#yeah hellfire and holy water and consecrated ground

[stainedglassthreads]

Saw someone mention something about 'of course Gabriel would get along with a demon, he's an awful person--' and no no no you're missing the point. Like yeah, he does suck and has been awful to Aziraphale, but he's not Uniquely Awful, nor is that the reason he gets along with Beelzebub. He gets along with Beelzebub because they are fundamentally the same, because there is no difference between angels and demons in Good Omens.

One of the things reiterated again and again in the book Good Omens is how Heaven and Hell is fundamentally the same. It's noted that demon wings are not black, but white, and during what while the showdown between Adam and Satan in the series, all the angels and demons actually appear on earth and square off against each other--and the narration specifically says that you couldn't tell the angels apart from the demons. That's why Gabriel and Beelzebub get the same complaints from both Heaven and Hell about how hard it is to get the angels and demons to back down from a war, that's why Crowley says at the end of season 1 that the real Armageddon will be the combined hosts of Heaven and Hell versus humanity. It's why it was mentioned, when talking about season 1, that Heaven and Hell were envisioned as being the upper floors and basement of the same basement--is why the methods to get to both places are always in the same location! The escalators and the elevator!

And that's why Gabriel and Beelzebub got along. Because they were in the exact same position experiencing the exact same difficulties and complaints, and because they the exact same amount of actual care for Heaven and Hell--precisely zero. They fell in love because they're similar, but at the end of the day, all the angels and demons are 'similar', because the demons used to be angels too! Which we are reminded, when Crowley correctly analyzes angels like Muriel, Heaven as a structure, and guesses that they STILL haven't changed the passwords. Crowley recognizes that Heaven and Hell are the same, and are plagued by effectively the same problems, and so he rejects both. He rejects Beelzebub's offer to become a Duke of Hell, even if it would protect Aziraphale. He rejects Aziraphale's offer to become an angel again. Crowley knows that both sides are rife with systematic problems, and so he goes all-in on our side. And on humanity's side.

[ethereal-not-occult]

patience and the mulberry

"With time and patience, the mulberry leaf becomes a silk gown."

Fandom: Good Omens Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Character(s) of Color, Sericulture, silkworms, past religious trauma, but nothing bad happens in this fic I promise, mixed bookverse w/ TV elements, references to Chinese culture Notes: Originally written for the @goodomensfashionzine​ !

“I'll only be a minute, dear.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek as he opened the door of the Bentley. “You don't have to see me to the door if you don't want to.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the wheel. “Sure, angel. Sounds good to me.” The sibilants slid far too quickly past his clenched jaw, and he bit his tongue to stop the instinctive hiss from escaping.

Aziraphale gave him a sympathetic look, but shut the Bentley's door behind him and soon disappeared through the doors of the church. Once he was out of sight, Crowley slumped forward slightly, sliding his sunglasses up and rubbing at his eyes. A few deep breaths later, and he felt composed enough to exit the Bentley himself in blatant disregard for the “NO PARKING” sign on the curb.¹

[¹ Given his new job position (or lack thereof), lawbreaking was no longer a necessity, but old habits die hard.]

The bright afternoon sun made him wince a bit, and two robins in a nearby bush were getting frisky in a way he would never be able to unhear, but they made it easier to forget the distant wail of air sirens. Even standing out on the road, Crowley's skin prickled faintly with the remembered sting of consecrated ground.

He pushed the feeling aside and walked resolutely forward. Aziraphale was bound to take his sweet time as he mooned over the church's dusty old tomes, but Crowley had his own investigations to conduct while he waited. No rest for the wicked and all that.

The concrete pavement under his snakeskin shoes gave way to grass, and the tingling sensation in his soles faded. Soon he found himself at his intended destination—an Edenic grove of mulberry trees, clustered together in a ring in the church's backyard. He'd spotted them on the drive over and couldn't resist the temptation of a closer look.

Crowley wandered into the garden with a scrutinizing eye. They were young, for trees, but growing well despite their callowness. A particularly stocky sapling hardly flinched when Crowley gave it a token glare, much to his disappointment. Then again, outdoor plants were rarely as well-behaved as properly cowed houseplants. It seemed this attitude persisted even in ecclesiastic gardens such as these.

He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, then reached a hand up into the tree's umbrella-like branches and tugged. The season wasn't quite right for fruits, but he still withdrew clutching a handful of dark ripe mulberries. Hardly apples, but his lips twitched upwards nonetheless. He plucked a berry from the pile and raised it to his lips.

“Zaoshang hao!”

Only a hasty miracle saved Crowley from choking as he jumped and swiveled around. Hovering right outside the churchyard was a middle-aged human, well-dressed and smiling pleasantly at him. Judging by her formal clothing and the Bible she carried, she was a part of the congregation, maybe even the priest herself. Crowley swallowed and stepped backwards.

“Ni shi jiaohui de xinshou ma?” the human called again, picking her way across the dewy grass in his direction. Crowley eyed the Bible she held, willing himself not to break out into hives.

“Um. Wo bu—er, no. I'm not new. Not here for church at all, actually.” He fidgeted and clasped his hands, still full of pilfered mulberries, behind his back. “Just waiting for someone.”

The human raised an eyebrow. “You're welcome to wait inside, if you like,” she said, also switching to English. “I reckon we still have biscuits left from the children's morning service—”

“No!” Crowley said too quickly, and perhaps too sharply. He winced. “I mean. That won't be necessary. I'd much rather stay out here, if it isn't too much trouble.”

The human gave him a Look. Crowley's cheeks heated and he averted his eyes, willing his sunglasses a few shades darker.

“Beautiful, aren't they?”

Crowley's head shot back up. The human had turned her back to him and was running a hand through the glossy green leaves of the nearest mulberry tree. Crowley could practically see the branches stretch out in delight beneath her touch, like a purring cat.

“Volunteers from our congregation take care of them,” the human continued, smiling at the young tree. “The kids here like raising silkworms, you see, and we welcome them to pick leaves from the trees each week to feed them.”

Silkworms. Of course. Despite himself, a hazy memory rose to the forefront of his mind: Sichuan, China, several hundreds of years ago. A family farm, weathered and cozy and oozing enough sheer goodness to make the average demon ill with it. Crowley wouldn't normally be caught dead in such a place, but he had owed a favour to the angel. His fingers twitched at the phantom memory of butter-soft silk fibres against his skin; long, winding threads that stretched out thin and fine, tangling so easily around his uncertain fingers. With this memory came the golden, moon-round face of a child he hadn't thought about in centuries, grinning toothily as they held out a box to him, a box filled with small pale larvae that wriggled among the spade-shaped leaves. “Zhe jiao can.”

Crowley forced himself to return to the present. The human was speaking to him.

“—waiting on Mr. Fell?” she asked.

Crowley blinked. Shook himself a little. “Yeah. He's helping out with the restoration of some old manuscript or other.”

The human smiled again. It was an unnervingly piercing expression. “I'm aware. I was the one who requested his help. Such a lovely man. Are you a friend of his?”

Crowley tensed. “His husband, actually.”

He braced himself, but the human only brightened. “Goodness, then you must be Mr. Crowley! Mr. Fell talks ever so much about you. Finally gone and tied the knot then, have you?”

Before Crowley could stammer out a reply, something dinged loudly, making him jump. The human pulled a phone out from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

“Sorry, I have to run back inside. But it was lovely meeting you, Mr. Crowley.” She stuck out a hand—thankfully not the one that had been holding the Bible—and after a brief hesitation, Crowley shook it. As quickly as she had arrived, the human disappeared from the garden, leaving Crowley alone and off-kilter amid a grove of mulberry trees.

---

Aziraphale emerged from the church around an hour later to find Crowley seated on the curb next to the Bentley, basking in the last rays of the afternoon sun as he scrolled through his phone.

“My dear,” the angel sighed. His joints creaked as he eased himself down to sit next to Crowley on the roadside. “Don't tell me you've been sitting here the entire time.”

“Nope,” Crowley said, popping the ‘p’. “I toured the gardens for a bit. Swiped some fruits, too. The mulberries aren’t half-bad, for a bunch of church plants, but they’ll need a good deal more threatening before they're really up to snuff.”

Crowley stopped when he saw Aziraphale chewing his lip, brow furrowed as he studied Crowley's face. Now it was Crowley's turn to sigh.

“Really, angel. It's fine. I was hardly bored.”

The expression didn't leave Aziraphale's face. A soft brown hand reached out and brushed aside stray wisps of hair from Crowley's forehead. The demon hadn't bothered to cut it since the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, and it was growing longer and more unruly by the day.

“I'm fine.” Crowley caught Aziraphale's hand and held it, carefully. He pressed his lips against the well-manicured fingers. “It was years ago, angel, and we both came out of it all right. You don't need to worry about me.”

Aziraphale still looked vaguely distressed as Crowley drew him close. With the sun setting behind him, framing his face and curly dark hair in a golden halo, he was the most beautiful thing Crowley had ever seen.

He kissed him then, right there on the road, in full sight of the church and probably Someone Else, too, if She happened to be watching at that particular moment. Once, he would've been terrified of such a public display, but he hadn't gone through hellfire and holy water to care anymore about what others thought of them.

As he helped Aziraphale into the Bentley, he noticed abruptly that the angel was carrying what appeared to be a shoebox, of all things, along with his usual camelhair coat.

“What on Earth is that?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale carefully pushed the box over to Crowley. “Mrs. Lao gave it to me once I'd finished with those manuscripts. She said it was a gift for you, actually. Have the two of you met before?”

Crowley stared down at the box, baffled. “We talked for a bit in the gardens just now, but I can’t imagine why…”

He trailed off, and his mouth dropped open as Aziraphale eased open the lid and beheld the contents with a raised eyebrow.

“Good heavens. Are those caterpillars?”

“Silkworms,” Crowley corrected automatically, leaning in for a closer look. There were so many of them, somehow both smaller and larger than he remembered, all white and wiggly and chomping away busily at the layers of mulberry leaves filling their box. None of them paid any attention whatsoever to their occult observers hovering above them.

“Why would she give you such a thing? Not that they aren't dear little creatures,” Aziraphale added hastily, glancing into the box, “but I doubt I have the means to keep them in the bookshop.”

“No need,” Crowley said before he could stop himself. “I can raise 'em in my flat.”

Aziraphale gave him a curious look. “You know how to care for these… insects?”

“Yeah.” Crowley gently shut the lid of the inhabited shoebox and curled a hand around the Bentley's stick-shift. “I've done something like this, before. I know what I'm doing.”

“If you say so.” Suddenly Aziraphale chuckled. At Crowley's affronted look, he demurred, “I'm not making fun, my dear. It's only that you still manage to surprise me, even after all these years.”

Aziraphale leaned in and pecked Crowley's cheek, making him blush red and sputter. Much to his disgruntlement, the Bentley chirped a light-hearted rendition of Haydn's Crazy Little Thing Called Love all the way home.

---

Crowley had spent the past eleven years co-parenting the Antichrist with Aziraphale.² They had faced this challenge head-on, and in his opinion, it hadn’t gone too shabbily. Now, without the threat of the Apocalypse hanging over his head, becoming a surrogate parent was far less daunting the second time around.

[² Even if young Warlock hadn't really been the son of Satan, it was the principle of the thing.]

Still, Crowley worried. He had always been something of a worrier, and that hadn't changed even after the First Day of the Rest of Their Lives.

After dropping off Aziraphale at the bookshop, Crowley returned to his flat, where he commenced the preparations for introducing his unexpected twenty-odd guests to their new home. This was accomplished by miracling up a small glass aquarium onto his desk, lining the bottom with paper towels, and carefully (read: nervously) placing the silkworms one by one into the tank. Once this was done, Crowley scattered the half-eaten mulberry leaves from the box around the aquarium. The silkworms set upon their interrupted lunch with all the enthusiasm of Aziraphale devouring a meringue pie at the Ritz.

Crowley slumped into his chair, took off his sunglasses with a wince, and rested his chin on his desk, staring into the glass tank.

“I raised your ancestors once, you know,” Crowley informed the wriggling creatures. “Tiny farm in China several centuries back. We'd weave branches together into a tray and let you loose inside. Bit like how manmade beehives work, or something.”

Crowley paused. Watched one silkworm slowly inch its way across a stem to tackle a new section of leaf. “‘Course, humans use wire mesh nowadays, but the general premise is the same. Always thought it was bloody clever, what humans could come up with. If you gave me a bunch of moth larvae and told me to make a living out of them, I definitely wouldn't think to make clothes.” He snorted. “Whoever came up with that, I'd like a glass of whatever they were drinking.”

The silkworms munched on. They ate much faster than they crawled, that was certain. In the quiet walls of his flat, away from prying human eyes, Crowley loosened the knot of his silk tie and tugged it off, easing the tightness around his neck.

“You're the ones who made this, in a sense,” he said, waving the tie at them. He laid the tie beside one glass wall of the tank at just the right angle for the inhabitants within to see. Several silkworms looked up curiously.

Crowley tossed his suit jacket aside, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. He had always prided himself on his sharp, modern attire over the years, the better to tempt humans with—or so he claimed. Despite repeated scoldings from his superiors, his Lust quotas had never been quite up to par.

Sufficiently dishevelled, and feeling all the freer for it, Crowley sank back into his chair to watch the silkworms.

“The only thing I didn't like about the process was the boiling,” he murmured. “Logically, I can see why it was done. And you would all be in cocoons, so it's not like you'd be in any pain. Not like I was.” He exhaled, the sound becoming a low hiss. “But still. Never liked it. Always felt like an awful lot of trouble just for the sake of some silk threads.”

One particularly adventurous silkworm had nosed its way upwards and was now creeping over the edge of the tank opening. Crowley made a mental note to devise a lid of some kind and stuck his finger against the lip of the tank. The silkworm crawled onto his hand without any hesitation. Tentatively, he drew it closer. Its many feet stuck stubbornly to his skin, and it reared up as he approached, swaying slightly, its mandibles twitching.

Crowley stared at the silkworm. The silkworm stared back, and seemed disappointed when Crowley had nothing else to offer. Just to prove it wrong, Crowley materialized a single large mulberry leaf in his other hand and presented it to the insect, who fell upon it with gluttonous enthusiasm.

Staring at the miracled leaf, an idea formed in Crowley's mind. He smiled, slowly.

“I need a hobby, now that I'm jobless,” he said aloud to the silkworm, letting it creep onto his palm. He ran a careful finger over its smooth back. “I think I'll take up sericulture again, for old time's sake.” He reached back into the tank and gently encouraged the silkworm to crawl back inside.

“Humans have to boil you alive to get those nice unbroken threads off your cocoons,” Crowley mused, withdrawing his hand. “Fortunately, I don't have to do things the human way.” He lowered himself until he was eye-level with the inhabitants of the tank. The silkworm he had carried paused in its perpetual eating and turned its head, almost like it was looking at him.

“How's this?” Crowley asked. “You'll be able to grow into a fuzzy, fully grown silk-moth, and I can take your cocoon after you've finished with it and miracle the threads whole again.” He paused and mulled it over. “I guess I could take it a step further and just miracle the finished silk together, but there's still something to be said about the human way of doing things.”

The silkworm bobbed the front half of its body as though in agreement. Crowley smiled again.

“We can make silk, and no one gets hurt. I'm a few hundred years out of practice, but I'm sure I could make it work, somehow.”

The silkworm turned its attention back to its meal. Crowley didn't notice. He was too busy wondering if Aziraphale had any old texts on silk-weaving that he could borrow, just so he could refresh his memory.

The angel would appreciate having a new silk bowtie to add to his collection.

---

Thank you for reading! Replies and reblogs are always much appreciated. <3

[goldleafacrossyourlips]

Uneasy Lies the Head - Dark Lord/OC - Chapter 6

Chapters - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11 - 12 - 13

Chapter 6 - Marigold and Fire

Back at the Spellman House, while Nick and Sabrina were getting the Hand of Glory from Aunt Hilda, Samara ran upstairs to her room. She held out her hand as she approached her armoire filled with potions and ingredients. A bag flew into her hand and she quickly began picking potions out and filling her bag. While she hoped they’d get to the Academy before the Witch Hunters did, she wanted to be prepared if they didn’t. While a couple potions could be used as weapons, most of what she gathered were to help the fallen. Phlox paced around the room ready to go.

“Phlox, I know you want to go with me but you have to stay here. I can’t fight the hunters, help the injured and worry about you too. You’ll be safe here.” Samara’s words were met with fierce protests from her familiar. She huffed out a breath and knelt down. She extended her hand towards him.

“I know. I know. I’m the worst Witch alive and the most neglectful familiar. But I can’t have you go. I need to know you’re safe, here. Please Phlox.” Her voice was pleading and soft. She fought a smile as her familiar huffed and padded over to her, bumping her hand with his snout. She scratched his head before hurrying downstairs.

“Sabrina. Sabrina!” That sounded like Harvey Kinkle. Samara strode down the stairs, bag slung on her shoulder and clinking against her hip. Sure enough, that was Sabrina’s ex-boyfriend standing in their entry. Sabrina came running from the botanical room.

“Harvey!” 

“Oh, you’re okay!” Harvey enveloped Sabrina in a tight hug. Samara’s brow quirked at that. From what Sabrina had filled her in on, Harvey and his friends hadn’t been very nice to Sabrina. Judging her for her witch power and other things. It just lowered them in her mind. Samara never did have a high level of empathy for mortals.

“Well, yeah. I’m fine. But what are you doing here?” Sabrina pulled away as she spoke. Samara continued down the stairs, joining Nick at his side.

“Sabrina, someone was trying to kill you. How could I not come?” Samara rolled her eyes at his comment while watching her Aunt melt at his words.

“How’d you know about that?”

“I was with Roz when she had her vision. I rushed over to make sure you were okay. I’m so sorry for what I said and how I acted. Roz and I both are. It was shitty. It’s just… Roz has been hurting and I don’t know how to help her.” Harvey continued to ramble. Samara rolled her eyes again at his excuses. She heard Nick scoff at her side and shot him a smile.

“It’s fine, Harvey, truly. But we have to go. Witch-hunters are attacking the Academy.” Samara blew a sigh through her nose as Sabrina spoke. Now the boy would want to join them and help save Sabrina. Typical.

“Witch-hunters are attacking your other school?”

“Yeah, we better hurry.” Nick’s answer was short as he clapped Harvey on his back as he passed by him. Samara squeezed her Aunt’s hand and began to leave with Nick.

“I wanna come too. To help.” Bingo.

“No way, Witch-hunter.” Nick was firm in his response. 

“No. Uh.. Nick’s right, Harvey. It’s too dangerous.” Sabrina tried to speak some sense into the other boy.

“Yeah, and we don’t need anymore Witch-hunters.” Nick spit out. Samara moved forward and rested her hand on their magically repaired door, ready to go.

“I told you the night of the Greendale Thirteen, Sabrina. I’m done being a coward. If there are people-” Harvey began on a tirade.

“Witches.” Nick corrected.

“Whatever, in trouble, you’re gonna need as much help as possible.”

“Oh for Satan’s sake, let him help. He just wants to put things right. We don’t know how many Witch-hunters there are do we? So the more the merrier. Come on, sweet Harvey. I’ll catch you up on the way, my love.” Aunt Hilda cut in corralling everyone out the door. Always the one with a big heart. Samara couldn’t care less if the mortal came. So long as he actually proved useful and not a hindrance.

The group of 5 entered the Academy to destruction. There was blood spattered along the tile and the statue at the center of the school was rubble. 

“Baphomet! What unspeakable thing could have done this?” Nick breathed out. Staring in horror at the pieces of stone strewn on the ground. Samara continued around the room, looking for the students or professors.

“Are we too late?” Hilda asked the question on everyones’ minds. 

“Prudence? Agatha? Dorcas?” Sabrina called out. 

“Where is everyone?” Nick asked as he left the fallen statue. Just as he did, someone collapsed onto the floor over a chair in the next room. They all rushed over to see the heavily bleeding man.

“Ambrose? Ambrose!” Samara ran forward and fell to his side. She helped him onto his back and began scanning his wounds. She stared in horror at the dagger sticking from his chest as he seized. Blood poured from his mouth and wounds, soaking his clothes and staining his teeth.

“Thanks for the chicken, Aunt-” He began speaking but was cut off by choking and seizing. Aunt Hilda knelt across from her as Samara began rummaging through her bag. 

“He’s losing a lot of blood. I’m trying to find something for him. Try to stop the bleeding and get that Satan-forsaken dagger out of him.” Samara snapped as she continued to search for the vials she needed.

“Okay. This is going to hurt a tiny bit okay?” Aunt Hilda soothed before wrapping her hand around the dagger and ripping it out of his chest. Ambrose’s torso rose from the ground from the pain. Both let out ear-piercing shrieks.

“Ohh, I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry. Okay. Rivers may flow that blood may not. Blood be bound, and blood be clot.” Aunt Hilda chanted and continued under her breath as the blood flow paused. Samara finally found the vials she’d been searching for and began pulling them from her bag. Setting them onto the floor beside her.

“Ambrose, where is everyone?” Sabrina leaned over her cousin and asked him.

“Two...angels…..took them.” Ambrose managed to groan out. Samara’s head shot up and stared in shock at the rest of the group.

“Angels?”

“Aren’t angels supposed to be nice?” Harvey’s questions broke through Samara’s shock.

“Have you ever actually read the Bible? Angels are the ones with fiery swords.” Samara bit out, double checking the vials beside her.

“Took them where, Ambrose? Do you know?” Sabrina pressed to her gasping cousin.

“I do, Miss.” Came an otherworldly voice of a little boy. Sabrina leapt up and rushed towards the figure.

“Quentin! What happened?”

“The angels, they tried to take me and the other ghost children to Heaven, but we ran and hid.” The boy walked towards Sabrina. Samara felt sorrow slash through her at the thought of these Angels trying to uproot the children from their home.

“Did he just say ghost children?” Harvey asked full of disbelief. Samara snorted.

“So where did the angels take the witches, darling? ‘Cause we need to help them.” Hilda’s distraught voice interrupted, her eyes filled with tears. Ambrose began choking again and Hilda’s attention was drawn towards him.

“Our desecrated church.” 

“Our desecr- Why would they go there?” Sabrina asked in confusion.

“To convert them probably. That’s what they do. Convert then kill. They call it Cleansing.” Samara answered as she began pouring potions down Ambrose’s throat. Blood replenishing, pain numbing, energizing, plus others. 

“Let’s go then!” Sabrina was filled with determination.

“No you can’t Miss. They found the Church from us. Sealed it with Holy Water and reconsecrated it. No witches can get in or out.” Quentin interrupted. Samara felt herself droop at his response. All those witches.

“Okay, well. It’s not safe for you or the other ghost children here. Go back to your graveyard and hide, okay?”

“Yes, Miss.” Quentin disappeared before their eyes, presumably to return home.

“Sabrina I’m gonna have to tend to Ambrose’s wounds, so- He’s still losing blood.” Aunt Hilda despaired. Samara growled and started pulling more vials from her bag. The group behind her began figuring out how they were going to break into the Church. Samara forced some more potions into Ambrose. 

“I’ve already given him as much blood replenisher as I can for right now. He’ll have a reaction if I give him any more. Here, these 3 purple vials are it. If he’s still bleeding like he is in 15 minutes then give him another vial. Same thing 15 minutes after that. Yes?” Samara gave the instructions to her Aunt, feeling anger well within her that her potions weren’t working how she wanted them to. It must’ve been a blessed blade.

“Yes, my love. Thank Satan you brought your bag.” Aunt Hilda cradled her cheek in a bloodied hand, leaving behind streaks of blood on her pale skin. Samara heard her cousin storming out of the room, presumably to head to the desecrated church. She spun around and demanded Nick’s attention. 

“Nicholas. Aunt Hilda will need help. Ambrose isn’t clotting, even with everything I’ve given him. I think it’s because the blade was blessed. Keep chanting and keep him breathing. I’ll figure something out when I get back.” Samara commanded and stood up, turning to leave the room. Nick leapt up and grabbed her arm.

“Whoa, we just went over that no witch can get in or out of the Church. What do you think you’re going to be able to do?”

“Over my dead body is Sabrina facing avenging fucking angels alone. I don’t care if I have to raze that bloody building to the ground myself. Nothing is going to happen to her.” Samara growled out, her eyes flashing with fury. Nick quickly recoiled at her tone. He also ripped his hand away from her skin, feeling like he was holding hellfire. Samara spun around and stalked out of the Academy.

Her trip to the Church was short but filled with violence. Unconsciously any bush, tree or leaf in her path burst into flames as she walked. She found herself before the now consecrated church and glared. She took a deep breath and walked forward with single-minded determination. 

She reached the front door and felt like she’d hit a wall. Even though the doors were open, it felt like they were closed to her. Samara bared her teeth at the barrier and placed a hand against it. She felt it shudder at her mere touch and grinned a wicked smile. She dug her sharpened nails into the barrier and drug down. She felt as she managed to worm a sliver of a hold into the shield. Her grin grew at the small success and began channelling all of her energy, power and focus into creating a rip just big enough to fit through. Her Shadows swarmed around her, lending her extra energy as she expended hers. She felt herself begin to waver, her strength waning. She grit her teeth, solidified her spine and continued to pull and push and rip and rend. She felt a scream build in her chest as her magic threatened to fail. She released it with a haunting wail as blood began to drip from her nose. Finally, she could tell the hole she’d made was just big enough for her.

Samara rested her hands against the still standing parts of the barrier, panting as she recollected herself. She finally squirmed her way through the barrier. She flicked the loose hair out of her face and used the back of her hand to wipe the blood from her nose. She squared her shoulders, straightened her spine and marched towards the internal doors of the Church.

Samara stood in the doorway of the room as she watched Sabrina fall to the ground, arrow-riddled and a thorn crown upon her head. She remained silent as she took in the scene before her. 

The mere observer would’ve kneeled before her as they saw the fury within her eyes. Her dark hair flowed from her shoulders, her chin held high and set in determination. The glint of hellfire that shone in her eyes. The unholy shadows that danced around and caressed her. The coven that trembled before her would always picture this when her name was mentioned. 

“Samara Spellman! As your cousin was forsaken, there is still a chance for you! Kneel before the Lord and repent!” Jerry shouted, his arms raised before him. A crossbow held in one hand. Samara raised an eyebrow in response, feeling as though something otherworldly was influencing her.

“You dare come into my Community. You dare push your beliefs onto us. You dare slaughter innocent Witches in our Church of worship! I promise you, angel, you will come to regret what you have done. You will live the pain you have caused. You will not know peace for as long as I walk this Universe!” Samara’s voice echoed around the church with promise. The witches shuddered at the truth that rang through it. The male angel sneered at the tiny fearsome witch before him.

“Then you will meet an end like your Coven.” With quick movements he sent an arrow soaring through the air where it found its home in Samara’s abdomen. She looked down at it, prepared to approach the angel who shot her, when a blow from behind caused her to fall to her knees beside Sabrina. The dagger buried in her back was blessed. She could tell from the molten burning it riddled her with. A scream burst forth as a thorn crown was also placed upon her head. A second arrow flew and buried itself in her chest. 

“When you have died, know this Earth was cleansed from an aura of Darkness such as yours.” The man spat before her and turned towards the rest of the witches. Samara fell to her hands as blood spilled from her lips. She looked upon her cousin’s face and rested a hand on her cheek. She could feel as the end approached. She could feel and see her Shadows fluttering about, waiting for direction. She bowed her head and rested it on Sabrina’s, eyes closed as she struggled for another breath.

When she was about to give up, fight leaving her, she felt it. The same presence that had accosted her at her Dark Baptism. The same thing that filled her and blinded her when Blackwood touched her in his office. She felt as it’s fury licked up her spine, the worry it clenched in her belly, the determination it set in her jaw. She felt as it shared its own breath with her. She felt as it shared its own power with her. She felt herself smile at the gifts it was bestowing upon her and sent it a short prayer of thanks. 

Her eyes snapped open to stare at her cousin’s still face. Everything was hazed in gold and blue. She felt raw power coursing through her veins. She placed her lips upon her cousin’s cooling forehead and whispered against the skin.

“It’s not your time to leave, my Sword. Rise and finish them.” The words danced upon the girl’s skin. Samara watched as Sabrina’s eyes snapped open, no color to be seen but a glowing white. Samara knew that if she could see her own they’d be glowing the blue of hellfire.

She watched as Sabrina rose into the air and extended her arms towards the angels. Samara stood below and behind her cousin as she continued.

“That’s enough. I offer you a chance to survive the night. Convert, Hunters.” Her voice was not her own. Filled with the power and strength she now possessed, it sounded like dozens of voices combined to one. With a wave of her arms the angels were forced to kneel.

“Take Lucifer Morningstar into your hearts, and I promise you mercy. But you must say His prayer. O’Mighty Dark Lord, by whom all things are set afire….” She waited for them to repeat her. 

“Never.” Samara glared as the man spat. She felt satisfaction fill her at the shocked gasps and awe as Sabrina’s hand became fire.

“Say the prayer! It’s your one chance. Come on! Say it with me or you’ll burn in Hellfire.” Sabrina warned. Samara had a dark wicked smile curl on her face as she saw the angels’ resolution crumble and they began to repeat her cousin.

“O’Might Dark Lord, by whom all things are set afire. Thy power be thy path. Thy will be my desire. In Hell as it is on Earth. Praise Satan!” The prayer was finished with horror and fear fixed on the angels’ faces. Samara clapped and laughed.

“Well done. But my, how quickly you turn on your False God.” Samara drawled as she slowly walked towards the kneeling angels.

“Neither one of you is a witch. What are you?” The man breathed in fear.

“I am the Dark Lord’s Sword!” With Sabrina’s declaration she caught them up in Hellfire. Samara grinned at the action as the witches around them shrieked in fear. Samara glanced at the dead witch on the floor with her throat slit.

“Arise, Sister!” Samara shouted, her hands extended towards the fallen woman. The witches around her jumped as the dead woman gasped and began to sit up.

“Arise, Brother!” Samara did the same to the man laid on the floor, his throat slit too. Again those around him jumped as he sat up.

Sabrina floated down to join Samara on the floor, both their eyes still glowing. They clasped hands as the other got closer. 

“‘Brina? ‘Mara?” Came the shocked voice of Harvey behind them. Both girls tilted their heads as one to look at the mortal behind. 

[silverynight]

Thief

Crowley is not his name, that's the name all the demons of Hell gave him because they're too afraid to say Raphael out loud. The Archangel is just too powerful for a simple demon to handle and that's why Michael and Gabriel decided it was better for Raphael to be in charge of the apple tree.

That's why everyone in Hell thought Azirafell was going to fail his assignment spectacularly.

Although that's not the case at all.

He not only gives Eve the apple, he also steals Raphael's flaming sword.

And when the Archangel himself is pinning him against the wall, the demon knows he's going to die; Raphael is going to tear him apart.

"Why did you steal my sword?" The Archangel demands, looking just slightly irritated.

"I gave it away."

"You WHAT?" Raphael stares back at him, so fascinated the grip he has on Azira's hands loosens, giving the demon the opportunity to move out of the Archangel's way.

Why is he smiling? He should–he must be furious, right?

"Why?" Raphael realizes the demon has moved and in response he takes a step forward.

"She's pregnant and there could be beasts out there, how could they survi–" he stops, realizing that sounds awfully close to a good deed.

"You're very kind," Raphael smirks, trying to close the distance between them again.

Azira, on the other hand is ready to bolt.

"I'm n-not."

It starts raining, Raphael uses one of his wings to shield him from the rain, making Azira blush to the tip of his ears.

"I'm Raphael," the Archangel offers his hand, he's obviously waiting for the demon to take it and introduce himself in return.

Azira does neither of those things, he flees away from there, like a coward. He's not sure why the Archangel's kind behavior makes him so nervous.

They both end up on Earth; it's Azira's reward and Raphael's punishment for what happened in Eden.

The other demons think Azira won't last long because Raphael is probably going to kill him, but that just doesn't happen.

Azira knows he wouldn't stand a chance against an Archangel and does his best to avoid him, but Raphael always seems to know where he is.

"Hello, Azirafell!" He's constantly grinning, enjoying when he gets to startle the demon.

"You're a bastard, you know that?" Azira tells him once, tired of it all. After a couple of decades he realizes the Archangel is certainly not planning to hurt him anytime soon.

Raphael chuckles, takes Azira's hand and kisses it.

"Thank you, thief."

The demon is so flustered it takes him a while to react to what the Archangel just said.

"It wasn't a compliment!"

"You consider 'nice' an insult, so 'bastard' must be kind of a compliment among your people... Am I wrong?" He looks so smug, Azira decides not to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Because he's right.

***

"You like Hamlet, right?" It looks like an innocent question, but Azira knows it's not. Raphael has been doing him favors, giving him things, helping him with temptations and the demon doesn't know what to make of it.

The moment Azira nods the Archangel disappears and the next thing the demon knows is that the play is a huge success.

"Thank you," he mumbles the next time he sees him, not even looking at him.

"You're welcome, thief."

***

"Hellfire? Are you out of your mind? I'm not bringing you hellfire!" Azira growls, telling himself he's not giving him that because he's not going to help an Archangel, but the truth is the possibility of losing him terrifies him. "It's a suicide pill!"

"I'm not gonna use it on myself, thief," he smiles fondly, trying to reach out to him, but the demon moves out of the way. "It's for protection."

The demon doesn't believe him though.

***

Raphael could be absolutely terrifying when he's furious and when he finds Azira dealing with Nazis inside a church he is practically fuming.

"What are you doing here?" He demands, golden eyes obscured by a shadow of concern.

"I'm... just screwing their plans," he says, a little bit embarrassed, not because he looks kinda funny trying not to stand on consecrated ground for too long, but because he's acting against the Nazis. Ruining someone's plans is something bad, no matter whom he's affecting, right?

But Raphael is still angry, in the blink of an eye he takes the demon in his arms and tells him to drop a bomb on the church, Azira is just too shocked to protest.

The Archangel keeps both their human bodies and Azira's beloved books safe.

"Thank–"

"Don't," Raphael hisses, still refusing to let the demon go. "Don't you ever do that again. There was holy water inside! You could've died!"

Azira gasps when he sees in those golden eyes what he has refused to see since the beginning.

The Archangel presses their foreheads together.

"I–I promise I'll be more careful," he mumbles, trying to forget what he just realized.

"You could just say my name if you're in trouble, my thief. Say it three times and I'll be right next to you if you need me," Raphael offers and even Azira knows that's huge coming from an Archangel. "Even if you're fighting against angels... I'll be there for you."

He tries to dismiss it, because he's not ready to deal with the implications.

"I don't have to say your name, you always appear wherever I am," the demon says, trying to make it sound like a joke.

"Yeah, but it'd be nice to hear you say it, to know that you want me there... to know that you need me too," Raphael kisses Azira's hand and that's when the demon starts panicking.

He's just not ready.

"I need to report back to Hell," he stammers, face completely red.

Raphael leaves him on the ground and the demon runs away... again.

***

Despite of his concern, Azira gives him the hellfire; Raphael looks back at him in awe, with hope and tries to take his hand. The demon shakes his head and gets out of the white Bentley.

They see each other a few years later, in Azira's bookshop; he'll keep using the place like a shop even though he never allows anyone to buy a single one of his precious books.

When Raphael walks in, Azira holds back a sigh of relief; he'll never admit he was completely worried about him since he gave him the hellfire.

The Archangel brings him a croissant filled with chocolate and the demon almost moans at the sight.

"How come you're always the one giving me these things?" he chuckles, not noticing the way Raphael is staring at him as Azira licks the rest of the chocolate off his own thumb. "I should be the one trying to tempt you..."

"You could, if you wanted," Raphael moves faster than Azira can blink; he takes the demon in his arms and sits him over his lap. "Tempt me, thief."

"I was just jo–"

"Tempt me, Azirafell," he whispers, leaning closer, tightening his grip on the demon's hip when said demon tries to escape. "Ask me to kiss you and I will... You only have to say it, please."

He can feel the Archangel's nose close to his, Raphael has a hand on the back of the demon's neck, pulling him even closer.

The Archangel has been punished once because of him, what if it happens this time too?

He can't. It's too much.

"You go too fast for me... Crowley," it's almost cruel the way Azira decides to use the name Raphael has been given among the demons.

The Archangel freezes, the grip loosens immediately and the demon is finally able to put some distance between them.

"Right... sorry," the Archangel nods and walks out of the shop, but stops to look back at him once more before mumbling again. "I'm sorry."

He looks so broken it makes Azira's heart ache. It's almost as ridiculous as it is painful... He knows he just hurt Raphael and that should make him feel proud (he's a demon after all, it's kind of his job to make angels suffer) but instead it makes him miserable.

It's wrong and he doesn't know how to fix it.

***

Kofi / Patreon