite.

“Cum for me, baby.”

Your back gave way and dropped you flat on your spine against the polished table, writhing and squirming as your release took hold of you. All your involuntary friction led Michael to pursue his own orgasm as his frenetic thrusts plowed into you, his tip crashing against your cervix with every motion.

Between both of your frantic moans and laboured breaths, a throat cleared uncomfortably behind you.

Michael froze to the spot while you jerked back and strained to see through the stars dancing across your vision.

“Mr Manilow? You’re still in here?”

#michael langdon fanfiction #michael langdon imagines #ahs apocalypse #michael langdon #unfff #cody fern

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sweetlangdon · 5 years

Text

Reckoning: Part Five (Michael Langdon x Reader)

Notes: AU of the Outpost plot of Apocalypse. A Gray accidentally finds Michael while he’s performing the ritual. Things take an interesting turn.

Warnings: Blood, violence, murder, all the usual stuff you’ve come to expect from this fic.

Word Count: 5.0k

You can find the previous parts here.

Her dreams were filled with Hellfire and devils and a world ravaged by the darkness. She heard it whispering to her as she slept, voices that seemed so much closer, so much clearer once she’d taken Langdon’s knife in that blood-soaked room. In her dreams, the sky was scarlet, a fire left burning. Everything else had drowned in ash and smoke except for the heap of bodies. They were pale, nearly withered away to bones. Left in twisted, macabre shapes with blood running from the corners of their mouths.

But she knew their faces. Every single one.

The Outpost, a hulking, black shape, loomed over them, awash in gold and orange from the fires. And then there was Langdon—impossibly, frustratingly perfect, dark and immaculate all at once. Not a drop of blood on him, not a speck of dirt on his clothes. She’d been distracted by the way the wind stirred his hair. His eyes were two deep pools of obsidian, an unforgiving black. And then he was moving toward her, dust and sand and ash swirling around his shoes, every movement more graceful than the last.

And he was grinning at her. That slow, arrogant crooked grin that took a while to curve his lips, the one that she tried to tell herself she hated. His molten black gaze drifted from her eyes to her hand as he closed the distance between. She hadn’t noticed it, the knife clutched in her fist, the crimson dripping from her fingers that didn’t belong to her.

But he did. Of course he did, because Langdon knew everything. Knew whatever darkness was locked away deep inside her soul. Knew what it took to coax it out and set it free.

And it was beginning to scare her, how much she wanted it.

His long fingers wrapped around hers still gripping the knife. His knife. Her breath hitched as his knuckles brushed her hair. He took her face in his hand, his thumb tracing the swell of her cheek. Langdon’s grin widened, and she decided that the abyss in his eyes wasn’t so horrifying anymore.

But he could keep the fucking snakes.

“Chaos becomes you,” Langdon whispered. A low growl that rumbled through her bones like thunder. Cataclysmic.

She’d been afraid the first time he told her that—terrified and angry and attracted, which seemed to be a package deal when it came to the fucking Antichrist. And now, once she heard the words echo through her thoughts, filling up her dreams, whispered against her skin in the blazing red light of the apocalypse, she believed it. She felt it, as real as she felt him.

And damn, if it didn’t feel good.

The knife slipped from her fingers when he kissed her. She barely heard the metallic thud of the blade dropping into the dirt, so lost in his touch. Langdon drew her to him, holding her face in the searing warmth of his hands, his rings lightly grazing her skin. He held her with a needy desperation that she didn’t expect. She forgot about the blood coating her hands, too eager to taste the chaos on his tongue.

There was scarlet where she traced the sharp lines of his jaw up to his cheekbones, wherever her fingers tangled into his silken hair. When he parted from her, she brushed her thumb along his lower lip before his head dipped toward her throat. And then she couldn’t hear anything else, nothing but his ragged, panting breath against her neck and the moan that echoed when he left a trail of kisses down to her collarbone. His lips were soft, but every time they swept across her skin, it felt like an inferno. He’d set her soul alight and now she needed him to stoke the flames, to keep that wildfire burning. Langdon smelled of smoke and darker things she couldn’t name—some kind of ancient power that tinged the air around them.

She didn’t care what the hell it was. She wanted it.

And if Langdon wanted chaos, she’d give it to him.

***

She was unceremoniously awoken by someone jostling her shoulder.

It wasn’t pleasant. It was actually so goddamn irritating that she tried to shove them away while still holding tight to sleep. Even after she’d groaned and swore loudly, rolling over on her paltry cot to escape, her fellow Gray shoved nearly her entire body weight into her shoulder. The Gray was lucky she wasn’t awake yet, otherwise she would’ve found herself sprawled on the floor. Her reflexes used to be quicker; it hadn’t mattered back then if she was half-asleep. For whatever reason, some of those survival instincts had worn off while they’d been trapped in this miserable pit.

“Fuck off.”

“You have to wake up.” Her roommate—whose name she always forgot despite the two of them spending eighteen months together in servitude—sounded completely done with her shit. “You can’t oversleep. I mean, it’s your business if you want Venable to starve you again, but I wouldn’t try her patience.”

“She can fuck off, too.” The long-suffering groan was muffled into her pillow until her fingers closed around the knife resting under it. Her muscles tensed. She’d almost forgotten about Langdon’s knife. “All right…I’m getting up. Stop hovering.”

If she had to guess, she’d gotten a few hours of sleep, but it didn’t feel like it.

Letting go of the knife’s sleek hilt, she made sure it was still safely hidden. There wasn’t any way to carry it around without her roommate noticing, so she pulled the blanket up over her pillow and hoped that the Gray didn’t get nosy while she was off doing the day’s chores. Her roommate eyed her, a mix of suspicion with a noticeable smugness that she didn’t really care for. She dressed quickly in a new, clean uniform without saying a word, trying to shake the last of the stubborn grogginess from her limbs.

Her heart slammed against her ribs when she saw Langdon’s coat tucked away in her wardrobe, the black striking among the drab shades of gray and white. She took a fistful of the fabric, gently, almost reverently, fingertips settling against the red silk lining. Something had been left in one of the inside pockets. Her thumb caught the edge of it, and with a little careful, discreet maneuvering, she found the clear vial of white pills Langdon had shown to the Outpost. The pills, he’d said, that would cause a painful but quick death.

Careless wasn’t his style. They’d been acquainted for about twenty-four hours if she had to guess, but after seeing him up close, she realized he never did anything without a reason.

Damn it, Langdon. What kind of fucked up nonsense is this? She stashed them in one of the extra pairs of shoes at the bottom of her wardrobe as she heard the approach of her roommate’s footsteps.

The weak, golden light from their fireplace tossed strange shadows onto both of them. She listened to the drumming of her pulse in her ears. It wouldn’t quiet down.

“You talk in your sleep, you know.” The Gray folded her arms over her chest. She hated the smug grin that pulled at one corner of her roommate’s mouth. That amount of arrogance wasn’t attractive on anyone—except, maybe, for Langdon. With the population of the world blown to hell, he practically had it trademarked.

It had been too late to hide the coat.

Well, now I’m completely fucked.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “No.”

“Well, you do.”

She was positive her fellow Gray had seen the coat before she tried to tuck it back between her uniforms and sparse personal belongings. More than enough time for her to catch the scent of something to throw into the Outpost’s rumor mill. It was the only form of cheap entertainment the Grays had to pass the time. Part of the reason why things spread so fast around here was her hawkish gaze and penchant for eavesdropping. Her interests usually involved tearing apart the Purples—and after catering to their every goddamn need, she had to admit it was cathartic—but if her roommate figured out that was Langdon’s coat…

She’d be the first casualty of the Grays. They’d rip her to fucking shreds.

…But would their jealousy be such a bad thing? She’d never been on the receiving end of anyone else’s envy. Maybe it was petty as fuck, but she had to admit that maybe it would be fun for once.

“Sounds like you and Langdon—”

She looked up sharply, eyebrows knit together. “Sounds like it’s none of your business.”

“You don’t have to get defensive,” her roommate answered. But the smugness was still there, and fuck, it annoyed her. “I doubt you’re the only person who’s fantasized about Langdon since he got here. I mean, have you seen the way Gallant looks at him?”

Actually, she’d forgotten about Gallant. But her roommate had a point. Langdon liked to sow chaos, liked to play with people’s minds. She had proof of that now. What would stop him from fucking with all of them? Was she just another pawn to him, a complete dumbass charmed by a pretty face and the allure of doing whatever the hell she wanted without consequence?

How could she trust any interest he’d shown in her as genuine?

“Whatever,” she replied. “It was just a dream.”

An omen or a prophecy? Hell if she knew.

“Oh, I don’t think it was just anything,” her roommate persisted. “Care to share? Come on, I thought you would’ve been dying to spill the details—”

She scowled. Yeah, like your bloody corpse thrown in a pile of bodies.

“I’m really not.”

The creak of the door’s hinges saved her from her roommate’s interrogation. Neither of them had heard the tap of Venable’s cane until she appeared at the threshold of their shared room. She wore a frown as severe as her hair, the cloud of perpetual disappointment following in her wake along with a sense of impending doom. Her mere presence could suck the life out of anything that was still breathing around her. She’d met a lot of uptight authority figures in her life, had a couple sets of foster parents who were stricter than the nuns at the Catholic school she’d once attended. Somehow, Venable put every single one of them to shame in their eighteen months together.

“Ladies.” Venable’s tone was even but firm, carrying a hint of exasperation. “Have I not been clear about the schedule? I’m sorry you don’t have the luxury of late mornings, but that’s not how things run around here.” Venable’s dark gaze fixed on her, and it felt like the woman had slapped her across the face. She caught herself before she rolled her eyes. Mornings, as a concept, were a thing of the past, another lifetime entirely. “You were warned about this, were you not? If I have to tell you again, there will be harsher consequences.”

That was Venable Speak for I’ll throw your ass out of here faster than you can blink. She would be left to the radiation poisoning if the desperate cannibals didn’t get to her first. She’d thought about it a lot while doing her chores, all the ways it could happen, while counting the minutes until curfew. She often debated which was worse, weighed her options. Of all the shit she’d been through in her life, nothing had made her feel more pathetic and hopeless than this. Venable had been lecturing her with the same warning for about two months, if she’d counted right. She suspected they couldn’t spare any more Grays or her own corpse would’ve been rotting in the wasteland outside by now.

She held her tongue, even though it nearly killed her. This was about survival, after all. “Yes, ma’am.”

***

Doing laundry for the Purples was the most thankless, mind-numbing job on this ruined planet, so of course the second she’d been put on Venable’s shitlist, it was the task she’d been assigned. It wasn’t that she hated being invisible, because she had been used to that before the bombs dropped. The Purples, as a specific tax bracket that could actually afford survival, were extremely high maintenance. And the fact that life as everyone knew it had ended did not change that. Venable’s weird ass Victorian Gothic aesthetic seemed to make it worse. Somehow, she never thought surviving the apocalypse would involve a future—or lack thereof—washing rich people’s dirty clothes.

But, survival was survival. She was lucky to be here, even if people like Venable and Mead made her constantly question her worth. If she was such a goddamn nobody, then why would she ever catch the interest of the Antichrist himself?

Her thoughts were traitorous bastards. Every time her mind wandered off throughout her monotonous work day, she always found herself thinking of Langdon. Whatever she’d felt when he gave her that knife and asked her to wound him—and the power she’d had, even though it had been fleeting, when she thought she’d mortally stabbed him. The intensity of his gaze, the preternatural heat of his body. She actually fucking missed that pretentious asshole, which was wild and ridiculous and maybe a little bit pathetic.

She was the only one in this miserable place who knew his secret. That had to be worth something.

After she dropped off the last of the clean towels in Coco’s room, narrowly avoiding some kind of argument between her and the Gray, Mallory, who was attached to her hip, she slipped away to Langdon’s suite. She told herself it was because of the bloodstained towels she’d left all over his bathroom floor last night. Anything else would’ve been pitiful.

When a knock on the door didn’t elicit any kind of response, she found it unlocked.

“Langdon?”

The door shut with a soft click behind her once she’d slipped inside. She didn’t have his coat with her—she’d have to return it after curfew, the only time that was relatively safe—so it was pointless to be here without him. The bathroom door was open this time, the room empty. Nothing but the flicker of candlelight, splashing like gold on the walls. Unlike a lot of the Purple suites, this one was kept tidy, the bed made as if it hadn’t even been slept in. Like she’d noticed last night, there were no personal touches to the room except for the laptop on the desk, which wasn’t even there anymore.

The room was so much colder without him in it.

She ached to know more about him. Any sort of hint about who he was outside this place before the world fell apart. Before he made it this way. What kind of life led to bringing about the apocalypse? She wondered if he had a family. A spouse. Parents. Her only frame of reference for the Antichrist was The Omen, and she doubted that was any help whatsoever in this situation.

Her life was so fucking bizarre.

“All right, Langdon,” she said to the vacant room. “Let’s see…”

Her fingers trailed across the top of the desk. Sitting in the chair, she pulled open the drawers, only to find every single one of them empty. No Cooperative files like she’d seen in Venable’s office. No letters. Not even a worn photograph of his family. She lingered there a moment longer, drumming her fingers on the glossy wood, wondering if Langdon would know she’d been in here without him. Maybe he would; he seemed to have eyes everywhere, an eerie omniscience. A satisfied grin tugged at the corner of her lips, knowing he was probably somewhere in the Outpost conducting interviews while she had the run of his private suite.

A soft gasp broke the quiet when she pulled the armoire open and discovered it overflowing with his clothes. “You are a fancy bastard.”

It was mostly a sea of endless black, a few pieces of dark or bright red lost in between. Her fingers skirted over silk and satin and velvet, neatly pressed pants, waistcoats, and jackets kept in impeccable order. A row of dress shoes and ankle length boots sat on the bottom shelf, all of them polished. The scent of him, dark and cloying, drifted into her senses the longer she stayed there snooping through his personal wardrobe.

And the absence of him was downright maddening.

She could almost imagine him here with her, silent as a phantom. Keeping watch.

A small drawer held his silk cravats, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. Next to the tangle of expensive silk sat a crystal bottle, the cap gilded with a decorative flourish and a serpent winding around it. She took it out, eyebrow inching upward. Two tiny rubies flashed in the candlelight, the serpent’s intense, angry gaze fixed in the middle distance. It was nothing more than a cologne bottle, except it happened to be so vague and yet so elegant that she wondered where the hell it had come from. Whatever scent it held turned amber in the light.

“Pretentious,” she muttered. “Hedonistic. I can’t say I’m surprised…but if I had access to anything I could ever want, I’d flaunt it, too. Being Satan’s son must have its perks.”

Once she uncapped the bottle, the scent hit her immediately. Rich and warm and earthy with a hint of bergamot and citrus. There were some darker notes hidden in there, some things she couldn’t place. Alluring. Decadent. She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, letting it fill up her senses as if Langdon had been hovering right behind her, knuckles grazing the back of her neck, his chest flush against her spine. She was lucky the room wasn’t occupied because the sound that it provoked was probably the definition of unholy.

She sprayed it on her wrists and the hollow of her throat, the scent blossoming on her skin, following her even when she left the bottle where she’d found it. With the armoire shut, she went to the dresser. The top drawer had an orderly pile of black dress shirts; to her shock—because she thought he would’ve burned them along with the bloodied towels that had gone missing—she saw his ruined shirt tucked into the corner. The only thing in this room that wasn’t perfectly arranged. She pushed the drawer closed once she wrenched it out of its hiding spot.

It took her a minute to find the tear in the shirt, the place where the blade of his knife had pierced him. But it was still there, the only reminder that it hadn’t been some feverish nightmare. Her fingers worried at the ripped fabric, stumbling over where she could feel the dried blood. She stared at it for a long time, remembering how odd it had felt when the blade sunk into him, how easily she could do it again. There was the absence of him, but the absence of that power, too; she felt it fading and wondered if she’d ever be able to summon it again.

Maybe she was better off being a nobody. A shitty worker ant under Venable’s shoe.

“Sorry, Langdon.” She rolled up the shirt and shoved it into the pocket of her apron. “Old habits and all that. Though, I don’t think you’ll be missing this much.”

The door closed softly again behind her, and she stayed for just a moment more, her forehead resting against it as the scent of him drifted into the hallway with her. When she spun around, she caught the edge of a shadow darting around the corner. Her heart leapt straight into her throat, thinking it was Langdon. But it was so much worse than that.

Her roommate locked eyes with her from across the hallway, the two of them separated by the wide expanse of one of the main staircases. The Gray had captured her gaze long enough for her to know that this time, she was completely and utterly fucked. There were no lies to tell now, no excuses to explain this away. Her fellow Gray didn’t say anything, just lifted her chin in a sort of childish, condescending manner before she disappeared down the stairs.

Shit.

***

She awoke sometime past curfew, a feeling weaseling into her subconscious to wrench her out of a dreamless sleep. It felt more like a warning than her internal alarm clock, now set to the formless passage of time down here. Wrestling her way out of the fatigue that threatened to drag her back into the blissful dark, she sat up and blinked against whatever still blurred her vision.

Her roommate was awake. Wide awake. The doors to her own wardrobe had been thrown open, her fellow Gray, dressed in one of those horrible vintage nightgowns, stood there rifling through her personal shit. She’d found what she was looking for, though, because Langdon’s coat was in her hands and she recognized the pool of black fabric at her roommate’s bare feet as the shirt she’d stolen from his room earlier. Now she knew why her roommate had been asleep already when she went to bed, why her gossipy ass hadn’t said a word about what she’d seen. The Gray had been waiting instead. Biding her time for the right opportunity.

She swung her legs over the side of her cot. The floor was chilly under her toes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The Gray’s smile was slow and rather triumphant. “I should be asking you that. Is this Langdon’s coat? How did you get this?” She took a few steps forward, trampling over the shirt she’d left on the floor. It made her irrationally angry, the way she kicked it to the side.

“I think he would say that’s classified.” She couldn’t help the smart comeback, despite the anger in her blood. “Why are you going through my shit? Who gave you the right?”

Her roommate’s grin dissolved into a deep frown. “I saw you,” she accused. “In Langdon’s room earlier. And I saw you hiding this.”

“I know you did.” Without thinking about it, her hand slid beneath her pillow, fingers curling around the handle of Langdon’s knife. “Now put that back where you found it.”

The Gray’s eyes narrowed. “So, what’s the story between you and him, then?” Her roommate threw the coat at her chest and she caught it with one hand, letting it drape across the cot where her blanket had been left in a tangle. “The secret visits, his clothes in our room—Mead said you were a thief. For the record, I never believed her.”

Well, maybe you should have.

“He asked me to do his laundry.”

“Right.” Her roommate scoffed. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Not really.” Her fist tightened around the knife.

“Are you fucking him?” the Gray asked. “Is that what this little arrangement is about? You give him everything he wants, and he’ll let you into the Sanctuary?”

“If I was,” she slipped the knife out from under her pillow, the blade flashing silver, “would that make you jealous?”

The Gray let out a trembling breath. “What are you doing?” She stumbled back a few steps, her eyes horrifyingly wide as she rose off her cot.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She advanced on her roommate, the knife clutched in her fist. The Gray wilted into a corner, a frightened whimper springing free from her throat. She wanted another taste of that power so badly, wanted the feeling of chasing after the chaos Langdon had unleashed inside her. It disappointed her a little that the Gray didn’t fight back, didn’t so much as scratch her or make a desperate grab for the blade. Once her roommate sunk into the wall, recoiling, silent tears dripping down her face, she leaned over the Gray with one hand splayed above her head.

“Would you be jealous,” she asked again, “if he wanted me?”

“Stop,” the Gray yelled. “I’ll tell Venable what you’ve been doing. And she’ll tell Mead, and they’ll throw you out and shoot you—”

It was quick. Not a second thought spared, just a swift, violent motion and the blade of the knife disappeared into the soft flesh of her roommate’s upper torso, slipping between her ribs. The Gray went slack with terrified shock, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights, one last pained whimper left to give. Another violent tug and the blade sliced upwards, a rush of blood spurting down the Gray’s white nightgown. Scarlet dribbled from her roommate’s chin, and she felt the splatter of her choking cough hit the side of her face. The Gray’s blood was warm, running down between them, her own nightgown stained from the aftermath. She pulled the blade out and watched the Gray crumple to the floor, the pool of blood growing bigger and darker around them. It was sticky and familiar between her toes.

She was panting heavily from the adrenaline, her exhales shaky. She dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “Shit.”

The blade had turned red, the air in the room tinged with the familiar scent of iron. She lowered into a crouch, eyes fixed on the Gray’s still body. Her sightless eyes. Rising to her full height, she gathered up Michael’s shirt from the heap on the floor and stowed it away in her wardrobe. She’d still have to return the coat to him, once she figured out how to deal with this mess. On the bright side, maybe he’d let her borrow his shower again.

The fire in the hearth behind her flickered wildly and then almost extinguished as if it had been smothered by a strong wind. The change in the air around her was immediate; the sharp rise temperature caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up, a bead of sweat to trickle down the side of her face. She heard herself exhale, but it was more than that—the tension in her muscles dissipated, and she could take a deep breath. The ache lessened.

When she turned around, Langdon had his arms folded calmly behind his back, dark amusement on his lips. He cut a tall, lithe figure in tailored pants and a waistcoat, and the casual way he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt caught her off guard.

“This is becoming a habit between us.”

She listened to the measured cadence of his footsteps. He moved past her to have a look at the body growing cold at her feet, his arm brushing against hers, his skin searing hot through the sleeve of her nightgown. Hearing the low rumble of his voice again made her stomach do another embarrassing somersault. His head turned toward her again, icy gaze drifting to the knife still clutched in her hand.

“You stole my knife.”

She threw him a pointed look. “Bullshit, Langdon. You let me take it.”

The slight rise of his chin, the mischievous, barely perceptible tilt of his head told her that she’d been right.

“I knew the temptation would be too much.” Langdon stepped closer, all languid elegance, that arrogant grin overtaking his face. “I knew the moment you turned the blade on me you wouldn’t be able to let it go.” His fingers closed around hers, wrapped around the hilt of the knife and smeared the blood. When she tried to let go and push the knife into his hand, he held tight to her fingers, his thumb tracing her knuckles.

“No,” he whispered, nudging her forehead with his, so close that the warmth she’d missed seeped through the thin fabric of her bloodstained nightgown. “I think you’ve earned the right to keep it.”

The knife slipped from her fingers and buried itself into the floorboards. Langdon hadn’t let go of her hand; instead, he brought it between them like he had last night, except now the blood was still warm and new on her skin. She watched, her breath catching a little in her throat, as he flipped her hand over to inspect the inside of her wrist. The pad of his thumb was soft, curious, as it followed the veins there. He ducked his head, nose skirting the delicate bone where the blood started to congeal. A flutter of his long eyelashes, the sharp intake of his breath told her that Langdon had discovered the remnants of his cologne on her.

He didn’t say anything, just pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. The touch was gentle, so fleeting that she could’ve imagined it. But it was enough to ignite the fire in her veins, enough to make the room spin just a little. She wanted to reach out and tangle her fingers in his hair like her dream, but she stopped herself. Fucking hell.

She struggled to speak. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Her voice shook more than she would’ve liked. “How am I going to explain this? Venable’s going to notice one of us is missing and I don’t—”

“You won’t have to,” he assured, voice dropping to a whisper. When he looked up, his smirk had returned. Langdon let go of her wrist and she hated him for it. “Leave that to me.” He searched her gaze and held onto it with an intensity that made her cheeks flush. “Anyone willing to kill to protect their secrets—and mine—is worthy of my trust. Do I have yours?”

She crouched to wrench the knife from the floor. “If you clean up the mess first.”

Langdon reached out a hand, fingers curled, his rings catching the weak light from the fireplace. The blood that had been spilled on the floor started to leach back into her corpse, not a trace of it left behind except for the red she’d managed to, yet again, get all over her clothes and hands. And then the Gray’s body ignited, the flames summoned from nowhere and producing little smoke. Together, they watched the body burn until there was nothing left except a few singed floorboards.

She supposed there were perks to earning the Antichrist’s trust, too.

***

Tagging my usual list, but if you want to (or don’t want to) be tagged, just let me know!

@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @wvntersldr @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @batgirlbride @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @michaelsapostle @wroteclassicaly @monsucre @ritualmichael @queencocoakimmie @bluelancesredswords @theharvestgirloffire @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies @tiny-ruby-seeds @confettucini @xavierplympton @kaetastic @blakewaterxx @marvel-imagines-yes-please @forever1313 @anacerta @imagines-oneshots-blog @tothetardissterek @vixi3303

#michael langdon x you #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x fem!reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon fanfiction #fic: reckoning

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qfantasydragon · 5 years

Text

That Blessed Arrangment

Fair warning, this one is a bit long and a continuation of another post you can find here. I’ve also just gotten an AO3 account and have posted everything have so far (x).

Part Three

A quick miracle slipped the certificate past the clerk who otherwise might've objected to a witness signature that read "I am." Crowley tried to argue Aziraphale into keeping it and hanging it on a wall, but the angel was firm that the whole business be done properly.

"I, for one, do not want to run the risk that the whole thing fails to work because we didn't do one last step."

Crowley hissed but satisfied himself with a copy. More than once Aziraphale walked in on him holding it, staring at the signatures. The angel was never sure if it was God's or theirs that he was focusing on, but decided to leave the demon to his thoughts.

Miraculously, (Aziraphale protested that he had nothing to do with it. Crowley may have, but refused to admit to anything) both sides seemed to have missed that they had gotten married. Or at least, neither one was saying anything about it.

Crowley took hanging around the bookshop, Bentley parked haphazardly in the front. (The fact that it never received a ticket was, in fact, a demonic miracle, but neither of them thought much of it.) Plants began to take up residence in the windows and corners. The grad students who wandered in and out began to carry with them stories of a giant snake curled up in sunny spots, slithering along bookshelves, and more and more frequently, draped around the owner like a feather boa. The most famous of these stories was one in which two students were holding a conversation with the strange white-haired owner and the snake began to slide off the top of one of the shelves. Right on to the owner's shoulders. Who merely adjusted his stance to take the weight and kept talking.

Both swear they have no idea what was actually said as they watched in wide-eyed horror as the snake lazily coiled around his shoulders and gave the students an unblinking look with golden eyes before, for all intents and purposes, appearing to go to sleep. (Allegations that one of the students was attempting to flirt the owner out of a book have been furiously denied.)

Aziraphale and Crowley began to make plans to add another two floors to the store—the first would be a proper living space, with a bedroom, kitchen, and all the other rooms the average human had. The second would be a soundproofed greenhouse for Crowley to grow his plants in.

They both still caught glimpses of angels and demons out of the corner of their eyes, but as months passed and nothing happened, they both slowly relaxed. This was their normal now; easy going conversations, the gentle bickering that was a habit after six millennia, and a million new discoveries about each other now that they no longer had to pretend to be enemies. A beautiful normal.

Right up until it wasn't, of course.

The trouble started innocently enough. Anathema came by to chat and peruse the books, convincing Aziraphale to sell her one on the grounds that he had run off with The Prophecies of Agnes Nutter and returned it...toasted. As she was paying, she mentioned this nice little bakery Newt had taken her to for a date.

Apparently, it had amazing crepes.

Aziraphale barely had to turn to give Crowley his practically patented pleading look before the demon was asking if he'd like to go out tonight.

There wasn't a lot Crowley wouldn't do to make his angel smile like that. A drive of an hour to watch him eat was nothing.

So that evening they went out and got crepes, Aziraphale only slightly too dignified to bounce around excitedly as the server brought out plate after plate of thin pastries.

"Might as well make an evening of it," Crowly pointed out, so they spent the rest of the night cheerfully sampling the quality of alcohol the nearby restaurants and pubs had to offer. As the night wore down they washed up in a club where a group of drunk teens spotted their rings and cornered them into going on the floor for the couples dance, ignoring Aziraphale's protests of two left feet.

The place was slowly emptying as people trickled home, but the lights still flashed dimly and the music still played as Crowley and Aziraphale swayed gently on the floor, arms wrapped around each other. (If Anathema had been there at that moment, she would have seen two sets wings, one black, one white, wrapping around each other, shutting out the world.)

The song ended and they slowed to a stop.

"Ready to go home, my dear?" Aziraphale murmured to his husband. Crowley's arms tightened in a brief hug before releasing.

"Let's sober up first. Be silly to stop the apocalypse only to get discorporated in a crash."

Restaurants the next day wondered where the extra bottles of wine and brandy and whiskey had come from, but most of them shrugged and accepted it. A couple of the more enterprising employees decided that if the bottle were supposed to be gone, why, then it was their duty to make them gone.

It was with easy chatter about an exotic plant Crowley was considering, ah, acquiring, that they wandered back to the Bentley and worked their way down the deserted rural roads, the clock inching closer to dawn.

Something was on the road that had not been there a second earlier.

Crowley swerved wildly, sending the car into the ditch by the side of the road with the sound of cracking glass and screeching metal.

Firm hands dragged Crowley out and suddenly he was soaked with something made him tingle in a vague, unpleasant way. This what humans are talking about when they say pins and needles? he wondered blearily, ears ringing from the crash.

Aziraphale blinked and realized he was flat on his back on the road and—that was Michael staring down at him with a critical look on her face. He scrambled back and onto his feet in a rather undignified way.

"Michael! What are--"

"Holy water doesn't work. Even looking at it I still have trouble believing it." Aziraphale jerked his head around to see Sandalphon and Uriel gripping Crowley's arms as he staggered in place, disorientated. In front of him was Gabriel, sharply dressed as always, examining Crowley in the manner of a curious child studying an interesting bug.

"Aziraphale!" Gabriel glanced over at the angel with a grin that made him tense, "Didn't think we would leave you two alone forever did you?" His purple eyes caught on something, and he frowned. "What's that on your finger?"

"Looks like a wedding ring," Sandalphon provided, "Like humans get."

"I know that," Gabriel snapped, turning back, "But why--" he caught sight of Crowley's left hand.

"Well," Michael commented in the sudden silence, "I would like to say how unexpected, but it's really not."

"Do you really think," Gabriel snarled, "That the Almighty would recognize a union between a demon and an angel? How dare you profane matrimony like this!" Crowley laughed, sounding a little drunk.

"Oh, She recognized it mate. Her signature's on the paper and everything." He grinned wickedly at the archangel. "Believe me, I wasn't expecting it either."

"Gabriel," Aziraphale tried to cut in, Michael holding him back.

"That's it," the archangel bit out--

"I really don't think--"

"Holy water may not work--"

"Leave him--"

"So I guess we'll have to try other methods." Crowley's grin flickered and went out.

"Uhh. Today's not really a good day for me. Maybe next week?" Gabriel pulled a flaming sword into existence and Uriel and Sandalaphon took a step back to give him room to swing.

"First," he said tightly, "let's get rid of the body."

He swung.

There was a loud clang.

The world went perfectly, unbearably still.

To the east, the sky lightened.

It had been a long, long, time since two angelic swords crossed, but neither the earth nor the stars had ever forgotten. They were frozen, waiting to see what would happen.

Aziraphale stood in front of Crowley, his own sword blocking Gabriel's downswing, holding it effortlessly in midair. His head was bowed.

"Do you know," mused Aziraphale in a tone that Crowley didn't think he'd ever heard from the angel before, "That I gave my sword to Adam? The Adam from the Garden, I mean."

"What--" Gabriel started in an angry tone.

"He needed it, of course, just have been cast out and all, but that was only part of the reason," Aziraphale continued speaking in that soft, thoughtful voice that had everyone standing perfectly still. There was a pressure in the air, like a storm beginning to form.

"I hated the War you know. The first one. The demons had been our friends, our family, and yes they were arguing with Her, yes they were doubting. But are we not supposed to forgive? Are we not supposed to show mercy? Instead, there was blood and death and pain and then a third of us were simply gone, and the rest of us couldn't even remember their names. Their faces."

"Angelic swords," Aziraphale raised his head now, and his eyes were glowing and behind him wings were spreading and they had eyes of their own that were staring staring staring-- "Are made from the essence of the one who owns them. They are a part of our being. That part of me—that part of me that had fought, had led, had warred—I couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand the sight of it. So I took the first opportunity I had to give it away."

"Through all the centuries, through all the millennia, I couldn't have called it back to me if you asked. I didn't want it. After the first time, I never wanted to fight again." Aziraphale stepped closer to Gabriel and forced their swords higher.

There were six wings spread behind Aziraphale now, each feather with an eye that stared at one of the angels. The two set in his face where white and burning with fires that spilled over the edges like tears, but Aziraphale's face had never been so still. Around him reality was groaning as a shape, a form, an entity that was never meant to exist in this dimension churned around him.

There was a reason angel's first words were do not be afraid.

"I suppose I should congratulate you," Aziraphale breathed, "You've given me a reason to pick my sword back up. Isn't that what you wanted? For me to fight?" There was panic peeking around Gabriel's eyes, and it looked as though it was taking every inch of his power not to step back, to disengage, to run.

Dawn was breaking.

"Did you forget," Aziraphale breathed, "that I am the Principality of the Eastern Gate you fucking piece of shit?"

"I. Outrank. You."

Gabriel's own wings were out now, spread and fluffed out, a panic response as his arm trembled. At some point, their swords had switched positions so that he was blocking, trying desperately to keep Aziraphale's sword from slicing through him.

The shape that was never meant to exist in this plane of existence did the equivalent of baring its teeth and pretending it was a smile.

"Aziraphale," Crowley called from behind him. The Principality didn't turn around, but their attention shifted. Crowley's glasses had been damaged in the crash, and at some point they had fallen off. The demon was soaked, normally lively hair pressed flat against his head. Gently, he extended a hand, extended a piece of his own true nature, and pressed against his angel's back, where all the wings came out, in this dimension and in as many of the others as he could reach.

If Aziraphale was the heart of the sun rising in the east, Crowley was drifting nebulae in the emptiness of space, black holes singing the loss of all they had been.

"He's not worth it," he sighed to his spouse, "None of them are."

(Latef he would snort about it to himself. A demon counseling peace.)

Some of the tension went out of Aziraphale, and they refocused on Gabriel.

"And the Lord said to forgive seventy times seven," they told him quietly. "I have forgiven much of you Gabriel." Everyone's ears popped and suddenly it was just Aziraphale again. A little pudgy, a little short, a bookkeeper in London Soho.

But still he stared evenly at Gabriel and leaned in.

"If you ever try to interfere with us again, if you ever dare hurt him, I will rip your name from the Book of Truth myself and grind whatever remains of you after into dust. Do you understand?"

Gabriel nodded frantically, and Aziraphale disengaged with a slither of steel and a crackle-pop of fire.

Immediately Gabriel stumbled backward and there was a series of whoomphs as all the angels retreated back towards Heaven.

Aziraphale watched them go, face closed off. Crowley left him to his thoughts for a few minutes while he miracled the Bentley back onto the road and functional again. Then he meandered back, his sunrise shadow tangling with Aziraphale's.

"Ready to go home, angel?" Aziraphale blinked, long and slow and tired before nodding. Crowley gently guided him back into the car before clambering and driving off as the sun climbed into the sky.

They were silent the whole way back. A couple of times Crowley glanced worriedly over at Aziraphale who was staring quietly out the window. The sword was sheathed and leaning against his leg while he absent-mindedly traced designs on the pommel.

When they reached the bookshop Crowley parked with more care than usual. Aziraphale still seemed to be wrapped up in his own thoughts, moving slowly to get out of the car and unlock the door. The angel stood in the center of the room and looked so unbearably lost, sword clutched in one hand.

"What are you thinking?" Crowley asked softly, tilting Aziraphale's head up so that their eyes met. He hadn't put on another pair of sunglasses yet.

"I don't...I don't know." The angel forced a hand through his hair. "I'm thinking that it was nice to stretch my wings. I'm thinking that I picked up my sword and it felt good in my hands. I'm thinking that I'm horrified by how much I wanted to hurt Gabriel. I'm thinking that I would do it all again, do everything I threatened in a heartbeat if it meant...if it meant keeping you safe. I'm thinking that that should worry me, but it doesn't." Aziraphale looked back up at Crowley, and he looked so helpless that Crowley reached out and hugged him hard, chin resting on the top of his angel's head.

"Don't be horrified angel. You defended us. All the other angels—they're meant to be soldiers. Meant to start fights and end them. Meant for war. You though—well you said it. You're the guardian of the eastern gate. You're meant to defend what's already there, to protect new beginnings and fresh starts. That's what we are, isn't it? A new beginning."

"Besides, did you see the look on that wanker's face? I'm going to treasure that memory for the next century at least."

Aziraphale choked out a laugh against Crowley's chest and the demon smiled as the last of the angel's tension melted away.

"Thank you, my dear," he smiled as he stepped back. "You think that will keep them away for good?" Crowley snorted.

"Well we proved your marriage idea worked—I'm officially immune to holy water, and I'd guess the same goes for you and hellfire. So they're not sure how to kill us, and I'm pretty sure you scared them enough that they're not going to keep trying."

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Aziraphale seemed to be regaining his normal good cheer, even if there were still bags under his eyes.

"C'mon angel. Let's get you some sleep."

"But the bookshop..."

"I'll run it for you." His angel didn't like selling books, Crowley knew, but he also understood that right now Aziraphale wanted the anchor of his faux humanity, wanted to worry about mundane things like who would take care of his shop while he was resting. The angel gave him a grateful smile.

"That is very much appreciated, dear." Aziraphale turned to go off into the back rooms where he kept a bed when Crowley stopped him.

"Oh and angel?" Aziraphale looked back. Crowley grinned, wicked and delighted, "'Fucking piece of shit?’ Didn't know you had it in you." The angel blushed and stuttered.

"Well it seemed appropriate at the time--" Crowley laughed, open and free as the city woke up around them and sunlight poured like a blessing through the windows.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale swearing #aziraphale fighting #that blessed arrangment #aziraphale #aziracrow #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #archangels #principalities #post-apocalypse

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