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targaryen-dynasty · 3 months

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THE DEVIL'S ADVOCATE.

Antichrist!Aemond Targaryen x female Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; dub con, p in v, fingering (with gloves 😮‍💨), dacryphilia, choking, degrading, unprotected sex, power imbalance, female reader

WORDS: 4.7 K

NOTES: Yes, this is based on American Horror Story Apocalypse. Michael Langdon is just so *phew* that I had to adapt it to Aemond. This is so self indulgent, I'm not even sorry. @kaelabear you're getting the special taglist. @arcielee thank you for beta reading this! <3

You have lost track of how many days, months, or even years have passed since your arrival in Outpost 3, and gods, you’d give it all right away to be back in one of the holding cells the government had put you in around the time the bombs rained down over King’s Landing.

Even though you received the status as a purple upon your arrival, therefore placing you to the upper-class elites specifically selected for survival, you couldn’t be worse off. At least there you’ve been allowed to do your own thing – as far as the confines allowed you to.

The nutritional cubes they serve you are rationed, with Ms. Misery announcing they’ll have to ration them even further in the next days, and on top of being hungry and bored, you haven’t had a good fuck in quite the while.

Sexual contact, or any kind of copulation, is strictly forbidden, and you’ve witnessed firsthand what it means to break Miserys’ rules – not that you’d make any moves on the other residents occupying the former exclusive boys school anyways.

It’s only been you and your hand, sometimes even your pillow, from the very beginning on until now, and truth be told? You’re sick of it.

At some point you’ve stopped getting yourself off, only because your body longed for physical contact, for someone else’s body on your own.

And what certainly doesn’t help with your misery is the mysterious man that arrived just a few days ago.

When he introduced himself as Targaryen, you knew his arrival was something that came partnered with power. As much as you would have liked to focus on his speech to campaign himself, you found it was far too difficult to care about humanity being on the brink of failure when the man telling you about it was so, so damn easy on the eyes.

Just the sight of his sharp features, regardless of a part of them being concealed by a black eyepatch, has been enough to make your mouth water. And when your eyes traveled lower, taking in the way his black slacks all but hugged his toned thighs, all was lost for you.

You’ve been grateful that Laenor pounced on him to be interviewed first, wanting to see if he'd be worthy enough to be relocated to the so-called sanctuary, because you certainly would have jumped Targaryens’ bones right then and there.

His alluring aura, the dominance radiating off of him – it all are factors that drive your aching body to insanity. and the nights that followed you found your relief more than once with the image of him flashing right before your eyes.

Some time has passed in which you’ve barely seen him around, only hearing of him through the stories of the other residents that have been interviewed by him; now it’s your turn to warm the large chair standing in front of the imposing Mahogany desk.

It’s the door behind you sliding open that lets your heart drop into the pit of your stomach, and you fidget with your fingers to stop yourself from turning around. You don’t want to be caught staring in the first few seconds already.

You hear your name fall past his lips so smoothly it sends a shiver down your spine. You give in to the temptation and watch him step inside with an air of mellow gratification, prowling around the desk until he eventually sits down in the empty seat across from you.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” he purrs, a glint of mischief dancing in his eye.

There comes no reply from you, instead you continue to fumble with your fingers, looking at what you assume to be your file splayed out on the desk in front of him.

It’s the dismissive hum that rumbles in his chest that finally piques your interest, and when your gaze settles on him again, you spot him touch his chin thoughtfully as his eye skimps over the pages, seeming as if he’s reading it for the first time.

The red gloves he wears stand in stark contrast to the otherwise colorless rest of his outfit, your gaze drawn to them like a moth to a flame. He has worn them upon his arrival already; the smooth leather shining in the dim light of the candles makes your mind wander to more indecent things.

He tilts his head up again to meet your gaze, his smooth and calming voice ringing out. “Your genetic profile would appear to be favorable, so you can say that this interview is solely conducted as a… precaution.” Though it’s meant to be reassuring, the deliberate pause he makes doesn’t seem convincing.

His words make you frown. “What for?” you ask, and you curse yourself for how blunt and bold your voice sounds. “Aren’t you in need of relocating the last few people that pass on good genes, now that this is the last outpost standing?”

The genuine laugh he offers you prompts you to lean back in your seat, juxtaposing the way he leans forwards in his. Something in the arrogance that radiates off of him, and the smug smirk he has on his lips, feeds your irritation.

“Doesn’t seem like you can afford to be picky,” you snap back at him.

He licks his lips, and although it’s not longer than a second, your mind immediately drifts off to think about how it would feel between your legs, how he would feel between them. You try to be subtle as you shift in your seat, barely moving enough to soothe the aching that blooms at the apex of them.

“We’re making the selections as carefully as possible,” he counters. The paper of your file is pinched between his index and thumb, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers. “We need to ensure the survival of humanity, and I’m sure you understand that we have to look for a certain level of ambition in the people we choose.”

Even though his explanation is vague, and doesn’t make much sense to you, it is strangely appealing. The word ambition is such a broad term that could mean anything from career-minded to cutthroat, yet you still have to figure out exactly what he means.

The tension grows thicker and thicker with each passing second of silence, and you feel a warm sensation spreading inside of you from his intense gaze – which is perhaps also due to the hint of desire that gleams in his eye as he regards you.

You try your best to ignore the way your heart races, wanting to diminish the warmth inside of you. But to no avail.

When he rises from his seat, your heart drops into your stomach again, and your eyes grow wide with curiosity and intrigue.

It’s a brief flicker of your eyes down his body that has you squeezing your thighs together, far too distracted by how tall he is than to notice the smug smirk that tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Would you say that you’ve… settled here?” he asks, his voice carrying a hint of something you find difficult to decipher.

He slowly stalks around the desk, the tips of his leather-clad fingers smoothly gliding over the dark wood. His eye lingers on your face, taking you in and assessing your reaction. His expression holds the same edge of darkness his voice does, though he isn’t hiding it as effectively as he thinks he is this time.

Your eyes never leave his frame when he comes to stand next to you, leaning back against the desk. He’s gripping the edge of it, and even in the dim light of the candles, you notice that it’s rather tightly, almost as if he’s suppressing the urge to touch you.

“Well, I suppose I’ve managed to adjust,” you reply.

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. He just stares at you with this cold precision – until you catch his eye flitting lower, trailing over your form.

The purple gown you wear isn’t revealing at all, not that Ms. Misery would allow you to wear anything of that sort anyways. The neckline is squared with raised yet off-the-shoulder structured shoulders that leave little to the imagination – but only if you’ve been touch deprived for long enough.

And, judging by the way his jaw clenches as his eye meets yours again, you can tell it’s also been a while for him.

The thought of it makes your blood run hot, the warmth now spreading to your cheeks. Your gaze falls to your lap, watching your fingers fumble with each other while you feel his bore into your frame.

There’s a hum rumbling in his chest once again, but this time it sounds more like a purr, as if he finds satisfaction in your nervousness. “Are you normally this flustered in front of men… or is it just me?”

A sudden rush of excitement and embarrassment floods your veins as your mind processes his words; your head snaps back up to look at him, and you’re greeted by a teasing grin.

“I’m not flustered,” you reply, your voice only wavering slightly, yet you know that it’s clear to him that you’re not being very honest. He’s well aware of the effect he’s having on you.

He tsks, a dangerous glint in his eye. “I mean, I can see you,” he says, gesturing to you with his hand. “You’re licking your lips, you can’t meet my eyes for more than a few seconds, your cheeks are flushed – it’s clear your body yearns to be touched…” he trails off, smirking to himself as he briefly glances to the ground. “... by me.”

His statement catches you off-guard. A quick exhale from your nose leaves you feeling winded with the sensations of butterflies wreaking havoc within your body.

The silence between you lingers, heavy and thick as you ponder over his words, and you decide to go all in. You glance at him sideways, before speaking. “Is that so?”

His eye darkens at your coy demeanor, and with the corners of his quirking up into a sly smirk, he reveals just a glimpse of the devil that lurks beneath the angelic exterior. “Oh, it is,” he replies with a mocking tone. “I know you’re getting off to the thoughts of me at night, sweet thing. And even right now, you’re dripping for me. It’s almost pathetic.”

He almost seems relieved as he finally reaches to trace a gentle line over your exposed shoulder, starting at the crook of your neck. His light touch and the coldness of his gloves cause you to shiver involuntarily, and makes your breathing heavy.

As if he’s searching for something within yours, his eye narrows, and your mind races with the possibility of what such a look might signify.

“Look at you,” he purrs, licking his pouty lips. “You’re sitting here, just waiting for me to take things a step further – all the while I could smell that sweet pussy of yours ever since I’ve stepped into the room.”

Your mouth goes dry at his words, making it difficult to swallow, and you feel yourself clench around nothing; the urge to squirm in your seat is nearly overwhelming.

“That sweet scent of yours…” he trails off. Mesmerized by his words and confidence, you almost flinch when he pushes himself off the desk, slowly kneeling down to be on a level with you, hovering close to you like a predator pretending to pounce.

Your breath is heavy, and with your body still facing the desk, you’re forced to turn your head to the side to meet his gaze. There are mere inches between your faces now, and you feel his minty breath fan over your lips, swollen from how often you've licked them at this point.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, and heat follows where the cold leather of his gloves ghosted over your skin. “So desperate to be touched… to be filled,” he hums. While embarrassment blossoms inside of you, there’s no amusement laced within his silky voice. It’s as if he’s just stating facts. “Or am I mistaken?” Your name topples past his lips with so much ease, it makes you imagine how it would sound moaned by him.

Your head begins to swim. His scent, his domineering aura, the warmth emanating off of him – it’s all too much and not enough.

Meekly shaking your head, the ‘no’ you reply comes out not louder than a whisper.

He takes in a quick breath of air, relishing in his victory. The way you submit to him, to his power and dominance, feeds something within him; a hunger that’s been growing more and more demanding from the moment he stepped into the room with you.

“Good girl,” he purrs, slowly rising to his full height, stretching his fingers as he keeps his eye locked on you. A flush spreads over your cheeks at his praise, the subconscious urge to make him proud sending a shiver of excitement through your veins, feeding right into your desire to please him.

He’s standing again, letting his eye drift over your sitting frame for a moment too long, trailing down your neck, over the curves of your breasts, and settling in your lap. A gloved hand comes forward to pinch the skirts of your gown between his fingers, an almost disgusted look on his features.

“Take it off.”

“W-What?”

“W-w-what?” he mocks, the scoff he releases filling you with shame. “Take it off,” he repeats. “Or else I will take it off of you, and that won’t be any more pleasant.”

The thought of him undressing you seems tempting. A small part of you wants to protest, to say something along the lines of ‘you can’t just demand something like this’ but the other part craves this. It feels as if it’s quintessential for your body to survive, not able to go one day longer without being touched at all.

Rising to your feet, you smooth out the skirts of your dress before craning your neck to look up at him. He’s towering over you, hardly stepping back far enough to create any space for you to undress.

Having always been a bit of a pain to put on, getting out of the dress was even worse. The tight fit and squared neckline leaves you with very limited mobility, meaning you’re always relying on a servant to help you get out of it. And facing these difficulties, the thought of removing it all by yourself, especially in front of him, seems almost sacrilegious.

A thought pops into your mind, and your body is quick enough to get through with it before you can even think about it properly.

“Care to help me?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him. Before he can refuse, you brush your hair over one shoulder and turn around, presenting him with your back and the tightly laced corset.

Much to your surprise, he doesn’t refuse, and you say nothing as his fingers find the lacing of your corset, gloves brushing your skin as he slowly undos the laces.

It’s a slow process, one that builds anticipation within you, and has you squeezing your thighs together yet again.

His caresses are light and careful at first, but they grow increasingly firm and forceful. Each tug and pull draws you closer to him, and only when you hear the same dismissive hum rumbling in his chest do you dare to glimpse at him from over your shoulder, seeing him staring at your back with his jaw set with a new purpose.

The fabric is still pinched between his fingers when they suddenly change course, gripping the purple fabric around the lace with a bit more force than necessary. He rips open the corset in a single, harsh motion in a clear display of his impatience, the torn fabric hitting the ground with a thud, and your gown quickly follows suit.

For a moment, you feel relief at being freed from its confines. But it’s fleeting, your skin immediately prickling as you become aware of how much of your body is exposed to him now.

It’s weird to think that this thin layer of modesty has been enough to keep your fluttering nerves at bay, and now it’s peeled away with you knowing he’s gazing at you as if he’s been served his first meal in months.

Easing your trembling legs, you hold onto the desk for support. It feels like an eternity as you crouch forward slightly to steady your uneven breathing, the moment only breaking as he advances towards you, his body leaning against yours and pressing you up against the desk. It’s the only thing keeping you upright, and the moment you feel his hot breath caress your neck, your legs feel like they are about to give in.

His thigh slips between yours, but you can’t feel his hands on your body, assuming he’s clasped them behind his back or kept them at his sides. You can tell that his chest isn’t the only firm thing that presses against your body, his cock rock hard and all but straining against your lower back, clearly finding as much pleasure in the situation as you do.

His proximity is all you’ve thought of for the past days, yet it’s not enough. You need his hands, him, to feel thoroughly satisfied. The urge to whine scratches in your throat, but you manage to swallow it at the last moment.

“Beg for me to touch you,” he drawls, voice laced with a mixture of excitement and hunger.

Exhaling a strained breath, you close your eyes. “P-Please,” you whimper, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Please… touch me. It’s been so long.”

“Hm.” You hear it loud and clear, the amusement, the satisfaction, causing your skin to heat up. “That’s all you’ve got?”

You tip your head back in frustration, meeting with his shoulder, a loud huff slipping past your lips. But you’re so close to getting what you want, there’s no way you’re giving up already.

“Please, please touch me… Mr. Targaryen.” His name is spoken with a bit of hesitation. “I-I- please, fuck, need it so, so bad. Please.” That you’re not stomping your feet on the ground like an insolent child is everything, knowing it would push your chance for relief further away.

But it seems to do the trick, because one gloved hand settles on your hip without him saying anything, while the other clasps around the outside of your thigh, his thumb brushing smooth patterns over your hot skin.

He drags his nose along the side of your face, his breath tickling your skin, and you slightly turn your head to lean into it. “Where else do you want me to touch, mh?”

Feeling him on every inch of your body has you far too aroused to be frustrated by his on-going teasing and stalling. “Right…” you pant, peeling his hand from your hip to bring it down between your legs, “... here.”

A quiet whine slips past your lips as his fingers make contact with your sensitive clit, the cold leather of his gloves against your hot skin striking you as a welcome surprise and sending a shiver down your spine. It feels foreign, but nice nevertheless.

You’ve fully anticipated him to pull back again, to leave you high and dry, but he surprises you again, when he drags his fingers through your swollen folds.

“Right here, mh?” he purrs into your ear with a husky voice.

It’s a grazing touch that alone is enough to make your mind hazy, merely humming in return.

He’s not doing more than rubbing your clit and brushing his digits through your folds, but you’re wet enough already for it to be audible. The squelching sounds coming from between your legs are embarrassing, clearly highlighting your desperation for him, and it only gets worse when he slips a finger inside of you.

Taking in a sharp breath, you hold onto the desk again. “God, fuck,” you whine.

His finger is thick enough to be accompanied with a slight burning stretch, intensifying the moment he adds another. You can’t resist the urge to grind against his hand, the base of it applying just enough pressure to your clit to numb any discomfort.

“You like that, mh?” he rasps. “So fucking wet and desperate for my fingers, dripping all over my glove.”

A string of whiny yesses leaves your lips as the pace of his fingers increases, making it incredibly difficult for your hips to maintain the rhythm.

Heavy breaths and pants fan over your flushed skin, spurring you on and bringing you closer to the sweet relief you’ve craved for so long. He seems to sense your impending orgasm, and works you just a moment longer, before he withdraws his fingers from you, making sure the loss would make it even worse.

But there’s no time to whine.

“Look at the mess you’ve made,” he teases, acting as if he’s completely oblivious to the torture he puts you through, and brings his gloved hand up to your face.

The red leather is covered in your arousal, sticky and glistening even in the dim light. As he spreads the two fingers, a few strings of it connect the leather, and you bite your bottom lip, knowing all too well what might follow.

“Open your mouth, pet,” he commands in a stern voice. “Clean up your mess.”

And you comply, parting your lips and eagerly embracing him pushing them inside. Your tongue swirls around the digits, the leather tasting and feeling completely different on your tongue.

You hardly notice that his other hand has left your thigh, and even less that he’s undoing the zipper of his slacks, pulling out his hard cock. Only when you feel the pressure against your entrance do your eyes widen, and you whine around his fingers as he pushes inside.

Even though you are stretched from his digits, it can not compare to his cock.

He’s filling you to the brim in one, swift thrust, and with you being gagged by his gloved fingers, you can’t do more than mewl and moan. “Fuck, tight cunt taking my cock, hm? That’s it, such a good, little pet.”

Not giving you the chance to adjust to his size, he sets up a reckless pace from the very start, his impatience running thin with the way your tightness embraces him. He fucks you as if it’s a one time thing, as if you won’t make the cut, but something inside of you tells you this is merely the beginning.

Saliva trickles down your chin as his cock drives deeper and deeper, forcing moan after moan past your lips and his gloved fingers. It’s the sounds of skin slapping against skin, his strained grunts and your muffled whines filling the room, and if Ms. Misery were to find out, you would be tortured or killed even before the next day arrived.

Maybe it’s the risk of being caught that drives him to his next step, but he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, gloved hand coming down to rest around your throat instead. He applies just a bit of pressure, merely meaning to hold you upright and steady to make it easier for him to use you to his liking.

You scramble for hold, sweaty palms planted flatly on the wooden surface in front of you, supporting yourself as the man behind you all but fucked every coherent thought out of your brain.

“Look at you,” he grunts, pounding into your needy cunt. The tip of his cock brushes your sweet spot, pushing high enough to knock the air out of your lungs and make you lose yourself. “All you’ve been thinking about was my cock. So desperate to be fucked by me, huh?”

You are so full with him, his scent, his warmth, everything, that breathy whines and yesses are the only things slipping past your lips.

He drags his nose along the side of your face, clearly relishing in the way he’s fucked you dumb with so little effort already, and you almost feel yourself come on spot the moment he presses his lips to your earlobe.

Pushing his hips all the way into yours, he stills them for a moment, bringing up a gloved hand to spit on his fingers and before dragging them harshly over your sensitive clit, and putting you straight into a frenzy.

The tears that were brimming in your eyes now spill and run down your flushed cheeks, hitting the desk he has you hunched over.

“No need to cry, pet,” the man behind you drawls, a satisfaction weaved in his husky voice. “You wanted this, didn't you? Wanted my cock to fuck you stupid? Or do you want me to stop?”

Your blank mind barely processes his words, but just hearing the word stop has you finding your voice again. “N-no,” you whine, arching your back and pressing your ass back against him. “Don’t-don’t stop, Sir. ‘M so, so close.”

“Close, mh? Then fucking come for me.”

With his hand now applying a good bit of pressure to your throat and his fingers strumming your clit in a reckless pattern, you feel yourself getting lightheaded as your release hits you suddenly.

His strained groans are hushed against your neck as you spasm around him, sucking him in hungrily. He works you through it, fucking you as you quiver and shake. Grinding against him, you ride your high out in rhythm with his thrusts, gasping each time his cock pistones inside of you.

His hips falter slightly for a moment, caught off guard by how tightly your walls are squeezing him, but he regains his composure and sets up a brutal pace again. You’re swollen and raw by now, but he doesn't stop.

“That’s it, fuck, I’m gonna get this pathetic cunt stuffed with my cum,” he grunts, pulling his hand from your clit to plant it on your hip.

Each rut of his hips makes your eyes journey to the ceiling, the tears on your cheeks now dry. There are hiccuped breaths spilling from your mouth, and you can’t do more than to hold onto the desk, bracing yourself for his relentless pounding.

With a stutter of his hips and a raspy groan escaping his throat, his cock eventually spills deep inside of you, coating your walls. He fucks it into you with deliberately slow thrusts, the last spurts of his warm release filling you to the brim.

A strained groan is audible as he pulls out, tucking himself back in his slacks, and assumes the cold demeanor he’s had before. The only courtesy he grants you is picking up your dress and underwear he’s torn off you before, holding it out for you to take.

You get the cue, and dress yourself on trembling legs. The blonde watches curiously, leaning back against the desk again. The red gloves now lay on the desk, and you catch a glimpse of his long, ring-clad fingers.

With flushed cheeks, you briefly look at the ground before presenting him your back again. “Do you mind?”

He nods and steps towards you, silently lacing up your corset, and whenever his skin brushes yours, a shiver runs down your spine. His skin is soft, smooth even, and the warmth emanating from them is far more pleasant than the cold leather.

But the moment is fleeting as he quickly moves to sit down behind his desk again, a new file already pinched between his fingers. You smoothen out the skirt of your dress, merely bowing your head once, and make a beeline for the door.

It’s his voice ringing out that stops you in your tracks, though you don’t dare to turn around.

“I expect you to come back for your second interview tomorrow. See it as an opportunity for me to gauge whether or not you truly have the right… ambition.”

“Thank you, Mr. Targaryen,” you mumble in return, a strange sense of satisfaction and anticipation already coursing through your veins.

Hearing your name once again, you turn your head to look at him. “There’s no need to be formal when it’s just us. You can call me Aemond.”

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queen-of-deans-booty · 2 months

Text

Raging Storm

Pairing: Dean Winchester x 18!Fem!Reader

Word Count: ~1.8k

Warnings: angst, being bullied, harsh insults, being called freak and worthless, someone wanting you to kill yourself, heartbreak

Request by anon: Hey can i request a one shot where the Winchester brothers and Castiel find out that before Michael and Lucifer go to hell they pregnant a woman that died giving birth to the reader (yn) that is the most powerful being in the existence and she is the first hybrid of all species, she is also the embodiment karma and the void, the princess of heaven and hell, the antichrist, Dean Winchester soulmate, the niece of angels and demons, descendant of the pagan gods and four horsemen of apocalypse, and more things and they need to find her because she is so powerful and she can destroy everything but in the end she is super innocent and shy girl???. with fluffy ending.

Summary: You've always been different than everyone else around you but you have no idea why. Things happen around you that you can't control or have no understanding of, but then Dean Winchester comes into your life promising to help make sense of it all.

Square Filled: window for @spnonewordbingo (deleted bingo)

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

This is the third week this month that the sky has been cloudy and gray. It’s fitting since it matches your mood. All you want to do is get through today and go home where you feel the safest. You hate it here. You’re about to graduate but it needs to come faster. You want to get out of this hellhole and away from these hellish people.

You look up and see your school in the distance with people shuffling into the building. God, I hate everyone here. You’re not even sure how it started but you walked into school one day and everyone hated you. The internet talks about bullying and how much it can ruin a person’s life, but you never knew it could get this bad.

You’re not sure why you’re getting bullied. Sure, you’re very timid and shy but you’re one of the nicest people there is. You’re sweet and friendly to everyone, but that doesn’t seem to matter to some people.

You keep your head down even when you get to school, ignoring the stares you get from some people. The first class of the day is science, which you love, but there are three people in that class that make those fifty minutes feel like hell. You take your seat in the very back by the windows when one of the most popular girls in school comes in. She is followed by her two friends who are basically puppies looking for attention.

“Look girls, the neighborhood freak is here.”

Your heart hurts at her words. You’ve always been bullied by her ever since you could remember. You two attended the same elementary school, the same middle school and junior high, and now the same high school. She’s been tormenting you ever since she knew she gained power by her words.

Maybe she senses you’re a bit different than everyone else. You certainly feel that way. Why do you feel different than everyone here? What makes you not the same as everyone else? That’s the reason why you get bullied because you don’t fit in. You don’t dress weird, have a pimply face, or are into weird things. Stacy took one look at you one day and decided you were going to be her target for as long as you let her be in power.

You haven’t found it in yourself to take that from her.

“What, have nothing to say?” she smirks and looks at her friends. “I hear her Daddy hits her while at home. Her whole family is a bunch of freaks.”

That’s not true. Your father loves you dearly. She’s just looking to stir up some drama, and the only way it’ll get worse is if you antagonize her.

“I heard takes poor defenseless animals and cuts them up,” one of Stacy’s friends says.

“You hear that, Freak? Better not get caught or else I might sic Darren and his friends on you. You wouldn’t want to end up like those animals, now would you?”

You put your head down and drown out her words with the beat of your own heart. The cloudy sky hasn’t gone away, in fact, it has gotten much darker since you’ve arrived at school. Stacy and her friends sit down next to you and gossip loud enough for you to hear every word they say.

Freak. Useless. Ugly. Burden. Waste of space. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. It got so much that you let your emotions get the better of you. Tears would stream down your face if you weren't in front of a bunch of people. Your heart jumps out of your chest just as all the windows in the classroom shatter around you, causing everyone to scream and back away from it. You stay seated, unsure if you did this or if something outside had caused this.

The storm clouds roll in quicker than anyone expects, and a light rain starts falling from the sky. Some of that rain comes inside but you barely feel the water on your skin. You look around at every person who seems scared of you. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you are a useless waste of space freak.

School is shut down for the day while authorities figure out what the hell happened. The rain comes down a tad harder than before but if you can get home, you can curl up in bed and pretend the world doesn’t exist.

As you’re walking, someone bumps hard enough into you that you almost go crashing to the ground.

“What did I tell you girls? She’s a super freak. Did you see what she did to those windows? How did you do that?” Stacy asks.

“Please, I just want to go home.”

“Are you a witch? A freak and a witch. God, why don’t you just go kill yourself? The world will be better off without you in it.”

“Please, just let me go home,” you beg.

“I like it when you beg,” she smirks. “Come on, bitch, beg to me like a dog.”

You’re not sure how this happened but you thought of her getting hit by lightning and then she suddenly was. She falls back in a fit of screams while everyone else but you jump out of the way to avoid getting hit. One of her friends ends up calling 911 but you’re already running away from the scene.

The rain pours down harder and lightning strikes near you to reflect how heartbroken you are. It seems like the weather follows exactly how you feel, and right now, you just want the world to swallow you whole. You don’t bother going home in fear you’ll hurt your parents. Instead, you run to the one place you feel safe outside of your own home.

“Alright, I have storms hitting New York and New Jersey, but I don’t think it’s what we’re looking for,” Sam says as he browses his laptop.

“I got a small tornado in Louisana.”

“Anything else?” Sam asks Cas.

“No.”

“Check this out,” Dean says before the group gives up hope. He turns the laptop so that the other two men can see the page he’s on. “There is a small town in Nebraska that is having rolling blackout storms like the city has never seen before, and the windows of the local high school had been shattered without anyone or anything touching it.”

“Do you think that’s her?” Sam asks.

“Gotta be. She’d be in high school by now.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

The trio gathers everything they can before setting out to Nebraska. They’ve been tracking you ever since you were born because you’re one of the most, if not the most, powerful beings in the universe. You’re the offspring of Lucifer AND Michael when they decided to both have sex with a human woman at the same time. They manipulated their power to create one big super sperm (as Dean likes to put it) in order to create you.

You’re the Princess of Heaven and Hell, the antichrist, and the embodiment of Karma and the Void. If Dean had to guess, you don’t know just how powerful you are, and you don’t. They have to find you before you do something bad like level an entire town because you got upset over something. Your mother died by giving birth to you and your fathers went to Hell after being imprisoned in the Cage yet again.

Your foster family took you in, adopted you, and loved you with everything they got. There’s a reason why you felt so different than everyone else. You’re not human. You’re not like anyone else. You just don’t know why because you were never told what you are or taught how to be what you are.

Sam, Dean, and Castiel try to traverse the storm when they get into town. It’s gotten a lot worse and has residents fleeing from the city to seek shelter elsewhere. No one knows where this storm came from but they are preparing for the worst. The heart of the storm is where you’re at and gets lighter the further out it goes.

They track you to an abandoned farm you often go to when you want to be alone. You found this place while taking a shortcut home and made it comfortable enough for you to spend hours there. Now, you can’t find a big of comfort anywhere here.

The trio gets out of Baby and sees you outside the barn huddled on the ground. The rain is coming down in buckets but that won’t stop the Winchesters and Castiel from talking to you.

“Maybe I should go. You know, angel to half-angel,” Castiel offers.

“No, let me,” Dean says before he can stop himself. “You two stay here.”

“What? Are you crazy?!” Sam gasps.

“Sammy, I got this.” He leaves their side and approaches you slowly and carefully. You look up and see the three strange men which causes you to scoot away from them in fear. “Y/N, you’re okay!”

“Go away! I don’t know you!”

Lightning strikes the ground where Dean is, and he jumps back before he is struck. Sam wants to join his brother’s side but he knows Dean can handle this one alone. Plus, he’ll jump in if it looks like Dean is in trouble.

“Y/N, my name is Dean Winchester. I want to explain what is happening to you.”

“I don’t even know who I am!” you sob. “Go away before I hurt you!” Dean walks closer to you but you feel a sense of warmth coming from him. You can feel that he is a safe person to talk to which is why you allow him to come closer to you. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel so lost. I don’t belong here. I don’t fit in!”

“Believe me, I get it. I understand how you feel.” He kneels next to you so you can see him without the rush of rain between you two. “I know what it’s like to feel alone in a room full of people. I didn't think I belonged for a long time. Sometimes, I still feel that way.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing is wrong with you.” You fall into Dean’s arms and just cry, and he smooths down your drenched hair as a means to comfort you. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

“All I want is to be normal. I didn’t ask to be this way.”

“I know. You’re not alone, Y/N. My brother and I can help you. Castiel over there can help you. We can help you control this.” You sob into his neck uncontrollably. “You’re going to be okay.”

For some reason, you believe him, and the storm calms down just a bit both in your head and outside.

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fiction #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester fan fic #supernatural #supernatural fic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fanfic #supernatural angst #spn #spn fic #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #spn angst

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anonymousewrites · 2 months

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Adolescent Antichrist (Book 5) Chapter Five

Father Figure! Lucifer x Teen! Reader

Demon! OC x Teen! Reader

Chapter Five: I’m Still Pissed At You

Summary: The real Lucifer makes a visit.

“So you’re telling me that my dickhead twin showed up on Earth, assumed my identity, and then wreaked all sorts of havoc on my life?” said Lucifer, eyes narrowing as he recapped what Amenadiel had explained to him.

“That about covers it, yes,” said Amenadiel. “But he also ended up in a fight with (Y/N), and he’s…pretty angry that it didn’t go his way.”

“Serves him right, trying to hurt my kid,” said Lucifer, fury rising within him at the idea of (Y/N) being injured in any way, least of all by his brother who had tried to be him. Taking a deep breath, he glared at Amenadiel. “And you came down here to tell me this, why? Just to torture me? Though this is the appropriate place for it.”

He couldn’t leave Hell. As much as Lucifer wanted to fly up to Earth and hold (Y/N) and protect them from all harm, he couldn’t leave Hell without a warden. That would put (Y/N) in just as much danger.

Amenadiel coughed. “Yeah, is there somewhere else we can talk?” He glanced awkwardly at the man crying in the circus cage, some bizarre Hell-torture-tactic.

“I don’t like having private conversations in the hallways, and Kenneth doesn’t mind, do you, Kenny?” said Lucifer.

Poor Kenneth rocked back and forth. “It’s not funny. It’s not funny!”

“No,” said Lucifer. “No, it certainly isn’t.” He scowled. “My slopey-shouldered brother is pulling a prank hardly worthy of Saved by the Bell in order to humiliate me.”

“This isn’t about you, Lucy,” said Amenadiel. “Michael threatened Charlie. He threatened (Y/N).” He knew that would do it.

Lucifer froze. “I thought you said they had a fight.”

“They did,” said Amenadiel. “But I confronted him afterwards. He threatened to tell Heaven about Charlie and (Y/N) being part-Celestial so they would be taken to the Silver City.”

“Michael’s…He’s always been all bark and no bite,” said Lucifer, mostly to try to comfort himself.

“He tried to hurt (Y/N). I think we both know he’s moved beyond that,” said Amenadiel.

Persing his lips, Lucifer nodded. Amenadiel was, unfortunately, correct. Michael had stepped over a line. He had actively put (Y/N) in danger.

“Well, then, give him a good kick in the pants, too, and he’ll stop,” said Lucifer. “He always goes and sulks after that.”

“That’s not going to do it this time,” said Amenadiel. “Things have…changed up in Heaven.”

Furrowing his brow, Lucifer gazed at Amenadiel as his brother continued.

“Last time I was there, Michael had managed to seat himself at Father’s right hand,” explained Amenadiel.

“So…Dad’s talking to him?” Lucifer blinked.

“No,” said Amenadiel. “No, he’s talking to Father, but he’s the only one. Nobody else in the Silver City has a line to Him. Nobody, and Michael has seen to it.”

“Michael? Weaselly, cowardly Michael?” said Lucifer. He scoffed. “Now suddenly the power behind the throne?

“Without being able to speak to Michael, who know?” said Amenadiel. “But he is stronger than you think, Lucy. His fight against (Y/N) proved that, even if they did well. Michael’s become—” he shook his head “—untouchable in the Silver City.”

“If I didn’t want (Y/N) as far from the Silver City as power, I’d say to let them loose up there to see who’s untouchable,” said Lucifer, heart aching at the idea of getting to see (Y/N) in their chaotic moment. He cleared his throat. “But he’s not in the Silver City now, is he? So…” He squared his shoulders and made his decision. “Excuse me while I go touch him.”

Amenadiel started. “What?”

“It’s a poor choice of words, I know,” said Lucifer, heading towards the door.

“Wait, where are you going? Hell needs a warden,” said Amenadiel.

“You can hold down the fort while I’m gone,” said Lucifer.

“I don’t know how to do that,” said Amenadiel. “Lucy—”

Lucifer turned on Amenadiel and narrowed his eyes. “Michael threatened my child. I’m going up to check on the situation and them.”

Amenadiel nodded quickly. “Right. Got it.”

Lucifer left the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

The penthouse elevator doors opened, and Lucifer stepped out. He looked around at the unchanged—other than a replaced table from (Y/N)’s fight with Michael—rooms. It was still his and (Y/N)’s home. He smiled.

“Holy shit.”

Lucifer turned and saw Em. They were standing, eyes wide, in the hall leading from (Y/N) and Em’s floor.

“You—How—What—” stammered Em. She knew it wasn’t Michael, not after what (Y/N) had done to him. This was Lucifer.

“I’m here,” said Lucifer. “Amenadiel is keeping an eye on things.”

“…(Y/N)’s not…They’re pissed,” said Em.

“Well, I imagined they would be,” said Lucifer, grimacing. He was…scared to face them. (Y/N) was terrifying, and if (Y/N) didn’t forgive him…Lucifer wasn’t sure what he’d do.

“I’m going to leave until you two talk it out,” said Em, walking into the elevator. “Tell (Y/N) I’m not coming back unless they actually talk to you.”

“They won’t want to hear that,” said Lucifer, eyes widening.

“Your problem,” said Em as the doors shut.

Well, she’s spent too much time around (Y/N) and gotten their attitude, thought Lucifer. Em’s loyalty was with (Y/N) more than their King of Hell now.

Squaring his shoulders, Lucifer walked down towards (Y/N)’s room. He was scared of their anger, scared of their disappointed, but he was eager to see them again. He’d take any wrath as long as he got to see them again. (Y/N) was his kid. That was what mattered.

He knocked on the door, and it swung open.

“What is it, Em—” (Y/N)’s eyes widened, and they let go of the door handle.

“(Y/N).” Lucifer felt pure joy upon seeing (Y/N)’s face. His kid was here. He was with them. He didn’t need anything else.

“It’s…It’s actually you,” said (Y/N). He had no scar. This was really Lucifer.

He smiled, and the gentleness of his gaze made it true. “It’s me.”

“You—How?” said (Y/N).

“Amenadiel is keeping an eye on things,” said Lucifer. “I think that’ll work for a bit.”

(Y/N) stepped back. “So you’re leaving again.”

“I have to,” said Lucifer. “For you.” It broke his heart to admit it, but he spoke the truth to (Y/N). “But…I’m here now.”

“Why?” (Y/N) was filled with anger and sadness, but at Lucifer’s honesty, at his true care and affection, anguish won out, and tears collected in the corners of their eyes.

“Because Michael hurt you,” said Lucifer. “And I needed to know if you were alright.”

“I won the fight,” said (Y/N).

Lucifer stepped forward. “Yes, but are you alright?”

(Y/N) let out a small sob, and tears began to fall down their face. Instantly, Lucifer reached out and pulled them into a hug. (Y/N) wasn’t alright.

“I thought it was you,” sobbed (Y/N). “And then I thought you didn’t care that you left. You didn’t care that you abandoned me.”

“I care. I swear I care. It hurts so much when I have to be apart from you,” said Lucifer, holding them. “You’re my kid. You’re my child. I love you so much.”

(Y/N) sobbed, and their knees buckled. Lucifer caught them and guided them to the ground.

“He kept trying to be you, and it just felt so wrong, and I was so angry, but then I knew it wasn’t you, and it hurt so much more because you really were gone,” cried (Y/N), rambling.

“You’re alright. You’re alright,” soothed Lucifer, holding them tight as they cried. Anger flashed through them, but his concern for (Y/N) was his immediate focus. However, as soon as possible, he’d make sure Michael never went near (Y/N) again. He’d regret hurting them so deeply.

“I don’t want you to be gone. Please don’t leave again,” sobbed (Y/N), holding onto Lucifer.

He hugged them back, and his heart clenched. Lucifer so deeply wanted to remain by his kid’s side from now on, but he couldn’t. Hell still needed a warden.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” said Lucifer. “I swear, I’m always thinking of you.”

(Y/N) curled up in his arms. “Every day I come home and wish you were here to talk to. It’s…It’s too much. It’s all too much.”

“Please, remember, there are so many people here for you,” said Lucifer. “The Detective, Emeranne, your friends…they’re all here. Even if I’m not here, they are.”

“They’re not my dad, though,” said (Y/N) quietly, sobbing turning to hiccups.

“No,” said Lucifer. “But they love you, too. Just as much as I do.”

(Y/N) smiled slightly through their tears and sniffed. Lucifer smiled gently and wiped their tears, hugging them again.

“I love you so much. And even when I’m not here, I want you to remember that, alright?” said Lucifer.

“But you’re here for now…right?” said (Y/N) softly.

“I am,” said Lucifer, squeezing them gently.

“Okay,” said (Y/N), closing their eyes. They squeezed him back. “I’m still pissed at you, though.”

Lucifer chuckled. “I know. I wouldn’t expect anything more from you.” He had hurt them. But, hey, this was his kid. He could take a little anger.

(Y/N) smiled. The ache of loss still pulsed within them, but for now, they’d just lie there in their dad’s arms.

They’d make sure to make him grovel tomorrow.

Or not. This was nice.

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greenthena · 6 months

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Ineffable Lapels: Our Side

I've seen some stellar breakdowns and analyses of the costuming for Good Omens, and I'm personally blown away by the consideration afforded to each element of the visual production of this show. I even appreciate the anachronistic elements that Claire Anderson chose to use in the 537 A.D. Kingdom of Wessex flashback, because aesthetic was more important than historical accuracy (Oscar Wilde would support me here, I am certain.) And to be perfectly honest, 6th century European armor was not going to cut it. So much quilting.

This discussion is just a little traffic circle spin that I wanted to address with no larger point than to say how much I adore Anderson's work on this show. That's a lie. This post has actually gotten out of hand, so grab yourself six shots of espresso in a big cup and get in. We're going for a ride.

It's the smallest detail, but have you noticed the Ineffable Idiots' lapels? Crowley's lapels always point up (not the case with any other demons). Aziraphale's lapels always point down* (again, not the case with other angels). *I'll address the one divergence at the end of this post. It's kind of the whole point. It'll be worth it. Just drink your espresso and listen.

Lapels are a fantastically subtle way to express characterization when costuming an angel and a demon. Perhaps Aziraphale's lapels are an echo of his wings? Maybe Crowley's lapels symbolize devil horns? Maybe their costumes are just reaching out trying to give each other a hug. I dunno.

I'm going to start with promo shots from both seasons that show Crowley and Aziraphale's present day wardrobes. The first promo shot pictures the costumes for all of present day S1. It's perfect for demonstrating the most pronounced expression of the lapels. Consider this a baseline or something like that.

The close up of the promo for S2 (featuring nakey Gabriel and the migrating nightingales...I'm not crying, you're crying) shows pretty similar costumes to the first season. Yes, the hairstyles have subtly changed (Crowley's not so subtly, perhaps), but the lapel positioning for both characters remains consistent.

Going back in time. (Let's call this the Baby Antichrist Era, shall we?) Crowley's collar is quite a bit narrower than in the present day, but the lapels still point up. Obviously, Aziraphale is still wearing the same coat. Obviously.

I will never recover from this John Lennon bastardry. But still, check out those lapels. And the brocade is so 60's and so over the top.

And here's Michael delivering his favorite line from S1, whilst breaking Crowley's (and literally everyone else's) heart. Do take a gander at those downward-facing lapels, though, and 'scuse me while I go have a quick cry.

I'm going out of order with this next image, back to the start of the Holy Water incident. (Don't worry, we will get to 1941. It requires more attention and will have to wait its turn.) Not a whole lot I want to pull from this image other than Aziraphale's fuzzy top hat and Crowley's snake-handled cane, which I believe he's using as he recovers from his recent trip to Hell. These costume pieces have nothing to do with lapels, I just think they're neat. But the lapel pattern holds: up for the demon, down for the angel.

A few decades earlier, we see Crowley in Edinburgh just hours before being sucked into an infernal whirlpool. The lapels here are more parallel than distinctly upward-pointing, but the extravagant shoulders on this overcoat demand a balancing lapel line.

Likewise, on Aziraphale's overcoat we don't see a defined downward-pointing lapel, so much as a wide horizontal collar, but the layers of wing-like capelets create an impression of flowing down. With these two stunning overcoats from the Edinburgh flashback set, I think the unusual period elements take the place of the lapels in demonstrating the upward tilt in Crowley's ensembles, and the downward pull in Aziraphale's.

Okay, now we can discuss 1941. Because this is where the cookie crumbles. Originally, these costumes vexed me. As usual, Crowley wears his upward-pointing lapels. But Azirapalala, goddamnit, also has upward-pointing lapels to match Crowley. But am I gonna' let a little thing like this destroy my thesis? Don't shit with me when I am analyzing costumes, because this is also the night when Aziraphale realizes he's in love with Crowley (this is Sheen cannon and cannot be disputed).

Their lapels match because of Aziraphale's revelation--he finally understands what it means to be on "Our Side," because he's finally admitted to himself that he is head-over-bloody-heels in love with the wily demon. The matching lapels in 1941 is some St. John of Patmos-level stuff, I think, their matching collars revealing their synchronicity. Even if it's only for the one night, they're one the same page, heading in the same direction. I know many of us in the fandom are pretty preoccupied with the idea of a third 1941 flashback in S3 because this night seems to be the hinge in their relationship. It's the night when everything changes. It's not just Crowley swooping in to rescue his angel, as he's done in the past. They're mutually dependent on one another to make it through the night alive, well, at least to avoid discorporation (it's romantic, okay?) Crowley diverts the Luftwaffe plane; Aziraphale protects them from the blast of the bomb; Crowley saves the books; Aziraphale saves Crowley's ass from an irate Mrs. Henderson; Crowley saves Aziraphale's magic show (by literally not discorporating him on stage); and Aziraphale saves both their asses with some surprisingly successful prestidigitation when he swaps out the incriminating photo Furfur had managed to snap of the Ineffable Morons.

Crowley and Aziraphale's matching lapels in 1941 isn't a fluke or a costuming blunder. I think it's a very subtle head nod to what we all know actually happened that night: Aziraphale took a tenuous step forward in their relationship. A step 6000 years in the making. A step that, if noticed by their respective superiors, could mean the actual and eternal end to them. He couldn't shout it from the rooftops--he couldn't even speak of it directly in private (I mean he tried, but "That's what friends are for" was as painful for the viewer as it was for Crowley and Aziraphale.) He couldn't disclose through words or direct actions what he needed the demon to know, so he used what avenue he had available to him. Through the subdued symbolism of his bloody lapels, Aziraphale communicated to his demon, "I am on Our Side."

For reading to the end of this post, you get a very special reward! Here is The Amazing Mr. Fell. I love him. I'm not going to address right now the fantastic costume because this beauty deserves a post of its own--the cape with the stars! THE CAPE WITH THE STARS! HE'S SWATHED HIMSELF IN CROWLEY'S CREATION...I'm fine.

#good omens #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #costumes #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #amazing mr. fell #I just wrote a whole post about lapels #aziraphale is in love #crowley is in love #can i get a wahoo

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7-wonders · 15 days

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Hate to Say (I Told You So)

Michael Langdon x Reader (Mad Love Act II, Chapter XV)

Summary: A moral victory gets completely wiped away by the horrors of your life. But fear not, because help is (finally) here.

Word count: 5.3k

A note from the author: I wanted to say "A HOT NEW BOMBSHELL ENTERS THE VILLA" in my summary but figured I shouldn't because I'm trying to keep the tone very serious. The pace of this chapter is pretty fast-paced to keep up with the pace of the show—the chapter starts right where Episode 3 of Apocalypse does. It's so nuts to think that we're finally almost done. As always—hope you enjoy, and remember that likes, comments, and reblogs make my world go round!

Mad Love Masterlist

“There’s really no need to thank me,” you say emphatically to the two Purples sitting before you.

“You’re the only reason we haven’t been executed. You saved our lives,” Timothy insists.

“I did what anybody would do.” You shoot a pointed glance at Michael, who stands at his desk across the room from you. “What anybody should do.”

The walk to the chamber where you could hear Emily and Timothy pleading for their lives simultaneously felt like the shortest and longest length of your life. It seemed as though with every step you took, the hallway grew longer, like you were in some kind of waking nightmare. Still, you pushed on, for nothing could stop you…except for the sharp bang of a gunshot. That did physically stop you for a couple of seconds as you tried to figure out what just happened.

Immediately, you feared the worst—that you were too late. They can’t be dead, you thought before your brain reconnected with the rest of your body and you realized that you could move. It can’t end like this. You broke into a run, cursing the slight heel of your shoes as you tried to beat time itself to the scene of the crime.

Instead of what you were expecting, which was the two lovers lying dead in a heap, Ms. Mead stumbled past you with her hands cupped over her abdomen. You watched her go with wide eyes, leaking some sort of white fluid on the floor as she did. Ignoring her for now, you finally made it to the door and mentally prepared yourself for what you might see.

Inside, Timothy was collapsed into a heap but groaning and trying to get into a sitting position, while Emily was cowering against the wall. Neither of them had any bullet wounds, but the muscle of this Outpost stood over both of them, cocking the hammer back on the gun that was pointed at Emily.

“Stop!” you yelled, three sets of eyes looking at you.

“On whose orders?” The Fist demanded.

“The Cooperative’s.” It certainly wasn’t often that you invoked your privileges as wife to the Antichrist, but if there was a better situation to do so, you hadn’t found it yet.

They stared you down, so you channeled Michael the best you could, stepped closer to them, and refused to back down. Finally, they sighed and lowered the gun. “Fine. Get them out of my sight.”

You fell to your knees the moment that you knew you had won, wrapping your hands around Timothy’s arms and helping him to his feet. Once he was up and able to balance semi-steadily, you held out a hand to Emily. “Come on, let’s go,” you said softly, ushering her up from her spot curled up against the wall.

They followed you out of that small chamber in a daze, holding onto each other tightly. You wished you had had the foresight to grab a couple of blankets to cover them as you walked with them back to relative safety, but you hadn’t known that they were going to be executed in only their undergarments.

“That’s it?” Emily asked in bewilderment when you stood in front of Timothy’s room, the room closest to where you had all been. “We’re okay?”

You nodded. “Take all the time you need to decompress, but I would like to see you both in Langdon’s office when you’re ready to talk about what happened.”

Emily let out a relieved sob and let her head fall back against the wall in relief. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You nearly choked on the words, undeserving of any such gratitude, and hurried away.

It was all you could think to say at the time, and now you’re here, sitting before them being lauded as a hero when you neither want nor deserve it. Why should you feel proud of such a label, when you’ve been unable to stop the monster responsible for all of what has befallen the world beyond your small act of rebellion?

“Not that I’m not grateful, because truly, I am—we both are,” Emily says, gesturing between her and Timothy. “But why save us?”

You remain silent, having no real answer for them beyond what you’ve already said, which is that it was what any person should do. Since this is not the old world, and doing things out of kindness is no longer the norm, you know that this doesn’t seem like a truthful answer. Michael saunters towards you, laying a firm hand on Timothy’s shoulder. For once, you’re happy for his theatrics, as it gets their waiting eyes off of you.

“I’ve been charged with finding the seeds from which the future of mankind will blossom. It’d be grossly irresponsible to allow a minor infraction to keep out a viable candidate,” Michael explains. “The stakes are too high.”

“We still have a chance at the Sanctuary?” Timothy asks, borderline incredulous. Not that you blame him.

“You didn’t break any rules,” you assure.

Michael nods in agreement. “Trust me, you have nothing to worry about. Now, I would encourage you both to get some rest. You’ve had a long day, and your interviews are scheduled for tomorrow.”

They get up from their respective chairs, planning to do just what Michael says and fall into bed. While Timothy goes for the door, Emily hesitates, and after a moment of internal deliberation, she takes your hands in hers. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times already, but thank you,” she says yet again. The sincerity in her tone and the earnestness in her eyes are almost too much for your guilty soul to bear.

“You’re welcome.” You accept her thanks begrudgingly, knowing that she would feel entirely different if she knew the truth about you and Michael. “You deserve a chance, both of you do.”

Michael has a proud smirk on his face when he turns to you after escorting them out of the office, though you’re not sure why. His plan didn’t exactly go the way that he was planning, and you’re the reason for it. Michael’s never been fond of changes outside of his control, and the stranger who’s inhabited your husband’s body for eighteen months is almost obsessive in ensuring that his plans play out how he intended. In fact, you’re expecting to meet his ire rather than what you’re greeted with.

“Well, well, well.” His smirk widens into a smile as he takes a seat next to you. “Look at you, taking charge! I’m proud of you.”

“Fuck off,” you snap. After a moment, you mutter, “But thank you,” because you’re not above praise.

“How did it feel? Knowing that you were in charge of their fates?” His eyelids flutter in some sort of ecstasy at the thought of the power that comes with what you believe to be an immense burden.

“Awful. My hands are still shaking.” You hold your shaking hands up to illustrate this. Now that the adrenaline has started to leave you, you’re exhausted. There’s nothing to hold you upright anymore beyond the knowledge that you’d much prefer falling asleep in a bed instead of on this uncomfortable couch.

Michael tsks, taking one of those shaking hands and caressing it in his own, steadier hands. “From what I could hear, you did well.”

“What can I say, tried to channel you.” He chuckles, and you can’t resist the urge to lay your head on his shoulder. You really are tired, and that means that your normal safeguards telling you that this isn’t wise are gone. “I thought you would be mad.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know, because I ruined your fun.”

“No. You could never. You just…made me pivot. I’ve always loved that about you—how you keep me on my toes.” He kisses your forehead. “You should get some rest, too.”

He’s right, unfortunately, so you stand from your seat. When Michael doesn’t follow, however, you look at him in surprise. “You’re not coming?”

“Not right now. I’m supposed to speak with my father tonight.”

It’s not disappointing, per se—you’re not going to complain about getting to spread out in bed—but it is a little upsetting to be reminded once again of the influence that’s completely warped and corrupted Michael. “Okay…goodnight.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.” That old, familiar nickname hits home, and you swallow the lump in your throat to steel yourself against the muscle memory of asking Michael to come to bed, a whole different lifetime ago.

Sleep comes to you easily thanks to the exhaustion of the past couple of hours, though you’re a little wary as you feel unconsciousness claim you. Ever since the bombs dropped, you’ve been plagued by nightmares. Most of the time, you feel like you deserve it, like it’s a burden you must shoulder as punishment for your station. You fear them, the horrors that you typically see when you close your eyes. But tonight, at least, your dreams contain far less screaming and torment than usual.

The next few days pass in a manner far more boring than your first 24 hours in Outpost 3. There’s little work for you to do, and the strict way of life here makes it impossible to find anything exciting. While you’re tempted to continue interacting with Emily and Timothy, the first people you’ve felt a bond with since the end of the world, you know that that’s extremely unwise. To allow yourself to get close to anyone, but especially people who are, for all intents and purposes, innocent, can only bring misery to both parties. You don’t think you can take that sort of heartbreak, so you make the decision to stay away.

There are only two events that break up the monotony of your stay. The first is a security breach, although you suppose even that’s nothing too out of the ordinary here. After all, the Outposts only have the absolute basic levels of security, and the survivors that have been left to face the elements of the harsh post-apocalyptic landscape are nothing if not inventive. The other is something that is out of the ordinary, especially here in Ms. Venable’s draconian playland.

Since it was announced two days ago, all anybody in the Outpost could talk about is the Halloween masquerade ball to be held tonight. To you, it certainly doesn’t sound exciting. Standing around in the library drinking water and talking is already Outpost 3’s daily routine, so you don’t see how adding costumes is going to suddenly make it fun. But the idea of getting to do something new catches on with the residents like wildfire, even with Emily and Timothy, who find you when you’re exchanging Frankenstein with Stephen King’s The Stand (maybe a little too on the nose for the current state of the world, but it’s difficult to find a book in this library that you haven’t read).

“Are you going to come?” Emily asks.

You try not to laugh because you know that, if you were in their position and starved of entertainment for so long, you’d probably be acting the same way. “Oh, probably not.”

“You should! It’ll be fun.”

The telltale sound of a cane against the floor sends a rush of chilled goosebumps down your arms. The one and only matron of this Outpost joins your little group, inserting herself in between you and Timothy.

“Hello, Ms. Venable,” you greet semi-politely, which is the most that you can manage around her.

“Emily is right, you should join us,” Ms. Venable says, a smile on her face. “It’s sure to be a scream.”

“I’m sure it will! Unfortunately, we’re very busy making our final selections for the Sanctuary, so I’m not sure if we’ll be able to make it this time.”

“Well, just know that the offer stands.”

“Thank you. I’ll be sure to let Langdon know as well.”

Ms. Venable’s fake smile falls off of her face as she levels her gaze coldly with Emily and Timothy, both of whom are still facing the full brunt of her wrath for escaping their fates. She returns the way that she came, sending a Gray stumbling out of the way to avoid getting in her path. The moment she rounds the corner, you turn back to them with your lips pressed together to keep your composure.

“Your idea of fun involves Ms. Venable?” you say, taking care to be a little quieter than normal in case she’s eavesdropping.

“No,” Timothy admits, “but we’ll still make it fun.”

“I’ll think about it, okay?” you say after a moment of consideration.

Emily grins, satisfied by this answer. “Yay!”

While such events don’t exactly appeal to you right now, you can’t deny that it might be amusing to at least stop in and check out, if only to see what costumes everybody comes up with.

You broach the topic with Michael after his last interviews are concluded and you’re in the room designated as his (Ms. Venable had given you two separate rooms upon your arrival, since nobody in the Outposts knew that you were married). “I don’t think I’ve seen a group of people so excited about a mandatory Halloween party since I was in elementary school,” you say, falling back on the bed and sighing in relief at finally getting to rest.

“Trust me, it was all I heard about in today’s interviews.” Though you can’t see him, you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “I'm certainly not sad that we won’t be attending.”

You look over at him, (surprisingly) a tad disappointed. “We won’t?”

“You can’t tell me that you want to spend a couple of hours conversing with Dinah and the Vanderbilt girl.”

Your nose wrinkles, because no, you don’t. “I suppose you’re right.”

Michael kneels on the floor next to the bed, bringing his face level with yours. He smiles at you softly as his eyes map the familiar planes of your face. “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve had you all to myself, no interviews or selections.”

Pretending is dangerous, you know. After all, you pretended like Michael wasn’t as close to ending the world as he truly was, and it led to you failing in your mission to try and stop him. But beyond watching him play with people’s lives (which is the new normal with him), this trip has been the closest to normal that you’ve felt in a while. You’ve shared meals without fighting, he’s laughed at things you’ve said and vice versa, and you’ve felt…kind of comfortable with him. When you lay your hand on his cheek and rub your thumb against the soft skin of his face, you pretend that this is your Michael, not the Antichrist, looking at you with his big blue eyes.

And when he presses his lips against yours, you pretend like you don’t remember why you’re supposed to tell him no.

Michael moves onto the bed with you, laying your back against the pillows while he straddles your hips. You gladly pull him down on top of you, removing your hands from his face to do so. He’s all over you, from your sides to your thighs to your breasts to your face. Your tongues tangle together, but rather than a fight for dominance, it’s a dance where you’re both equal partners. Loving him, and being loved by him, in this specific way is intoxicating, and you’re happy to turn your brain off for a bit and just feel.

“I want to run something by you,” Michael mumbles between kisses. It’s weird that he wants to do this now, when he’s grinding against you and your fingers are working at undoing his pants, but whatever.

You swallow down a moan and nod. “Okay.”

“This is the last Outpost we have to visit before we can focus on creating our new world out of the ashes of the old one.” His lips go to your jaw, and he begins to suck and nip at the underside of it. “What if we got started on it early, with just the two of us? Ushered in this new world with new life?”

Arousal has completely clouded your mind by this point, and you have to fight to fully take in Michael’s words. It takes another few moments to really understand what he’s said. Now, your stomach is tight for a whole different reason, making you go still. “What are you suggesting?” you ask, hoping against all hope that you’re wrong.

He pulls away from you just enough that he can meet your eyes. “I’m suggesting we have a baby.”

“What?”

Your shock is misinterpreted for surprise, and Michael smiles. “I know, it would be a big change, but can’t you imagine it? Our future. We’d be a family, and our baby would be the very best parts of us and our love.”

He’s right—you can imagine that future, one where you’re a mom and Michael’s a dad, proud parents of a baby with Michael’s cherub features and your eyes. It’s such a vivid picture in your head that it feels like it was meant to be, and you find yourself lost in it as Michael continues to verbally paint your future parenthood. For a moment, you feel like you want it as much as Michael does.

A door slams downstairs, pulling you back to yourself and reminding you that that’s not what you want. Like, at all.

Panic begins to thrum under your skin, making you laugh nervously as you try to wriggle out from under him. “Michael.”

He doesn’t answer, too caught up in his fantasy. “Plus, you can’t deny that we’d make a cute kid.”

“Michael!” He pauses to look down at you, and you use that opportunity to slide away from him. Sitting up on the bed, you grab a pillow and hold it in front of you almost defensively. “Where is this coming from?”

He looks down bashfully and grabs one of your hands. “The timing, us almost being done with the Outposts and, by extension, the old world, had me thinking. An heir would be such a fitting way to bring about this new age on Earth. It just feels…right.”

That word, ‘heir,’ sends alarms blaring in your mind. Michael styles himself as king because that’s the title that his father has bestowed upon him, the title that he only believes himself worthy of so long as his father does. For him to use a term like ‘heir,’ typically associated with royal and noble houses, can only mean one thing.

Your blood goes cold at the realization, bile trying to creep its way up your throat. Hesitantly, you pull your hand away. “Your father’s the one that brought this up, didn’t he?”

He shrugs, not seeming to care that he’s once again letting Satan dictate every aspect of his life. “He mentioned it, yes, but the idea is all mine! So, what do you say? You wanna have a baby?”

It’s obvious that part of him genuinely enjoys the idea of having a child. You can see his excitement, and hear his dreams in the way he speaks of your shared potential future. But the other part, the one that’s all Antichrist and therefore the part that’s completely taken over him, sees a child solely as a means to an end. A way to secure his father’s bloodline and cement their rule on Earth. You wouldn’t submit anybody to that fate, least of all a helpless child.

With your mind made up, you meet Michael’s eyes and shake your head. “No.”

“No?” His brow furrows, taken aback from hearing this answer from you.

“No! I won’t bring a child into this fucked up hellscape of yours.”

Michael’s smile falls. “Yes, you will. Maybe not today, but you’ll come around.”

“That’s a pretty bold assumption.”

“Is it? After all, our contract says that we’ll have a child within five years. We’re three years in, and time is only ticking.”

“The contract?” you gasp in shock, reeling back from the bed. “You’re really bringing up that stupid fucking contract right now?”

You can’t believe that after all these years, all the progress that you made individually and as partners (progress that was, of course, shattered with the press of a button), he’d betray you and bring up the very document that made you feel so much like a prisoner when you first met him. Though you try not to, your eyes don’t listen to your will and begin to well with tears.

Michael remains unmoved by your emotional display and instead attempts to explain. “I only do to remind you of what’s expected of you, of both of us.”

“Fuck you, Michael. I will never have a child with you.”

His eyes steel over as he clenches his jaw. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

“I guess we will.”

You charge a path to the door, praying that Michael doesn’t stop you. Somehow, he has enough sense left in his brain to remain where he’s sitting, simply watching you throw open the door. Before you leave, you look back at him.

“Tell your father what I’ve told both of you before. If he wants your wife to be some perfect little Satanist that bows to every one of his, and your, whims, then he’s going to have to kill me and find you another poor girl to force into marriage.”

With that, you slam the door and walk down the hall toward your own room, tears blurring the path in front of you.

It’s only when you’ve locked the door and can feel the sturdy wood behind your back that you allow yourself to actually break down. Sobs rip loudly from deep within your chest, and you slap a hand over your mouth to try and muffle the sound. You’d hate to interrupt the Halloween party currently taking place below you, and you’d hate even more for people to come and ask you what’s wrong right now. If they did, you know what you’d say. That everything is wrong, from the clothes that you wear to the way that people act, and that the past eighteen months are like being the unwilling lead in a horror movie.

Those words can never be spoken aloud, because there’s not a single person alive that would understand them beyond Michael Langdon. Unfortunately, the Michael Langdon that you knew is dead and replaced by the spawn of Satan that’s always been lurking inside of him. Sometimes he does a good job of playing the part of Michael Langdon, a good enough job that it can momentarily fool you. But the demon will always rear its ugly head, reminding you again and again that you’re truly alone in this world.

It feels a little childish to throw yourself on your bed and cry yourself to sleep. But in this situation, you think it’s warranted.

You’re eventually ushered back to consciousness by the feather-light touch of fingers brushing your cheek. It’s a struggle to unglue your eyelids after they grew stuck together due to your drying tears, and you hesitantly pry open one eye to glance at what, or who, has woken you up. Upon making a positive identification, you groan and drop your head against the mattress.

“I hate this dream,” you grumble.

A soft laugh comes from next to you. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway.”

It takes a moment for you to work up the courage to actually speak your thoughts. “Because it reminds me that you’re gone.”

The mattress shifts. “Open your eyes.”

You really don’t want to do that, because you know what the result will be. After all, you’ve had dreams along this storyline before. Dreams where you’re taunted with your innermost desires, dreams that feel so real that you wake up expecting them to be fact. They never turn out to be real, though, and you’re dreading being faced with that same disappointment once more.

But hope is cruel, and it’s tantalizing. In the end, you’re no match for hope.

Instead of being greeted by nothing but air when you finally open both eyes, someone is still sitting next to you on the bed. You take in their black wardrobe first—a long-sleeved black dress, with a matching cloak fastened around the neck. Next is the hair, beautiful dark waves, with a golden headband nestled among them. Finally, you meet a pair of warm, brown eyes that twinkle with excitement.

You sit up abruptly in shock. The breath gets caught in your throat, and you have to work to make a sound. Even when you can, your voice comes out shaky and unsure. “...Mallory?”

A familiar smile spreads across her face. “Hi.”

Your hand has come up without you realizing it, and it hovers now above Mallory’s shoulder. Though you want so badly to touch her, you’re sure that the moment you do, she’ll dissipate into thin air like smoke. You don’t know if you can handle that kind of heartbreak, not after what you’ve just been through.

Mallory takes your hand and intertwines your fingers with hers. In your grasp, you can feel the muscles of her hand flex, her skin warm and real against yours. A sharp gasp rips from you, tears already falling once more (you’ve cried so much tonight) when you raise your gaze to meet hers once more.

“Oh my god, Mallory!”

She says your name with just as much tenderness and awe, her voice a balm on your bruised and battered soul. It’s another second before you’re being pulled into a welcomed, bone-crushing hug. You meet her with the same level of enthusiasm, holding onto each other as though, at any moment, forces will try to rip you apart. The forces of the universe can try any tactic possible, but they’re guaranteed to fail. Your best friend is back and in your arms against all odds, and you’re never letting her go again.

“How the—how—you—” Mallory waits patiently for you to remember how to speak. “You’re here. And you’re alive. How are you alive?”

“Witches don’t die easily.”

“I can see that!” You pull back from the embrace just enough so that you can look her in the eyes and be reminded of the fact that Mallory really, truly sits before you now. “I’ve missed you so much, you have no idea.”

Her face somehow softens even more than it already has. “I’ve missed you too.”

While you could spend hours in silence and simply enjoy her presence once more, there are explanations to be made, ones that, in your mind, simply can’t wait. “I have so many questions.”

“Ask, then, and I’ll do my best to answer.”

You work to untangle the jumbled mess that your thoughts have become. “How are you here? I’m talking the whole process, from surviving the apocalypse to somehow traversing a nuclear wasteland and coincidentally ending up at the same Outpost we’re visiting.”

“To make a very long story short, when you called me that day that you and Michael fought, I knew that we were running out of time. His anger sped up the process of the apocalypse by months, which meant that I had to speed up figuring out how to stop him. While my research in those ensuing weeks was fruitful, there was no chance of actually having enough practice to successfully execute any sort of plan by the time the bombs dropped. So, I pivoted. I’d work as hard as I could, right up until the end, while also knowing that I had key members of the coven in place to help me after the nuclear war.”

“Your coven survived?” you ask hopefully. An army of witches would do a lot to help right now.

Her face twists in pain. “Michael would have sensed it if an entire coven survived the apocalypse, so I made one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever had to make in my life. I sent the girls home on a ‘break’ and told them that I and a couple of their teachers had to go meet with a European coven. They got to spend their last days with their loved ones, which is a small comfort to me.”

“I’m sorry, Mallory.” What you want to say is that you’re sorry that this happened, and that you’re sorry that the man you’re fated to love is the reason why. If you get started on that path, though, you know that you’ll be apologizing for hours about things that, at the end of the day, aren’t your fault (even though they feel like they are). Instead, you give Mallory a tighter squeeze and hope that it accurately conveys all that goes unsaid.

Mallory clears her throat, lifting a hand from you briefly to swipe at her wet eyes. “Anyways. I took only those who I knew would be a great help to me when the time came. Two of my friends, who also taught with me, and I went to ground. Bayou mud carries intense healing properties, and it kept us safe for eighteen months of hibernation, for lack of a better term.”

You’re mildly horrified at the fact that Mallory and her friends basically buried themselves alive, but Mallory continues before you can say anything.

“Then, an older student who comes from a very rich family volunteered to help. I wiped her mind of her identity as a witch and ensured that she would be here, in Outpost 3, so that we would have as many on our side as possible.”

“Who…” you trail off. “Coco!” That’s why her name sounded so familiar! Mallory had likely mentioned her to you in passing during one of your many conversations after she assumed the title of Supreme.

“Yep.”

“Is she always so…” you pause, trying to think of a nice way to phrase what you want to say. “Bitchy?”

“Before she came to Robichaux’s, yes.” She grins cheekily, and you feel your heart twist at how much you’ve missed seeing that. “Hence the bitchy attitude here.”

“Was Outpost 3 just a lucky guess?”

Mallory shakes her head. “No. I knew that Outpost 3 would be Michael’s crown jewel when it came to the Outpost project. He was never shy in his hatred of warlocks and Hawthorne—he hated both of them almost as much as he hated Cordelia. It made sense that he would choose this as his final stop. He wanted to prove to himself, you, and Satan that he was nothing like the boy that first arrived here years ago.”

“So, you sent a spy here and took as much help with you as you could. What’s your plan now?” How are you going to get us out of this mess? you want to ask.

She turns serious. “Before I tell you, I need to ask you something.”

“Anything,” you promise.

“I’m going to ask you to stand with me and against Michael. And if you can’t do that because of your soul bond with him, I understand. In that case, though, I need to ask you to stand aside so that I can do what I need to do.”

There’s no need for any sort of deliberation, nor is there any hesitation in you. This answer comes just as easily and surely as one from mere hours ago, only this time, the result is the opposite. “Of course, I’ll stand with you.”

She sighs in deep relief, apparently worried that you were going to turn her down or, worse, side with Michael. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

Mallory begins to explain her plan and your role in it, one that you’re happy to play. You’ve been forced to be a bystander for too long, and now, you refuse to let that be your identity. You want your world back, and with Mallory and her witches at your side, you feel confident that this is how you win.

///

Tag list: @thatonehumanbeing05 @xavierplympton @hecohansen31 @codycrazy @love-on-the-murder-scene @michaellangdonswhore @nsainmoonchild @aftertheglitterfades @iamlivingforturner @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @angistopit @littleangel4996 @xo-angel-ox @ajokeformur-ray @iamavailablesstuff @redroses07

#michael langdon #michael langdon imagine #michael langdon x reader #american horror story #ahs imagine #american horror story imagine #michael langdon imagines #mad love musings

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inklore · 9 months

Text

— CELEBRATING TWO YEARS OF LOVE.

let's pretend that i posted this on the real anniversary date (july 18th) and not a few weeks late ok. but i'm still shell shocked i honestly stayed around on here for this long, seeing as how i've been on this hellsite for over ten years maybe even longer, have left many blogs and sideblogs behind, but have stayed put on here for longer than it feels. even through all the craziness and friends gained and lost. i have not grown sick of this place and i know it's all because of my mutuals (and followers) aka the most beautiful, hilarious, talented souls anyone could ask to have on their side.

whether we are friends or have never spoken i love you, i adore you. thank you for making my time spent on here worth it even when times get tough and this little hobby of ours seems more like a stressful nine to five.

@deathmotif, @authurials, @theauthorvt, +annie — hey remember when we all met on wp and i started that silly little michael langdon gc on kik and it was a dozen of us in there but then it soon dwindled down to us five and kik was on the verge of imploding and we all moved over to snap and now we literally all talk every day, if not every other??! my day isn't complete without seeing one of you sending an unhinged video in the gc. IT'S BEEN SIX YEARS with you guys in my life and you know me better than anyone. i can tell you my darkest secrets, traumas, thoughts, and there's no judgment. it's literally the most healthy friend group ever. i'm forcing ya'll to dress up as barbie's for my bachelorette party, like you're stuck with me. barbie is serious. just as serious as my love is for each and every one of you. when i think about my life and future you guys are always in it. idk if we should thank cody fern or the antichrist or both. but whoever brought us together in this life i hope they do it in the next because life without y'all would suck.

@psychedelic-ink — you should already know how much i love you, but let me remind you, let me go on for ever and tell you how special you are to me ok. when i was balling my eyes out on the phone/discord you were there to listen to me be a blubbering mess, you were there to talk me down, to listen, to validate my feelings. when i need someone to be motivating and get shit done with me you're there. when i need to rant about something horny you're there to encourage the unhinged. our discord sleepovers are my favorite thing in the world. i'm still shocked when i think back to our casual messages on here turning into a friendship so close and tight that my man spent over $100 to send you a magazine (without question) because he knows how much you mean to me. you have my heart always!

@pedrito-friskito — i have the most vivid memory of me and sil talking about you on discord and how great you were and i was like um?? i wanna be friends with kay! so after we got off of the phone i messaged you and then before i knew it me, you, and sil were in a gc together and the rest is history. i love that you and i like to disappear without a word sometimes but always come back like lol sorry but here's this love and support and encouragement and let me just life update you but also make you horny with this thought, and sil just puts up with us and i love it. ily. i'm forever forcing you to write and publish every story you write because you're going to put sjm to shame with the beauty your brain comes up with.

@tom-whore-dleston — i know i'm the worst at replying but you never make me feel bad for it. you're like 'oh yeah her adhd brain will get back to this text in 2 to 3 business weeks it's ok', and i love you for it. but no seriously ily so much. you're the first person i think of when all i can think about is dick because i know you're thinking the same thing. i know you'll understand. every time i see you post on social media i'm like wtf?? why am i halfway across the states and not with the loml right now?? it's truly unfair because i know if we were together we'd be the most chaotic, loud, sluttiest duo ever. your talent always amazes me, your beauty makes me jealous. both of our partners better watch out because i'ma run away with you one day i swear!

@chaseadrian — the fact that we grew close in a fandom that i despise now and is more toxic than not and a beautiful friendship came out of it?? iconic. every time i think about you all i can think is 'they just seems like they have everything all together, their ideas, their graphics, their mind, the way they speak is like talking to that really cool english teacher' like lmao i cannot explain how much i want your vibe. i adore your vibe. i ADORE YOU.

@greenorangevioletgrass — as one of my first friends on this little blog of mine i feel like i need to do more than put into words how much i adore you, how grateful i am to call you a friend, to be a part of your presence on here. hearing your ideas, your living breathing fic-like life is serotonin to me. like please share in the sexy wealth bestie!

@sapphireplums — when i see you in my inbox i literally get this overjoyed feeling inside me like charity thought about me today?? took time out of her day to send me something?? i'm blessed. i hope you and your beautiful mind are thriving bestie because you're literally one of the nicest, softest, people i've met on here and i'm in your corner if you ever need me. to show you love and support. to continue to convince you that your themes will always be more superior than mine!!

@rae-gar-targaryen — if success and talent and beautiful prose (and face) was an olympic sport you would have won by now. you HAVE won. we may not talk as much as we used to but just know that i always am thinking about how you are, waiting patiently for you to bless us with more of your fics (even if it's a crumb i'm like a little mouse savoring it because hello?? emily henry who? she got nothing on you). as my lawyer i love knowing if i needed you you'd be there with a simple text, as my bestie, as someone i look up to, as someone who radiates elegance and something else i can't even put into words because that's literally how you leave me, speechless: never change and know i'm always here for you.

@allaboardthereadingrailroad, @littledemondani, @wroteclassicaly — the three of you were those 'big' accounts that always intimated me. i stood in the background reading your stuff and being like ok they're going to put me out of business and then being absolutely shook when you followed me, i felt like i made it. like this was what being on here was all about having the accounts you find the most talented and amazing, and who have wrote some of your fav fics, follow you. and we may not talk a lot but i cherish you guys so so very much. like even before i made this account, on my old accounts, i've always been your #1 fans!!

@kittyofalltrades, @namorwife, @yoditopascal — i may have all but died out and disappeared from the discord server, and we may not talk anymore, but some of my best memories are with you guys. the unhinged, the thirst, the games, the rantings, i've never been more entertained and chaotic and rowdy than i was with ya'll and i love it. i miss it. ya'll are still my favorite people, my loves, my besties. one day i will be horny over the same characters as ya'll again and you'll be annoyed with my thirst again.

@eupheme, @tripleyeeet, @wint3r-h3art, @ohcaptains, @celestianstars, @flordeamatista — if there were ever a group of beautiful people i constantly compare myself to because the way they write, the way their themes look, the way their fic layouts / set ups look, their graphics, their vibes, their talent, their so many damn things: it would be ya'll. like i'm constantly like how do i get on their level? like i know there's not levels on here and everyone is so uniquely special and amazing at what they write and do and make, but i'm always in the trenches of devoting and heart eyes over EVERYTHING ya'll post. ya'll are the cool art kids i want to hangout with but instead i'm screaming in cheer in the silent museum where your creations should be showcased.

@mothdruid, @moonlight-prose, @moondirti, @angrythingstarlight, @amywritesthings, @oncasette, @withahappyrefrain, @navybrat817, @bakerstreethound, @villenelle, @refined-by-fire, @ladylannisterxo, @emerald-chaos, @mxgyver, @foli-vora, @jettia, @moreofem, @bits-and-babs, @woodlandmouth, @fluffyprettykitty, @cocoamoonmalfoy, @galatially, @ladylannisterxo, @saintlike78, @buckys-estrella, @ghostlyfleur, @arctvrvs — through the two years of me being on here i have had the pleasure, the joy, of talking to each of you. whether that be screaming in asks, inboxs, discords, pms, where we were hyping each other up, sharing ideas, support, check ups, screaming over each others fics, whatever it may be. there has been love and support and every time i see ya'll in my notfis, reading my stuff, your thirst posts or rant posts or your rbs, i'm always grateful to see it. for it. to be a part of it. but most importantly i'm like: hello why are we not closer?? why do i not bombard them with my love?? annoy them with it so much so that they have no choice but to be my bestie and feel all the doormat love and support that i'm constantly feeling when i see their little icons and usernames. so this is me both saying i adore you, ily, we may not talk as much as i wished but i'm here supporting and loving everything you do and beware that i will annoy you with my love when you least expect it and soon you'll be wishing for me to get out of your pms. you have a friend in me, a supporter, a hyper, seriously i got lucky with y'all being my mutuals <3.

there's so many other babes that i'm missing but tumblr has a tag limit so i couldn't get everyone on this list but just know ily ily literally every single one of my mutuals is a gift from god to me. you put up with my posts and insanity, i have no choice but to give ya'll my whole ass heart!!!!

#two year celebration #forever hating tumblr for not letting me add all 227 of you ilysm

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applepiewinchesters · 2 years

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Ave Satanas, Bitch (Michael Langdon x fem!reader)

A/N: Michael Langdon is one of my favorite characters and I finally decided to write something about him to post! I hope you enjoy even if I did kill a few favorite characters (also my faves but a good story about the antichrist has to have a little murder). Anyway, thank you for reading and let me know what you think.

Word Count: 1,248

Summary: When the witches come knocking at the outpost, Michael underestimates what you will do to help him continue his reign of the new world.

You watched from your seat on the bed as Ms. Mead helped Michael into his red velvet jacket. He looked handsome, red truly did suit him.

When he turned, looking to you for approval, you smiled.

“Very handsome,” you reassured, standing up, your black dress skimming the floor as you did so.

It was Michael’s turn to smile, but he suddenly tilted his head slightly, listening.

“We have guests, I believe some of our residents have risen from the dead, powerful ones at that,” he spoke, turning to you again.

He came over to you, taking your face in his hands.

“Promise me you will stay here, this is not your fight,” Michael instructed you, making your brow furrow.

“I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself, I’m a big girl Michael,” you told him.

“That you are little one, but I am not the mortal in this relationship, and I cannot afford to lose you,” Michael spoke, sterner this time.

“Fine,” you pouted, making Michael chuckle.

“I’ll be back soon, and then we’ll go home,” he reassured, and you nodded.

Michael pressed a kiss to your forehead and let go of your face.

“I love you,” you told him as he made his way towards the bedroom door.

“And I you,” Michael replied, and with that, he disappeared out the door with Ms. Mead following faithfully behind him.

You sat back down, picking at your nails. If the witches were here, you couldn’t help but be nervous. They could be powerful, especially when all combined. But Michael had grown even more powerful since the fallout, practicing his skills daily.

You were confident in him but losing him was a deep-rooted fear of yours. You had no idea what would become of yourself if he was not by your side.

It seemed forever had passed before the sound of gunshots made your head snap up. You stood from the bed, quickly walking to the door, and cracking it open, listening.

You heard footsteps and hid behind the door as someone ran past. After they passed you snuck out the door, making your way to the stairs just in time to see Michael stand from the floor, covered in blood.

Madison Montgomery stood at the bottom on the staircase, before she could speak, with a quick flick of Michael’s wrist, her head exploded and her body collapsed to the floor, making you gasp, catching Michael’s attention.

He turned, almost shocked to see you there, “Get back to the room, now!”.

You opened your mouth to protest but there was a resounding pop and you were back in the bedroom. Cursing Michael quietly you moved towards the door and turned the knob.

It seems in sending you back to your room Michael hadn’t thought to lock you inside. Before leaving the room, you grabbed your bag, retrieving a dagger you’d brought with.

While Michael reassured he’d always be there to protect you, he seemed to need your help now more than you needed his.

Sneaking from the room once more you made your way down a hall, hearing a familiar voice you turned the corner, just in time to see Michael rip a women’s heart from her chest and take a bite.

Coco, a witch you recognized from the academy before the war, stood in front of Michael. You had no idea how powerful she was, so without hesitation you came at her from the side, plunging your dagger into her neck.

A shower of blood sprayed you, ruining your dress and painting your skin red.

Coco collapsed, blood pooling beneath her.

When you turned to Michael, he had a proud smile on his face.

“Evil looks good on you darling,” he complimented, making you giggle.

“I learned from the best,” you replied, reaching down, and pulling your dagger from the witch’s neck.

Michael smirked, “It seems I underestimated you, come, we have a coven to finish.”

You nodded and followed Michael down the hall, a pool of blood appeared halfway down, a trail following it, neither of you were bleeding, so that means one of the witches were wounded. Perfect.

Michael stopped suddenly, pulling you behind him, Cordelia stood at the end of one of the adjoining halls.

“How did you think this was going to end?” Michael suddenly asked. “Prophecy is inevitable. I was always going to win Miss Supreme.

“Not on your own,” Cordelia scoffed. “You’ve been led by the hand, coddled, the entire way. By your father, the warlocks. I look at you and I don’t see a man. I see a sad, scared, little boy so pathetic he couldn’t even kill me with a thousand nuclear bombs.”

“Oh, but I never expected to, like a cockroach I knew you’d survive the nuclear blast,” Michael retorted, smirking. “And now I will get the satisfaction of watching you die.”

“You still don’t get it do you?” Cordelia replied, wearing a smile of her own. “Even now. You think there’s only winning and losing, success and failure. But failure is when you’ve lost any semblance of hope…”.

As Cordelia continued, Michael leaned behind him, whispering to you, “Down the hall, the bathroom, kill her.”

You nodded and took off, sprinting down the hall, when you found the bathroom he was talking about you were greeted by Mallory, slowly fading in a tub full of water due to a stab wound to the gut.

Wasting no time you moved forward, grabbing the girl by her hair and yanking her up.

“Ave Satanas bitch,” you hissed, before easily sliding your dagger across her throat, before plunging it into her heart, making sure the job was done.

Blood stained the water red as Mallory sunk into the bath and you admired your handiwork.

“You bitch!” came a voice from the door, and you turned to see the witch with the wild red hair standing there.

She held out her hand but before she could harm you, her neck snapped to the side roughly and she collapsed.

Footsteps neared you and Michael appeared in the doorway. He looked around you to the tub where Mallory’s body lay.

“Now that’s my girl,” he told you and you smiled, moving to embrace him tightly, arms wrapping around his neck.

“They’re all dead?” you asked, looking up at Michael for confirmation.

He nodded, “Miss Supreme sacrificed herself just as you slit little Mallory’s throat.”

You smiled, reaching up to press a passionate kiss to his lips. He returned the sentiment, arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer.

When you pulled away you rested your head on his chest, “Let’s go home.”

Michael hummed in agreement, taking your hand and leading you from the bathroom, it burst into flames behind you.

As you walked throughout the outpost every room exploded, glass breaking, flames licking the walls.

The flames didn’t dare touch you, Michael made sure of that. You both walked out of the outpost, Michael still making sure the elements did you no harm, and onto what was left of the barren lawn to the carriage waiting for you.

Michael helped you up into it, forever a gentleman to you and only you. He followed suit and soon the carriage took off, taking you both back home to the sanctuary.

You were empty handed, but Michael felt like the richest man on earth, and with you by his side, hand in his, he could accomplish anything.

#american horror story #michael langdon #cody fern #michael langdon x reader #ahs apocolaypse #ahs coven #ahs #American horror story apocalypse #michael langdon x you #cordelia goode #madison montgomery #mallory ahs #billie lourd

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happy-mokka · 8 months

Text

Hi there.

I'd like to start with a warning first: Beware!

I'm rather new to tumblr, so if what will come next turns out to be total bs, I hope you all get out of this unscathed, forget we ever crossed paths and will be able to go on with your beautiful lives.

If you're still here, you'll about to hear the nice and accurate story of a guy that stumbled naively into a Good Omens binge watching weekend and came out forever changed.

Roughly 4 weeks ago I was asking friends what they were watching currently. I needed new material to turn to.

That's when it happened.

One of them casually brought up Good Omens on Prime. I should give it a try. Angels, demons. Terry Pratchett. Neil Gaiman.

Ok. I like fantasy. I like good story telling. I have an odd sense of bad humour.

I decided to give it a try.

To my eternal shame I have to confess, that until lately I hadn't read a single line written by both Pratchett and Gaiman.

I've read thousands of books. My love for them is so widely spread over all genres, that it simply did never happen. There was always some other book and author that came next.

Oh, how blind and ignorant I have been. I now clearly see the grave error of my ways.

If you can't forgive me, that's ok. I'm having a hard time myself doing so.

Be that as it may, I'm currently reading Good Omens and won't stop there. I promise.

Update notice 2024-04-23 I am now 5 books into Neil Gaimans works, currently reading this...

So, where was I? Right. Binge watch session of Good Omens season 1. Saturday evening. Around 9:30pm.

Episode 1 wasn't even running for 5 minutes and I was already sucked right into it.

Frances McDormand's God intro and the garden eden scenes. I was instantly in love.

Michael Sheen had already been one of my favorites. His first minutes as Aziraphale directly hit home.

David Tennant was familiar but I also hadn't been into Doctor Who, so it took another 5 minutes to also fall for Crowley...

The path was set and I started to deep dive in.

6 hours, 6 episodes, 1 Antichrist and 1 almost Armageddon later I crawled into bed on early Sunday morning to get at least a few hours of sleep. I fell asleep with an almost idiotic grin on my face and a feeling of deep content.

Only 5 hours later, technically still Sunday morning, I woke up, prepared a coffee infusion and switched the TV back on.

There were important deeds to be done. Episodes to be watched. I could sleep later.

Narrator: No, he would NOT sleep later...

I again immediately fell for the 2 celestials.

The slightly different arc, no dramatic catastrophe on the horizon, instead beautifully written side characters and wonderful new details on the two main protagonists...an evolving love story that had already been clearly visible in season 1...

And god, or Satan, HOW I LOVED JON HAMM as Jimbriel...

I again ended up binge watching the whole season, only interrupted by a few coffee and bathroom breaks.

6 hours later. The end credits were already over for like an eternity and I hadn't moved. Just sitting there, all goosebumps and teared-up.

I ate something. Had to. Don't really remember tasting anything or remembering what I actually had.

I was dumbstruck.

The friend that had suggested to start watching GOs, hadn't let out much more detail, so I hadn't been prepared in the least, for the emotional train wrecked state it had pushed me into.

Hours later I finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning before work I just sent Tori Amos' Nightingale in Berkeley Park to my GOs friend followed by a ❤️, as a signal that I had watched it all and let her know that there was no need anymore to hold back with talking out of fear to spoiler me.

We had lunch together and spent the whole time rambling on our GOs induced emergency emotional state and the whole beauty of especially Gaiman's season 2.

The next days we kept randomly talking about GO before she pinpointed me to tumblr, in case I wanted to dare a real deep dive into GO fandom.

So here I am now. A week's passed. I've spent hours of reading so many amazing posts around here. So many eye-opening moments.

I'm not only speaking of all those perfect interpretations of GO and it's characters.

What impressed me so much more is the fabulous energy especially radiating from the queer community.

Update notice - 2024/04/10

Attention! This installation of base module "Sexuality" is currently being updated to a more flexible one...work in progress...

Not being queer, only having a few queer friends, I hadn't really realized, just how big a thing GO in general and season 2 in particular was for you.

I was raised to walk earth open-minded, to respect everyone, no matter of religion, gender, nationality and sexual orientation. This is so deep a part of my DNA and personality, that GO for me was mostly just a beautiful story about religion, the meaning of life and love.

2 immortals fall deeply in love, first into humanity, life on earth and then finally into one another, while trying to overcome all the madness of belonging to two opposing sides of the same medal.

A great parable on the pursuit of happiness. Skillfully written for the screen and perfectly casted and played.

Well that was then.

Now I see you and I have to thank you, for opening my mind even further.

For giving so much joy so generously, although every day is still a fight for your rights.

For giving me a space here among you and the chance to delve some more in beautiful minds and fanfiction.

So, if you're still here and reading this, maybe it was not all bs. Maybe it gave you some minutes of entertainment and distraction from every day's stress and problems.

It sure was for me.

I'll end this with some favorite Shakespeare quotes, although now I'm not so sure any more, if not some red haired demon might have actually written this...

"If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: if you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends."

#good omens #my story #thank you #loveislove #ineffable #nice and accurate #simple truths #confessions

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freyjawriter24 · 10 months

Text

AO3 is down, so I'll have to post this there later and backdate it, but...

Today's 10th July, which means there's only 18 days left until Season 2 of Good Omens!

To commemorate this momentus point in the @gomenseveryday countdown, please enjoy the little fic below the cut...

August 2008: 11 years until Armageddon

Aziraphale was trying desperately not to think about it too much. He was failing, of course. But really, how could he be expected to just forget? This was, quite literally, the end of the world. And even if it was still eleven years away, well, that really wasn't long at all, if you thought about it. Which, despite his best efforts, Aziraphale certainly was.

He'd tried putting on some music to distract himself, but that had failed dismally, too. What a Wonderful World, Louis sang, and the angel couldn't help but picture it as a mourning song, covering everything Aziraphale would be heartbroken to lose when the war destroyed it all.

He'd quickly changed the record, but for some reason the next, usually upbeat track suddenly sounded sinister.

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer,

Goin' faster than a roller coaster...

Oh dear. Eleven years really wasn't much at all, was it? He wished Crowley were here. Why had he only agreed to meet with him the following morning? That was hours away. And in the meantime, he had to sit with memories of destruction and the echo of Buddy's words circling around in his head.

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer...

August 2009: 10 years until the Apocalypse

A decade left, now. Only a decade. Crowley had slept through more than one of those by accident, and now it was all the time they had remaining until either the Earth was annihilated or they, impossibly, miraculously, succeeded. Ten years.

You wouldn't think it, looking at him. Warlock Dowling, the Antichrist. It didn't feel real, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he slept. He was still so small. One year old, and so much potential held within him. He looked like any other human child.

Still, ten years. Just a drop in the ocean in Crowley's lifetime, but for a human – a human child in particular – that was aeons. They had time. Time to guide him, time to encourage him, time to carefully balance the good and bad impulses in him so that Hell would fail and Heaven would be denied their war. They could do this. They still had time.

August 2010: 9 years until the End of the World

"It's admirable, really," Michael mused, only half sincere.

"Naïve, is what it is," Gabriel grumbled. "And now we're getting yearly check-ins, as if anything at all is going to change."

Michael nodded sympathetically, and shuffled some paperwork on her desk. She wouldn't have minded Aziraphale's visits really – it often made for an entertaining change of pace, watching him attempt to make his busywork sound important – except that they always seemed to leave Gabriel in a bad mood.

"Well, at least you've got less than a decade left of that to go."

"Yes!" Gabriel said, brightening. "Only nine years left, and then war. What a delightful thought."

Michael smiled. "Glorious indeed."

August 2011: 8 years until the End Times

"I don't get it," Beelzebub muttered.

"He always did like going above and beyond," Dagon reasoned.

"Yeah, but yearly check-ins? It's just pointless. We know the child is going to be evil, he's the Antichrist, for Satan's sake. We don't need constant updates just to state the obvious. Certainly not every year."

Dagon shrugged. "I think he just likes showing off. Fair enough, really. He's been doing some outstanding work up there. It's only demonic that he come and gloat." The Lord of the Files rifled through a damp-looking cabinet, and pulled out a mouldy-looking folder. "Have you seen what he did with the global economy the other year? I'm thinking of sending him another commendation for that."

Beelzebub hadn't, but didn't want to let on in case Dagon launched into an explanation. "Why doesn't he come and give us presentations on that, then, rather than some snivelling child?"

Dagon raised an eyebrow. "Because you'd hate that too, and understand it even less. He's not stupid. Don't you remember the M25?"

Beelzebub groaned. "Okay, yeah, fair enough." There was silence for a moment, broken only by the steady drip of yet another broken pipe. Then: "Do you trust him, though?"

Dagon snorted. "No. Of course not."

"Good. Just checking."

"Like I said, he's doing it for his own benefit, not ours. Self-obsessed little prick, prancing his pet project in front of us every year. But at least it's only for another handful."

"Mmm. Suppose so."

Beelzebub looked gloomily into a corner, lost in thought.

Dagon sighed and slammed the filing cabinet shut. "Want to go torture someone for a bit?"

"Fuck yes. I thought you'd never ask."

August 2012: 7 years until the Destruction of Earth.

Everyone was so happy this year. London was buzzing with the energy of it all, the weather seemed determined to echo the mood, and Warlock was picking up on the collective indulgence in the simple joy of living.

You wouldn't think there was only seven years left of all this.

They took him to the Olympic Stadium, and the O2, and the Velodrome, even though he was probably still too young to understand all the rules and nuances of the sports they were watching. He loved clapping and cheering, though, and would do so regardless of who won, calling out with pride when Kenya got gold, when France did, when China did.

Thaddeus was getting more and more red in the face with each passing win for another country, but Nanny Ashtoreth's sharp gaze stopped him from doing anything about it. She'd had the forethought to warn him in advance that there would be no stifling of Warlock's joy this summer, as he was far too young to be trying to understand the nuances of the geopolitical landscape his father occupied.

Harriet sat fairly quietly the whole time, trying not to look bored, and clapping politely whenever either the USA or UK did well.

When it came to his birthday towards the end of the month, Warlock's parents got him a bike. A simple gesture, but one surprisingly aware of their son's interests.

Nanny carefully fitted a pair of stabilisers to it, and Brother Francis gifted Warlock a set of knee pads and elbow pads, alongside a helmet printed with an illustration of grass and ladybirds.

Warlock learned quickly, and took great joy in shouting out garbled imitations of Olympic commentary as he cycled around the garden.

"And Warlock Dowling cwruches his enemies under his heel, shooting stwaight into first place and winning five hundred gold medals for Team GB. And, uh, America."

Nanny watched with pride, and ignored the flutter of nerves that whispered that she might be doing a better job at influencing the child than her counterpart, and all that would mean.

August 2013: 6 years until the start of the Second Angelic War

Brother Francis tried not to think too hard about it all while he neatened up the flowerbeds for the garden party that afternoon. Warlock was turning five, and miraculously the weather had speckled the garden with enough rain overnight to keep everything looking green and vibrant without threatening any ruination to the outdoor celebration that was to come.

Five years old. Six years left.

He tried not to think about flaming swords and burning wings. Tried not to consider what might become of this garden in a few short years if they failed. Tried not to imagine what would happen to the Antichrist himself if he accepted all his inborn power.

"Brovver Francis!" came a high-pitched call, and the gardener turned to see Warlock – still tiny, really, barely more than a toddler – running across the grass towards him, Nanny following protectively just behind.

"Hello young Master Warlock. And happiest of birthdays to you! How old are you now?"

"Four," Warlock said, a little uncertainly.

"Ah, you were four, weren't you my little Prince of Darkness," Nanny said, crouching down. "But today is your birthday, and that means you get to add one year to your age! So how old are you now?"

"Five!" Warlock said brightly.

"Yes, you clever little cherub!" Brother Francis beamed.

Cherub? Nanny mouthed over Warlock's head.

Francis raised his eyebrows and shrugged slightly. Ashtoreth rolled her eyes.

"Almost halfway to conquering the world, aren't you, my little charcoal dove?"

The gardener gave Nanny a look then, too, but she just smiled, a touch wickedly.

"Come on then, Warlock, let's let Brother Francis finish his work so everything's ready for your party."

"Okay Nanny! Bye Brovver Francis!"

"Goodbye, Warlock!"

Only six years left.

August 2014: 5 years until the End of Humanity

Warlock was turning six this year. He was very excited.

Six was bigger than five, and four, and three, and two, and one. It was much bigger than zero. Not quite as big as seven, true, but six was a very good number. It did lots of clever things with factors and division, which Warlock liked, and it had a special sort of meaning when three of them were next to each other, which Nanny liked. And three was half of six, too, so even better. Warlock liked maths a lot.

Six was also over halfway to eleven, which Nanny said was going to be important. That was when he'd come into his powers and rule the world. Mummy said it was when he'd go to big school, too, so maybe that was what Nanny meant. But either way, he was over halfway there now. Six was a very good number.

August 2015: 4 years until the Events of Revelations Come to Pass

Warlock had been looking forward to his birthday, as usual, until he'd learnt from his father that seven-year-olds don't have nannies, they have tutors, and that meant Ashtoreth would be leaving him soon. The child was heartbroken, and even Nanny couldn't console him for several days.

He seemed to cheer up a bit, though, when he met the first of his two new tutors – Mr Harrison, it appeared to Thaddeus and Harriet, was exactly the sort of no-nonsense teacher that little Warlock needed to get over his childish attachment to his Nanny. Warlock looked up at his new tutor in awe, and chose not to suggest otherwise to his parents.

The changeover day was to be his birthday, when neither Nanny nor tutors would be required, and it thus marked a turning point in young Warlock's life. But he knew he would be safe. Growing up wasn't all that scary when you had trusted people there to protect you. And, as it turned out, Mr Cortese looked rather familiar too. Maybe the future was going to be okay after all.

August 2016: 3 years until the End of Days

"Maths! Why did it have to be maths?"

"I don't know. I can't imagine where he gets it from."

"Makes no sense at all."

Warlock was thriving in his lessons, but that was the one thing Mr Harrison really couldn't get over. Maths.

"I mean, if it had been anything else..."

"Well, perhaps it's our fault. We really should have learnt enough by now to keep up with him on it."

"Yes, but..." Mr Harrison spluttered for a moment, unable to articulate his thoughts. "It's maths."

"Point taken."

The only maths Mr Harrison was capable of doing at the moment was subtraction. Specifically, counting down from eleven. And he was getting shockingly close to zero now...

August 2017: 2 years until the Day of Reckoning

Mr Cortese was getting rather into this teaching lark. He hadn't done much of it for centuries, but the knack hadn't left him, and he was rather enjoying things. Pity about the maths, but he was less distraught about that than his counterpart.

He just had to remember that this wasn't forever. It was a temporary measure, designed to prevent the end of the human race and all life on earth.

He didn't like reminding himself of that. But needs must. He shouldn't lose sight of the goal.

Not that Buddy was letting him forget any time soon.

August 2018: 1 year until Judgement Day

The tutors both got Warlock's birthday off, and so Crowley and Aziraphale were holed up in the bookshop, celebrating dismally the one-year-left anniversary.

"It will be fine, won't it?"

"We've done all we can."

"Not quite yet. Still a year left."

"Yes. A year."

They sat in silence for a long while. Well, the outside world was silent – Aziraphale could still hear the echoes of an earworm he'd had for the last decade, insistent and unrelenting. He began to tap his foot absentmindedly.

"What's that you've got there, angel?" Crowley asked after a few moments.

"Hmm?"

"What's in your head? You're tapping."

"Oh. Yes." He sighed. "Buddy Holly."

"...Buddy Holly?"

The angel sighed again, then got up and put the offending record on. The upbeat music filled the bookshop, and the demon winced.

"Ah. Buddy Holly."

Everyday it's a-gettin' closer...

August 2019: Adam Young's 11th Birthday

Adam opened his eyes. Yes. Today was the day. Eleven years old. He he grinned up at the ceiling, then scrambled out of bed, still grinning, and headed downstairs.

Today was going to be a brilliant day.

#my writing #fanfiction #good omens #GOmensEveryday #everyday it's a-getting closer #aziraphale #crowley #warlock dowling #archangel michael #the archangel fucking gabriel #beelzebub #dagon #adam young

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jadedlavendergemini · 2 years

Text

A Twisted Love

Summary: You test Michael’s Patience and he punishes you but the not the way you wanted.

Tag list: @7-wonders @lovelylangdonx @littledemondani @fckinsupreme @homopheli @langdvn @langdxn

TW: Smut, Murder, and a manipulative behavior

~xXx~

Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was just the thought of missing your husband, but you had never felt more sexually frustrated in your life.

You craved the way he touched your naked skin of your body and his kisses which lingered along your neck.

But of course, being the Antichrist meant he was busy. He was always busy with “rebuilding this new world”, as he would put it.

You tried to relieve yourself, whether it was with your own hand or your vibrator and nothing seemed to work. You wanted nothing more than Michael’s ring clad fingers wrapped around your throat and his powerful thrusts getting the job done. Or his mouth… your husband seemed talented in all things sexual.

Sighing, you sat up from your bed and pondered the thought of just dragging him back to your room and getting the job done. He hated being interrupted and warned you of doing such things, but you never had an issue seducing him to your shared room.

After pondering the idea for so long, you gave in. You quickly threw on his favorite lingerie set. An all black bra and lace pantries. You even added the stockings and heels just for that extra touch.

Throwing on a coat to cover yourself, you leave the room and make your way towards your husband’s office. You pass a few of the staff on your way but ignore their greetings as you prepare yourself for what you were going to do.

Once you arrive at the large doors, you don’t hesitate to pull the doors open without knocking, something else Michael hated.

There he sat at his desk, his large hands flipping through a small stack of papers. He doesn’t look up as you close the doors behind you.

“And what do I owe this pleasure, my love? I should be finished in about an hour.” His voice is like silk to your ears.

“Unfortunately I don’t think I can wait that long,” you made your way to stand behind him and run your hands down his shoulders. Your touch caused his tense shoulders to relax and nearly drop his pen.

A smirk came across his features as he slowly lets his eyes close and allows one of you hands to travel dow further than the other. But just as you hand nearly reaches his belt, you feel his larger, ring clad hand grip your wrist to stop you.

Before you knew it, he swung his chair around to face you. Pulling you in closer, you gently place your left knee to rest on his side as he brings a hand to your coat tie.

Pulling it completely loose he’s met with the familiar black lace that would normally bring him to his knees. Your breasts were lifted from the push up bra and your curves had his mouth watering.

He let go of your wrist only to lean forward and place a hand to your lower back to bring you forward. You happily obliged and moved your other knee up, making your way to straddle his hips. Both his hands resting on either side of your hips.

You removed the rest of your coat as he licked his lips. “You really couldn’t wait, couldn’t you?” His voice was low and silky.

“Judging by your reaction,” you moved to place kisses along his jawline and then down to his throat. “I don’t think you could either.”

Before you could reach up two latch your lips onto his, you felt yourself being scooped up and hearing him clear off the desk before being placed back down onto it. Michael hovered above you before lowering himself once again to meet you lips. His plump lips felt like heaven against yours as he eventually slipped his tongue in to play with yours.

You let you out a small moan and wrapped your arms around his neck, not noticing when one of his hands made their way towards your panties.

“Did you need some help tonight, darling?” His voice was low and seductive. You could barely find the correct words but nodded.

Michael let out a small smile. “And what do you need?”

“I need you,” you barely managed to speak as he moved your panties to the side and ran his thumb through your wet slick.

That was the answer he wanted to hear. Without another word, he quickly and with little effort ripped the laced fabric off and slipped two fingers in. He leaned back into you and began running kisses down your neck.

You felt as if your eyes were going to roll to the back of your head as you felt him move his fingers with his persistent pattern. This thumb moved to you clit and you let out another moan.

And he loved every second of it. He loved the way your body responded to his touch but most importantly he loved that he knew only he could make you feel this way. And that you were his.

You were so close, closer than your own hand or vibrator could have gotten you when you felt him stop. Pouting, you sat up just in time to see him undoing his trousers.

Before he could pull his cock out, he reached towards you again, placing both hands on either side your legs and pulled you closer to him.

“Are you ready, my love?” His hands moved once again to your waist. You nodded desperately.

“Yes,” you practically moaned.

“Ready to what?” He was very much so going to drag it out.

You knew what he wanted to hear. But being as hot and bothered as ever you responded a little differently. “I want to cum on your cock, Michael.”

Without any hesitation, he completely removed his pants and released his large cock from its restraints. You felt your legs slightly open a bit more, welcoming Michael further.

He moved closer and slowly slid himself inside. You arched your back and let out what you considered a very pornographic moan. You let him fill you up completely and enjoyed the stretch.

“You feel fucking amazing, sweetheart.” He commented, giving himself a second to adjust to your tightness.

A lazy smile filled you features as you leaned back into your husband, ready to be fully wrecked. With one hand wrapped around his shoulder and the other placed behind you on the desk, ready to brace yourself for how rough Michael intended to be.

He didn’t give you a chance to voice that you were ready before slowly pulling himself out and then slamming back into you. After a few more times of this, he then picked up the pace.

As you were being pounded into pure ecstasy, your breast bounced and even one of your bra straps seemed to even fall down the shoulder. Your moans were becoming louder and tears even began to form in your eyes.

Soon you felt a familiar ring clad hand wrap around your throat.

“Is this what you wanted so badly?” Michael asks. “To be fucked this good?”

Your voice was barely audible but you were able to give a small nod. “Yes,”

“And you wanted it so badly that you were willing to disturb me during my work to get it?”

You could feel his grip tighten but managed to squeak out a “Yes.”

You were so close, you could feel that familiar heat rising in your belly and your orgasm coming closer and closer. But then that’s when you felt your airway close. You let go for your husband to claw his hand off of your throat but he wouldn’t budge.

“Y/n, did you really think I wasn’t going to punish you?” He asks. “And not the way that you wanted?”

By now both your hands were trying to claw his off all the while he continued to pound into you.

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll still let you cum first.” He says.

Your breathing is becoming more and more difficult but your body surges in intense pleasure. In any other time you would have been screaming his name but now you couldn’t even get a word out.

Once the wave of pleasure has passed, he presses more into your throat and your airway has been cut off immediately. He manages to cum himself and fill you up before pulling himself out.

You don’t have the strength to kick anymore and watch as he lowers his lips to yours.

“Goodnight, my love.” And with that everything goes black.

——————————————————————————

When you open you eyes you find yourself back in your bed. Slowly, you managed to sit up. Every thing is the same as you had left it before…. Before Michael had strangled you.

Gently, you remove the covers and find yourself in one of your many black silk slips.

You were confused. Was this hell? You imagined your hell would be working in a retail store with a never ending line of bitchy customers or a classroom from your childhood, constantly being teased for being different.

But instead you were back in your shared room in the sanctuary. Did you actually die? Or did you just pass out?

The door opens and then you see Michael, wearing his normal elegant attire.

His smile is sincere. “Welcome back.”

“Michael, what the fuck-“ you raised your voice.

He places both his hands up in defense. “You broke a rule, y/n. And I punished you.”

“YOU KILLED ME!” you spat.

“And I brought you back.” He responded, hands placed behind his back once again. “I even erased your memories of Hell, if it makes you feel better.”

“It doesn’t,” you hissed.

Michael strides towards you, gently placing his hands on both sides of your arms. “When I married you, I knew you were my equal. But that being said, you are not above me. You break my rules, you get punished.”

He then brings you into a hug when he notices your eyes watering. You hesitated before resting your head on his chest. “I love you, y/n. No matter what happens, I’ll always bring you back to me.”

~xXx~

A/N: okay so I found this in my drafts and decided to just finish it and bring it back. I meant to post it on Saturday for my bday surprise for ya’ll but couldn’t.

#michael x reader #micheal langdon #michael langdon x reader #ahs apocalypse #smut #just pure smut #cody fern #ahs #michael langdon imagine #one shot

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ivory--raven · 2 months

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angelfish femslash feb day 13 - goddess. Some thinly veiled (not at all veiled) metaphor.

Michael is wearing stays.

Dagon knows immediately. The line of her front is too sharp - she could do that naturally, choose to have her body do that, but she never does, and she’s all the more beautiful for it.

She wants to look at her in them, see her, undress her layer by layer like she’s a work of art because she is, they don’t know, these humans, what they have in front of them, they don’t see it. They don’t deserve Michael. She also wants to rip those stays off her, tear right through the boning, destroy them, they are far too mortal to contain her glory, the house is, the world is, Heaven is - and by Satan Dagon is, though she tries. Michael is always spilling out of her.

She can imagine her carved from marble, is sure she is somewhere. The real Michael, flesh and blood, celestial, is too beautiful to define. Too lovely to capture in stone or with paint or words.

Michael smirks, like she knows something, like she’s planning something, and she so often is. Dagon knows her. There’s something edgy about it, too, something jagged, rocks under a cliff face and a body bashed and battered against them, ground down. “We had a narrow escape some years ago, Gabriel tells me,” says Michael.

She says this for a reason. She says everything for a reason.

“Oh?” says Dagon, needing to know more.

“You know our man Aziraphale?”

Dagon does, in fact, know Aziraphale, though not personally. “Reads a lot of books. Likes food. Watches sad plays.” Crowley is in love with him. He hasn’t said so, but he’s said everything but that. Dagon knows the sentiment.

“Stationed in London,” says Michael. “He’s been on Earth since it started.”

“Garden of Eden,” agrees Dagon, remembering something to the effect being said.

“Gabriel thought I might replace him.”

“Replace… Aziraphale?” Dagon can’t be hearing right. Michael really ought to be replacing Gabriel, not Aziraphale. Not Crowley’s lover.

“That was his grand idea.”

Dagon would hate that. (Jeanne would hate it too.) “And you wouldn’t be able to…”

“I wouldn’t be able to come here anymore, no. I’d be in London.”

“Jeanne might never forgive you,” says Dagon.

“He changed his mind,” says Michael, and Dagon knows Michael would never let that happen, at least she hopes not, but it’s still such a relief to hear it, like cool spring water. “Aziraphale is staying.”

Crowley will like that, thinks Dagon. He seems to be always where Aziraphale is. But he does his job well and does his paperwork properly and if he loves an angel it’s not the end of the world. When the end of the world really comes, he’ll just have to get over it, like she will.

How could she ever get over Michael? She can’t. She won’t. She’ll put her feelings aside for one battle and accept Michael’s surrender when Heaven loses and then, once the conflict is resolved and the Antichrist rules what remains of the world, when everything falls into place, when the gates of Heaven are torn open for demons to reenter, then she will have her and hold her and keep her and there will be no reason she can’t.

“You’re here,” Dagon says.

“With you,” Michael adds. And she is. Dagon has her now, and she is like a goddess, awe-inspiring and wonderful and beautiful. And like a goddess, Dagon can’t keep her forever. She has to trust Michael to keep coming, again and again, back to the house, back to her, back to Jeanne. Dagon does trust her. Even trusts her to find her if something goes wrong, if she can’t reach her. They’ll find each other, like barbs of the same feather knitting themselves together, like the broken pieces of the stays on the floor springing together when Dagon snaps her fingers.

#femslash omens #femslashfeb2024 #angelfish #ineffable administrators #good omens

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anonymousewrites · 1 month

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Adolescent Antichrist (Book 5) Chapter Six

Father Figure! Lucifer x Teen! Reader

Demon! OC x Teen! Reader

Chapter Six: You’re Supposed to be the Demon on My Shoulder, not the Angel

Summary: Lucifer tries to make things up to (Y/N), and Michael returns for round two.

Em really shouldn’t have been surprised to walk into the penthouse to find people fighting at this point. Between all the incidents over the years, the penthouse had seen a lot of damage and fights, physical or not. This one happened to be on the physical side.

That being said, Em was surprised. It was Maze and Lucifer going back and forth. Lucifer was obviously confused, but Maze had a look of pure anger as she slashed at him with her demon blades.

I wish (Y/N) was here. They’d know how to approach this, thought Em.

Instead, (Y/N) was hitching a ride with Leon to the craft store for fabric for a new project (for homecoming, which is why Em had come back to the penthouse. They thought they’d get a moment to prepare to try to ask (Y/N) more formally to the dance. Alas, it was not to be with another mess going on. She’d have to try again.)

“Maze!” Lucifer managed to grab her and pin her down. “I’m not Michael. It’s me. Lucifer.”

“Oh.” Maze reached up, and Lucifer relaxed. She grabbed him and headbutted him.

Lucifer reeled back, and Em rushed in. Maze tried to hit Lucifer again, but Em moved between and blocked. Maze paused at the sight of the younger demon and backed off. Groaning, Lucifer wiggled his nose to make sure it was alright.

“Wait, would you rather I was Michael?” said Lucifer incredulously.

“Either,” hissed Maze.

“You knew?” said Em, frowning. “About him?”

“I saw him briefly,” admitted Maze.

Em lunged, and it was Lucifer’s turn to hold them back from attacking. “He hurt (Y/N), you crazy demon!” shouted Em.

“I don’t like Michael, either!” said Maze, equally angry. “He left me in a closet. But he—” Maze glared at Lucifer “—he left me, left us, to go to Hell.” She nearly growled. “You left me!”

“No, no, I didn’t, Mazikeen,” said Lucifer, letting go of Em as she calmed. “You’re not my servant anymore. By all means, you’re welcome to join me.”

“Em and I don’t have wings, you idiot!” spat Maze.

“Well, Amenadiel does, why didn’t you ask him?” grumbled Lucifer.

Maze stared at Lucifer, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill in her anger. Deciding she wasn’t sure what to say, she walked forward and shoulder-checked Lucifer.

“Look, I’m really trying to listen, so if you’re telling me that you’d like to stab me, then…” Lucifer opened up his arms. “Go ahead. I need to prepare for (Y/N) getting home. I’m making plans with them.”

Em decided to reschedule their plans to ask (Y/N) to homecoming. They needed a moment with their dad more than they needed someone to ask them to a dance right now. Plus…Em was nervous about asking them. What if (Y/N) said no? They hadn’t last time, but what if they asked if it was as more than friends? Would Em say yes? Would she say no? What would get a good answer from (Y/N)?

To be frank: Em was terrified.

Maze’s next words broke them out of her thoughts. “You seriously have no clue what you did.” She spun on her heel and left.

Lucifer let out a sigh. “Well, at least (Y/N) didn’t react like that.”

“That’s just because they didn’t have a knife on them,” said Em. “And you didn’t see what Michael got when he tried to be you and came back to the penthouse.”

Lucifer shivered. “From what I heard, he also earned quite a scar, so I’m quite glad I was not on the receiving end of (Y/N)’s wrath.”

“You still might be. Your return shocked them to tears, but they’ve recovered their wits. Anger’s next,” said Em jovially, knowing (Y/N)’s habits very well.

Lucifer sighed. “First the Detective’s wrath, then Mazikeen’s, and now (Y/N)’s. What joy.”

“What’s wrong with the Detective?” asked Em.

“She found out about being a gift from God.” Lucifer waved a hand. “She needs, as (Y/N) would say, time to process…Hopefully.” He shook his head. “(Y/N) is my priority. I need to make sure they’re alright.”

“They’ll be arriving home soon,” said Em. “Do you want me to give you two some time?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Lucifer. “I’m taking them out to a fashion show.”

Not a bad plan. “Good luck with them,” said Em, heading towards the stairs.

“Emeranne,” called Lucifer. She paused and looked back. “Did you and Mazikeen truly wish to return to Hell?”

“…Maybe Maze did. I’m not sure,” said Em. “But I didn’t. I’m happy here.” With Leon, Marcel, Olive, Noa. With (Y/N). I wouldn’t leave it for the world.

“Hello, (Y/N),” said Lucifer, smiling as (Y/N) came in and put down their shopping bags.

“You’re still here?” said (Y/N), cautious, wary about getting closer.

“I said I would be for a bit, yes,” said Lucifer, nodding.

“Okay,” said (Y/N), but their shoulders relaxed at the knowledge. That was nice.

“I was thinking that maybe you’d want to go out tonight?” suggested Lucifer.

“I don’t know, I just gone done getting interrogated by my friends,” said (Y/N). “They all surprised me in the car and insisted I explain why I snapped them a photo of myself beaten up last night, so then I had to go over the Michael Problem, so now I’m exhausted.”

“Ah…” Lucifer cleared his throat. “Well, this isn’t a terribly energy-consuming activity. It’s a fashion show.”

(Y/N) perked up. “Wait…really?”

Inwardly, Lucifer prided himself in knowing that (Y/N) would enjoy this. It was a step in the right direction, and it was a way to make sure they knew he cared. He had said the words, now the actions had to show it.

“…I guess we can go,” said (Y/N).

They had no idea how much those few, nonchalant words made Lucifer brighten with hope and love.

(Y/N) and Lucifer watched the procession of clothing go by. The fashion show was closing, so the models were all going down showing the highlights of it once more.

“I think these were quite nice, even if not my style,” said Lucifer (he had, of course, chosen a showing by a designer that had a more alternative look on fashion since that was what (Y/N) preferred).

“I really liked the color pairings,” agreed (Y/N). “Ordinarily, a lot of those combinations would be clashing, but with the fabrics, they work well together.”

Lucifer didn’t understand all of that (he had a tailor for that reason), but he nodded in support of (Y/N). “How is your own work going? I suspect you made those pants, didn’t you?”

(Y/N) looked down at their pants with the holes stitched over with patches that conspicuously depicted angels and demons. “I had torn them, so I fixed them up, yeah.” They clapped as the designer came out and bowed. “I don’t have time for a lot of creations for myself right now. I’m doing homecoming outfits for myself and my friends, and that’s already on top of my senior project.”

Lucifer winced. Right. (Y/N) was a senior. A young one, yes, because of when they were born, but they were reaching another milestone for humans. And Lucifer would be leaving them again.

His heart ached.

“What is your senior project?” asked Lucifer, trying to push aside his sadness and focus on the time he had with (Y/N).

“A fashion show,” said (Y/N).

They looked down and fiddled with the ends of their sleeves, their telltale sign of anxiety. Lucifer would never forget that. He reached out and touched their hand supportively.

“I think that’s lovely. No one could do it but you,” said Lucifer.

(Y/N) felt themself relax at the support of their dad. They looked at him. “It’s silly to some people, but I applied to several schools for fashion design, and this show as a senior project will be a chance to really show them what I’m made of.”

“I believe you’ll blow them away,” said Lucifer, smiling.

(Y/N) glanced at him nervously. “You think so?” They were so confident in themself in other areas of their life—with celestials, demons, and all of that, it was easy to just be straightforward and deal with things—but the things they really cared about, the parts of themself that regular humans judged…that was tough.

“Absolutely,” said Lucifer. “And I don’t lie.”

(Y/N) let themself grin. “I can’t wait to show you.”

“I would like to see,” said Lucifer. But I don’t know when I’ll have to return to Hell.

The unspoken words rested in (Y/N) and Lucifer’s minds.

(Y/N) cleared their throat and continued, trying not to get choked up by anger or sadness. If they only had a limited amount of time left with their dad, then they had to take advantage of it. They couldn’t be stupid.

“Leon is writing a novel for his project,” said (Y/N), deciding to fill Lucifer in on what he’d missed in their life and to distract themself. “Noa is working with a bunch of parks across the city to help the indigenous plant-life regrow and survive. Olive is studying martial arts and developing a program to teach women or at-risk minorities. Marcel is composing.”

“A varied group,” said Lucifer, chuckling.

“We’re all hoping to help people,” said (Y/N) excitedly. “My goal is to have clothes that people can actually afford and will last, Noa wants to transition into also helping communities have fresh fruit and vegetables regularly, Olive is all about empowerment, and Marcel wants to inspire more people to create and work with them to produce music so more people have their voices lifted.”

“And what about Emeranne?” asked Lucifer.

(Y/N) coughed and ducked their head. Lucifer blinked as he saw their cheeks warm. That was something he had never seen before.

“They’re, well, they’re my model,” said (Y/N). “She thinks doing all the human stuff is silly, but they help me a lot. They really support me.”

Ah. So Emeranne’s loyalty is with (Y/N). Lucifer cocked his head. Interesting. If this was what he suspected, he’d be pleased. No one would ever be good enough for his child, but a non-human that clearly had strength and supported them wouldn’t be a terrible choice.

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” said Lucifer.

“I mean, it’s been hard to find inspiration. I’ve been really struggling,” said (Y/N). “But I actually—I actually designed some pieces I liked today. I guess having you back is nice.” The “I guess” part was an understatement, but (Y/N) was attempting to be vulnerable. It definitely wasn’t their favorite thing, but they loved their dad.

“I’m glad to be here,” said Lucifer, gaze softening. He loved his kid.

“Hey, Birdie, Boss,” said Em as Lucifer and (Y/N) walked back into the penthouse. “How was the show?”

“It was really good,” said (Y/N), smiling at Em.

The demon grinned back, but their motivation was due to (Y/N) and Lucifer’s relaxed body language together. Clearly, the time together was helping them. Em was happy for (Y/N).

“We had a nice time,” said Lucifer, looking fondly at (Y/N).

Woosh!

“How sickeningly sweet,” sneered a familiar southern drawl.

Lucifer sighed, Em tensed, and (Y/N) groaned. They turned, and, sure enough, it was Michael standing in the penthouse.

“Michael,” said Lucifer, his previous joy and softness changing to cold wariness. He refused to let down his guard after (Y/N) got injured by Michael. “I was wondering when you’d show our face again.” He looked at the nasty cut across Michael’s face. “Though, thankfully, mine is far better-looking than yours now.” Lucifer wasn’t against scars in many people, but he thought Michael was ugly inside and out, so there.

Em moved a little in front of (Y/N). It wouldn’t really do anything, and, actually, (Y/N) had stronger abilities than her, but they refused to leave (Y/N) unprotected. They had to protect them.

“Welcome home,” sneered Michael. “I have your brat to thank.”

“Remind me to raise their allowance,” said Lucifer to Em.

“I’ll take the money now, if you have it,” said (Y/N).

Michael’s eyebrow twitched. Losing the attention, he was frustrated. “How’d you like the mess I made, Samael?”

“ ‘Samael?’ ” repeated (Y/N).

“An old name,” said Lucifer, rolling his eyes. “Trying to get under my skin, brother? It will take more than that.”

Michael grinned. “Well, I did do a lot of work turning your life upside down.”

“I think that backfired,” said (Y/N), narrowing their eyes on his scar.

“Birdie, let’s not antagonize anyone,” murmured Em.

“You’re supposed to be the demon on my shoulder, not the angel,” huffed (Y/N).

“You did turn up, Samael,” said Michael. “So I’d say I succeeded in my goal. Do you wonder why I’m doing all this?”

“Not particularly,” said Lucifer.

“You Celestials are always up to shit for stupid reasons,” said (Y/N), shrugging.

“We just deal with the problems as they come,” said Em.

“Oh, right, because you’re so above all of this,” scoffed Michael. “You, brat, are the one with so much wrath you gave me a scar.”

“It was self-defense,” said (Y/N) coldly. “As far as I’m concerned, you earned it.”

“I’ll give you another one if you even take a step towards them,” said Em immediately as they saw Michael’s eyes narrow.

“You think you’re all so cool,” said Michael, sneering.

“Well, isn’t that what this is all about?” said Lucifer, diverting attention back to himself. “You turning my life upside-down actually means you had to act like me, and, as (Y/N) proved, it didn’t turn out too well.” He was incredibly proud of them for what they’d done to Michael (and also a bit intimidated since that sort of power hadn’t been displayed by (Y/N) in front of him).

“It worked enough to get you’re here, didn’t it?” snapped Michael.

Lucifer rolled his eyes and looked at (Y/N) and Em. “It’s the only trick he ever pulled. All our lives he wanted everyone to think that he was the cleverer one, the big brain, but…it’s only ever been about me, about trying to be me. He always thought too small.”

“Not like you, right?” retorted Michael. “Lucifer the rebel, deciding you can do a better job than Dad? You know, I wonder how you got that idea into your head in the first place.”

Lucifer chuckled. “So that’s your play, is it? Taking credit for my failed rebellion? By all means, it’s yours.”

“Now, you see, that is the best part,” said Michael. “All I did was plant the idea. You’re the one who chose to do it. You still get to keep all the blame yourself.”

Lucifer’s jaw tensed, and (Y/N) furrowed their brow as Michael got under his skin. Oh, Hell no. He’s not doing that to Lucifer.

“Your lies are so tedious, Michael,” said Lucifer, but it wasn’t as forceful as other statements had been.

“Not as tedious as your denial,” said Michael, stepping forward. “’Cause I’m not lying now, brother, and I think, deep down, you’re realizing that.”

“No,” said Luicfer.

“How about something more recent, then?” said Michael. “All it took was a couple whispers and coincidence here and there, and Lucifer’s endless self-absorption made him so easy to manipulate that it even ended up with him on vacation here on Earth.”

“Why?” said Lucifer.

“Why?” Michael sneered. “Because all our lives, you thought that you were better than me. The great Lucifer Morningstar. But you’re not, are you? You’re just Samael. You’re just unworthy.”

(Y/N)’s heart flamed with fury as they saw Lucifer’s glaze with the slightest hint of tears. “Shut up, Michael. You have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re grasping at straws to play our fears. But they’re just that—fears. They don’t mean anything in reality.” (Y/N) held their head high and took Lucifer’s hand. “This is my dad. I know him better than you do. And he’s not self-absorbed. He has problems, sure, and a terrible ego, but he cares about his friends and family. He is better than you, in every way. It’s you who can’t stand the truth. That’s why you’re trying to hurt him. Your fears are the only ones coming true.”

Lucifer, Michael, and Em stared at (Y/N). They had spoken so confidently, so straightforwardly. At their speech, Lucifer and Em couldn’t help but be filled with assurance that everything they spoke was true, and Michael found that his own words wilted in comparison.

Lucifer smiled, finding strength in (Y/N)’s assurance and fortitude. He squeezed his kid’s hand. “I think they’ve hit the nail on the head, don’t you, Michael?” He smiled at (Y/N). “My child is ever so clever.”

“They’re just good at twisting words,” sneered Michael.

“They are, but that’s not what they’re doing,” said Em, stepping forward. “They told the truth. You’re not winning anything trying to get under Lucifer or Birdie’s skin. Just leave.”

“And preferably don’t come back,” said (Y/N).

Michael gritted his teeth. “This isn’t over.” He extended his wings, beat them once, and disappeared.

“Your family is the worst, Dad,” sighed (Y/N).

Lucifer smiled. “Luckily, you’re a much better person than they are, (Y/N).”

“And now you’re 2-0 versus Michael,” said Em. They frowned. “What does he expect to happen in a third round?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “He thinks this is him versus my dad.”

“I’d prefer if it was,” said Lucifer. He squeezed (Y/N)’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be involved with this.”

“That’s what I’m always thinking, but then here I am,” said (Y/N) brightly. “I’ve dealt with Biblical people, demons, and even angels now. Last person to take on in an argument is God.”

“Please don’t,” said Lucifer.

“Actually, I’d really like to see what would happen with that,” said Em.

“Don’t encourage them,” said Lucifer.

“There’s the demon on my shoulder!” said (Y/N), laughing.

Lucifer groaned. “Please go to be before you get any more terrible ideas.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Dad,” said (Y/N), waving their hand and walking off.

Lucifer sincerely hoped that (Y/N) didn’t ever have to deal with his Father when it came to any sort of drama, but that concern was overwhelmed with the joy of being called “Dad” again. He was a sucker for his kid, the person he loved more than any other on Earth.

“Hey, um, Birdie?” said Em, entering (Y/N)’s room after getting ready for bed.

“Yeah?” said (Y/N), looking up from where they were hunched over sketchbooks in their PJs.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” said Em.

“What is it? Are you still worried about Michael?” asked (Y/N).

“I mean, yeah, but that’s not what this is about,” said Em.

“Okay, what is it?” said (Y/N).

Em took a deep breath. Come on, don’t be a coward, you are literally a demon forged in Hell not some regular human. From behind their back, she held out a card. “Here.”

(Y/N), confused but curious, stood up, took the letter, and opened it. Written in pretty cursive was a brief poem:

You’re an angel, I’m a demon, But hopefully Heaven and Hell can both agree, That you will go Homecoming, With me.

“I know it’s cheesy as shit,” said Em, rambling. “And it’s not flowers like that time, and there’s never any pressure, but—”

(Y/N) reached out and took Em’s hand. Their cheeks warmed in a blush, and they smiled at Em. “Of course I’d go with you to Homecoming with you.”

“Really?” said Em excitedly.

“Obviously.” (Y/N) chuckled. “Did you seriously forget that I was happy to go with you last year, too?”

“I mean, yeah, but things change, and it’s still…I don’t know. You’re kind of scary,” admitted Em, managing to be honest without admitting her crush.

(Y/N) rolled their eyes. “You’re so stupid, but I guess I like your nervousness. It’s cute.” They leaned up, kissed Em’s cheek, and then stepped back. They grinned, heart pounding since that had been a risky move. “Goodnight, Em.”

“Night!” said Em, nearly squeaking in shock. For all their ability to tease (Y/N) in the day-to-day, all sense went out the window when it came to vulnerability and flirting. (She’d have to work on that if she ever wanted to really confess).

Michael nearly punched the mirror in front of him as he gazed at the scar across his face. Twice he’d tried to hurt Lucifer, first by messing with his kid and then with him directly, and twice that same brat had ruined it. (Y/N) was proving to be the biggest obstacle to Michael destroying Lucifer’s life. If only (Y/N) was out of the way, then Michael could teach Lucifer a lesson and prove he was better than the King of Hell…

Alright, Antichrist. It’s time for you to learn your place.

Taglist:

@sammyscreencaps-13

@grippleback-galaxy-galaxy

@scarlettqueen190

@ziro-the-null-god

@sammy-13

@zeros-rot

@ceridwyn3

@technikerin23

@poetoflawed

@slytherinroyalty16

@ilse235

@theurbannoodle

@lookitseddie

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mimisempai · 9 months

Text

My brave angel

Summary

That morning, Aziraphale wasn't expecting a visit from Gabriel. And as memories flood back, he realizes it may be time to confront the former archangel about his behavior with him over the centuries. With the help of his demon, of course.

Notes

Watching S1 and S2 again, I realized in the present time alone how many times Aziraphale is belittled by Gabriel and the archangels. And I realized that, in fact, he had suffered millennia of this behavior. And he's still the angel we know... This is my little revenge on his behalf.

On Ao3

Rating G - 1808 words

Aziraphale opened the door to the bookshop, and as he was about to close it on him, he stopped. He had just felt the sudden appearance of a supernatural presence entering the area.

He turned, gasped, and dropped the books he was holding.

Across the street, in front of Nina's cafe, stood Gabriel.

Gabriel. In his fancy suit. Just like old times.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale didn't answer, standing motionless.

Crowley called again, walking toward him until he saw what had made the Angel react the way he did.

The demon also gasped when he saw Gabriel, who had seen them through the window, waving his hand in a cheerful greeting.

But Crowley immediately ignored him and, out of protective instinct, stood in front of Aziraphale.

"Angel. Listen to me. He's not the fucking Archangel Gabriel anymore. You hear me. He can't hurt you."

When he got no answer, he turned and saw that his angel was deep in thought. So he gently took his hands and said, "Angel, you don't have to meet him. You set the terms. All you have to do is say the word, and I'll send him on his way to Alpha Centauri without going past 'go'."

Aziraphale could hear Crowley's reassuring voice, could feel his hands gently holding his own, but he could do nothing against the memories that came flooding back. Millennia of belittlement. Thousands of years of believing himself to be less than nothing.

"My informant suggests that the demon...Crowley may be involved."

Aziraphale tried not to show emotion at the mention of the demon's name as Gabriel continued, " You need to keep him under observation, without letting him know, of course, that's what you're doing."

Aziraphale nodded and tried to answer in a confident voice, "I know, yes. I've been on Earth doing this -since the beginning."

Gabriel replied in a tone that didn't hide his irony, "So has Crowley. It's a miracle he hasn't spotted you yet."

Once again, Gabriel managed to make Aziraphale understand that he was an incompetent idiot, but without saying the words, of course.

**********

Aziraphale was reporting to the 4 archangels,“I am proud to say that on a very real level, the Antichrist child is now being influenced towards the light.”

Gabriel applauded somewhat unnaturally, followed by the other three, saying, “Very commendable, Aziraphale. Excellent work, as usual.”

Archangel Michael added in an equally condescending voice,“But, Aziraphale, we will be most understanding when you fail. After all, wars are to be won. Not avoided.”

Aziraphale retorted, “But I won't fail. I mean, that would be bad.”

Gabriel stepped forward and said with a haughty smile, “Aziraphale, what you're doing is praiseworthy, but obviously doomed to failure.”

Aziraphale once again felt nothing more than a speck of dust on Gabriel's fine suit, which he brushed away with a flick of his hand as he added, "Still, as the Almighty likes to say, 'Climb every mountain,'" then he was gone, and Sandalphon continued, "Ford every stream.

Doomed to fail.

Of course.

**********

“Lose the gut”

“You think to much.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Aziraphale, maybe you should just keep your mouth shut.”

“Keep up.”

Memories looped through Aziraphale's mind, unstoppable. Centuries of veiled insults. Centuries of condescension.

"Angel!"

Aziraphale opened his eyes to see Crowley's worried expression.

Seeing that he had opened his eyes, the demon's expression softened and he asked him gently, "Are you with me?"

Aziraphale nodded before dropping his head onto the demon's shoulder as he wrapped his arms around him. Crowley asked him softly, still concerned, "Hey, Angel, are you okay?"

Aziraphale replied in a slightly shaky voice, "Not really. But I will be."

Crowley grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back a little to meet his gaze before saying gently, "Angel, the choice is yours. You can either talk to him and have some closure, or you can just refuse to see him. But whatever you decide, I'm with you, I've got your back.”

Crowley's last words were all Aziraphale needed to make his decision. This was different from all the previous encounters he'd had with Gabriel. He was no longer alone. He had someone with him who loved and cherished him. He'd made up his mind.

The angel said in a clear, determined voice, "I will meet him."

Crowley asked in a slightly concerned voice, "Are you sure?"

Aziraphale nodded and answered, "Absolutely. It's time to get this over with."

The demon, seeing his determination, stepped aside to let him pass before following suit, his hand on the angel's small back in a reassuring pressure into which Aziraphale leaned lightly.

He crossed the street with a confident stride until he stood in front of Gabriel.

He said simply, "Gabriel."

The former archangel, an affable smile on his lips, exclaimed, "Aziraphale, my fr..."

Aziraphale shook his head, interrupting him, "No. We've never been friends, and we probably never will be. Maybe when you were Jim, because you had no memory of how you behaved with me, but now that you have your memory back, even though you may have changed, I can't forget. Gabriel, you behaved awfully to me, you and your... colleagues. For a long time, so long, I was so convinced that I wasn't worth much that I would go out of my way for the slightest praise, for the slightest gratification. Only to be put in my place again and again. No matter what I did. So that in the end I'd come to believe that I was no one and that whatever I did would never be enough. But that's changed. I don't care about your approval or heaven's approval anymore. I know who I am and what I'm worth, thanks to people who love and appreciate me for who I am."

Aziraphale felt Crowley's hand press a little more against his lower back. His silent support.

He continued, "Anything to add?"

Gabriel, looking sheepish, said quietly, "I would like to say something, but only to you."

Crowley stepped forward and said, "I'll stay with him."

Aziraphale put a reassuring hand on his arm and said gently, "Wait for me in the shop, my dear, please."

Crowley asked him in a worried tone, "Are you sure, Angel?"

Aziraphale nodded and looked him in the eye, "Absolutely," then remembering the last time he had gone off alone with someone and it almost separated them, he added gently, "Don't worry, it's not Metatron. I'll come back to you."

Crowley looked at him in silence for a few moments before nodding and walking away.

"So you and him...?" asked Gabriel.

Aziraphale replied curtly, "It's none of your business. Say what you have to say."

Gabriel coughed, clapped his hands and said, "Very well. Actually, it does concern Crowley. He's very... protective of you. He hasn't hesitated to threaten me several times if anything happens to you, and while I'm surprised at his virulence, it's rather nice that you have a guardian angel in your corner..."

Aziraphale interrupted, "You don't get it, he's not my guardian angel, he's not a practical tool or whatever you imagine him to be in your narrow mind. He's worth more than all of you put together. He has more morality and respect in his little finger than all the archangels in heaven. And most of all, I don't need a guardian angel, I'm not weak. I was always looking outside myself for strength and confidence, but they came from within. They were always there. And he was the one who revealed them to me. And you know what? I don't feel like justifying or explaining anything anymore. As far as I'm concerned, we have nothing more to say to each other. Goodbye, Gabriel."

Aziraphale didn't wait for an answer and turned on his heel, walking briskly to the bookshop in a hurry to find Crowley. As he stepped through the door and closed it behind him, he realized what had just happened and let out a long sigh.

He looked down at his hands and saw that they were trembling slightly, reminding him of the strain he had been under throughout the meeting. He felt the tremors begin to spread throughout his body when suddenly Crowley's hands came to rest on his shoulders, causing him to turn around and immediately calm down.

Aziraphale looked up at the demon and said in a shaking voice, as if he couldn't believe it, "I did it."

Crowley took his face in his hands and said softly, "Yes, angel, you did it."

Aziraphale went on, "I told him."

Crowley nodded, "Yes, my brave angel, you told him everything."

Aziraphale's throat tightened as he struggled to articulate, "I... this is huge... I've finally said it all. I said it."

He didn't notice the tears in his eyes until Crowley wiped them away with his thumbs. The demon said softly, "My so fucking brave angel, come here."

Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, pressing him against his chest, and in response, Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon, burying his face in his neck. The angel swallowed several times, trying to hold back the sobs rising from his throat.

Crowley whispered into his hair, "Let them come, angel. It will be all right. Let go. I'll catch you."

Aziraphale still managed to articulate, "L- like always. You're always the one who catches me."

Crowley replied through his hair, "You know I like that."

The angel let out a little laugh that sounded more like a hiccup, and it was like a dam broke as the laughter turned into a cry.

Crowley held him tighter and whispered, "Yes, angel, that's it. Let go," and every sob that came out tore at his heart for his angel. But he also knew it was necessary, long overdue, so he supported him, encouraged him, comforted him, until the Angel's tears had dried. Eventually, Crowley had managed to pull him onto the sofa where they now sat, Aziraphale nestled against his chest as Crowley gently stroked his hair.

Aziraphale murmured softly, "Sorry about your shirt."

A slight chuckle answered him, "Nothing magic can't fix," then his expression turned serious as he grabbed the Angel's chin to look at him and asked quietly, "The important thing is, are you okay?"

Aziraphale nodded slowly and replied, "Surprisingly, I'm fine," then added, "Thanks for being there to catch me."

Crowley murmured softly, "Always, Angel, always. That's what we do, isn't it? Catching each other up."

Aziraphale agreed, and a smile slowly formed on his lips. Crowley, seeing this, smiled back and said, his voice full of adoration, "I'm so damn proud of you."

He leaned his head forward and pressed his lips to his angel's in a tender kiss that told better than words the pride, and most of all, the love he felt for him at that very moment.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #GOS2Spoilers

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laiqualaurelote · 8 months

Note

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤

1. World Enough And Time (MFMM/Doctor Who, Phrack, 51k)

This will always be my favourite of my fics. It's the Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries/Doctor Who crossover where Phryne is a Time Lady, Dot is from the past, Mac is from the future and Jack is just trying to work out what is happening. It's an AU that contains eight other AUs (including a Regency AU, a Mad Max Fury Road AU and a fake-marriage-with-aliens AU) and it represented an enormous milestone for me in my writing.

2. all the men and women merely players (Ted Lasso, Ted/Trent, Roy/Keeley/Jamie, 50k)

The Ted Lasso Station Eleven post-apocalyptic AU in which, in the wake of a devastating global pandemic, American comedy actor Ted Lasso leads a Shakespearean theatre troupe across the ruins of England. It combines my love of Ted Lasso, Station Eleven, Shakespeare and theatre, and it's probably the fic I've worked hardest on.

3. I Live And Lie For You (Good Omens/James Bond, Bond/Q, Aziraphale/Crowley, Adam/Eve, 13k)

The fic in which Wensleydale grows up to be Q. Features avocados, cats named after mathematicians, car chases in the Bentley, questionable ice-cream flavours, far too many spies at St James' Park, the Antichrist in his fuckboi era and tardigrades. I don't even like James Bond but I loved writing this.

4. The Legend Continues (Rivers of London, Michael Cheung/Sahra Guleed, 8.5k)

A closer, canon-compliant look at how a hijabi cop might have inadvertently apprenticed herself to the legendary swordsman of London's Chinatown and then started dating him. I always wanted to write an wuxia in English! Features my holy trinity of subtle Asian traits: bubble tea, passive-aggressive aunties and an original character clearly based on Michelle Yeoh. Fun fact: this fic was named after an actual Chinatown restaurant called Leong's Legend Continues, a spinoff of Leong's Legend (ironically Leong's Legend is still around but the Legend Continues has since, well, failed to continue).

5. Best Revenge Is Your Paper (Daredevil/The Punisher, Frank Castle/Karen Page, 15.5k)

In which Karen Page gets a bunch of bylines, pisses off a lot of people, tries not to fall in love with her newsmaker and fails. Kastle was the ship that brought me back to fandom after a five-year hiatus, and Karen remains one of my favourite fictional reporters of all time (the others are Trent Crimm, of course, and Hildy Johnson from His Girl Friday). It's been another five years since this fic and oh, I've had such a time.

Thank you for this ask!

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angelthefirst1 · 21 days

Text

Silver Lake Swimteam. 🪞 🧚‍♀️

I AM WHO I AM - The name of God.

Emily calls herself the name of God - I am who I am 💫🛸

While focusing this photo on the heavens above...

She's referencing Beth's return and connecting it to a cure.

I AM ♾️ I AM - Beginning and end

WHO - World health organisation. 🌎 which speaks to God's cure.

When Emily first released Swimteam 🏊‍♀️ I struggled to connect the dots on what she was referring to, but I think I have figured it out.

Let's dive into the meaning behind the title of her album Swimteam, the meaning of the silver lake, the meaning of the song B or C for effort, and some other links I've come across...

Firstly, the 💫 returning star from space 🛸 symbolism has a mirrored/inverted meaning.

The star can refer to Sirius the dog star. Dog backwards is god with a little g. This is why i consider the dog star to represent the antichrist (little backward god) and a false light/cure, it's symbolism extends to having a darkened eye. Which is connected to spiritual blindness.

But that same star is also referred to as the bright morning star, which is Christ.

Revelation 22.16

“I, Jesus, have sent my angel to testify to you about these things for the churches. I am the root and the descendant of David, the bright morning star.”

So, it also points to Christ and the real cure/light.

Emily posted a series of photos with the "I am who I am" comment and the returning star from space symbolism.

One of the other photos she linked with the name of God, was this photo from the song B or C for effort from her new album, Swimteam.

B.C = Before Christ.

The song B or C for effort starts at night time (B.C), with Emily acting like she's just been shot, like Beth was in Coda. This time without a visible bullet.

Lights out, head thrown back and eyes closed in the dark, on her bed.

We then see a hint of an eclipsed sun (eclipse)

And straight after the eclipse, we see her wake up in the daylight (open her eyes/sight) in A.D Anno Domini or the year of our Lord.

The music video shows symbolism of Beth waking (eyes opened) after being shot, but laying down (lame), and also imagery of looking at an eclipsed sun. Something we saw a hint at in the episode 509.

We then hear music and see a band playing (music box)

She gets up from the mat/bed she's laying on, joins them, and starts singing about flowers (funerals/new life) and soothing (healing) wounds in another state.

After connecting the dots, i realised the album Swimteam is about the silver lake of the pool of BETHesda in Israel, in Jerusalem where Jesus was Crucified.

The Apostle John recorded the healing of a lame man and the healing of the blind man at the pool of Bethesda. The pool is known as the pool of healing and mercy.

The lame man was told by Jesus to get up, take his mat/bed, and walk.

So Emily is depicting the lame and blind (Beth would have been both after being shot) next to the pool of Bethesda being healed.

I've already written about how Mont Saint Michel in France is a depiction of Israel and Jerusalem. You can read more on that here.

The archangel Michael has many duties but one of his main duties is the protector of Israel.

Jesus saying that "I am the root and descendant of David, and the bright morning star" connects this passage to the star 🌟 of David.

That's why Emily wore the blue and white swim 🏊‍♀️ suit while next to the pool of "Bethesda" in Jerusalem. While promoting Swimteam. 🇮🇱

TWD often makes you think you are in one location when in fact they are hinting at an entirely different location when telling the story. Sometimes, it's biblical history, and sometimes it's biblical prophecy (future)

Israel and Jerusalem are called the apple of God's eye, and they are front and center in biblical history and biblical end times prophecy.

I am who i am 🍎 tree

So, while you think you're watching a story in America and France, you are not.

The pool of Bethesda was associated with healing because an angel was said to stir the water, giving it healing properties.

The silver lake of Emily's Swimteam is the mirror on the music box that the angel with wings "stirs" or "twirls" when the music plays.

The reason the silver lake is depicted as a mirror is because before the pool of Bethesda was built, that location was just dessert sand. The book of Isaiah 35.7 predicted that the parched land or "glowing sand" of that place would become a real pool, which was later built.

In the desert, this glowing sand can be called a mock-lake or mirage. Heated sand also becomes glass...hence the mirror.

Isaiah said that the mock-lake of the burning desert sand would become a real lake of refreshment and Joy.

Emily's outfit in B or C for effort is a perfect combination of all the colours seen in the music box shot with Maggie and Sasha. When the "Good news" plays.

The music box has hints of gold, like the gold frame of the "silver lake" mirror used in the music video.

And Emily posted about rainbows 🌈 in relation to Swimteam.

The blind man being healed at Bethesda represents spiritual blindness and a darkened mind, seeing a mirage if you will. Christ healed him, opening his eyes.

I would say Leah and even Isabelle are a version on this blindness on Daryl's behalf.

The healing of the blind man is used to show how great the spiritual blindness of man is, which only by degrees, and by successive stages, can come to the light.

Emily's song B or C for effort talks about God and the theme of spiritual growth.

Go listen to the full song here if you like.

Jesus did many other miracles and also walked on water in the region of Bethesda.

If you remember the episode that Jesus (Paul, aka the apostle Paul) was introduced in...

We saw much of the same symbolism that B or C for effort shows, and symbolism that's around Beth.

First, we see the Silver 🪞 wings 🧚‍♀️ cigarettes... when Daryl comes across the vending machine that's labelled cold drinks.

The pool of Bethesda is a fresh water 💧 spring and was the main source of water for Jerusalem.

What are cigarettes 🚬

Smokes...smoke and mirrors = mirage of a cold drink or pool. Mock-lake.

The scene where Jesus is introduced also shows a sign for pizza 🍕next to the silver wings sign, the symbolism for which I've shown a lot of lately in relation to Beth.

Later on in episode 610, we see the "silver lake" or pool of Bethesda as Jesus is passed out on the ground next to the lake.

Daryl says they should put him up a tree, which is just another way of saying crucifixion ✝️

Lastly, the truck that ends up going into the Silver-lake of Bethesda references Luke 8.41

Which is a reference to a dying girl restored and a bleeding woman healed.

You can go read that yourself, but the truck 🚚 that references a dying girl and bleeding woman sank into the healing pool (silver lake) of BETHesda.

That the angel of God stirs with healing power. 🪞 🧚‍♀️

I AM WHO I AM

🧚‍♀️🪞✝️💫♾️💫✝️🪞🧚‍♀️

#team delusional #team defiance #bethyl #beth greene #team beth lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #beth greene lives #td #beth x daryl #swim team #Silverlake #emily kinney #bethesda #healing #return of christ #i am who i am #silver wings #daryl dixon

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