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freyjawriter24 · 10 months

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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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shynrinn · 8 months

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The Almighty gave me a sneak peek to a very sweet moment in S3

#wild dream #dagon x michael #the ethereal lesbians are smooching #archangel michael #lord dagon #lord of the files #ineffable administrators #ineffable incompetence #angelfish #if i had a nickel for every time a demon fell in love with an angel #good omens

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averageanonymous · 2 months

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Summary: The new Grand Duke of Hell has requested an Audience with the recently appointed Supreme Archangel.

This is somewhat of a sequel to This Post/Ficlet. It doesn't need to be read in order though. More info at the end.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“The Grand Duke of Hell has requested an audience,” Uriel says, just short of a sneer, as he enters Aziraphale’s ‘office’. (Of course, it isn’t really an office. Just a desk in a secluded corner of heaven. Gabriel hadn't even had a desk, apparently. Aziraphale had insisted on one.) He tosses a folder in front of him.

“Always nice to see you, Uriel,” Aziraphale greets his fellow archangel without looking up from the documents he is working on, pointedly ignoring the not-remotely-subtle roll of Uriel's eyes. “You said an audience with the Grand Duke? Somewhat irregular…but in light of recent developments, I suppose an audience isn't unjustified.”

“Mm,” Uriel turns to leave, barely pausing to throw over his shoulder, “First floor boardroom, five minutes.”

Aziraphale looks up sharply, sputtering, “Five minutes!?” But the other angel is already too far away to bother answering, if he even heard at all. Aziraphale shuffles his papers together in a rush and places them in a desk drawer before gathering up the folder left by Uriel and starting quickly towards the lift.

Honestly, he thinks as the lift door opens, I don't expect them to like the situation, but this is ridiculous. He steps in and presses the button to take him to the first floor. It's as close to “neutral” as exists in the building shared by Heaven and Hell with the exception of the lobby.

As the lift begins the long drop down, he flips open the folder and scans through the pages. They’re basic audience request forms, followed by a contractual agreement to refrain from all hostilities including but not limited to maiming, dismembering, beheading and spontaneous combustion. The section on the request form where it's meant to indicate the reason for the meeting has been left blank. Aziraphale checks the signatures, but doesn't recognize a name in the messy scrawl.

He assumes that Shax took up the role of Grand Duke. She seemed quite ambitious… though perhaps she would have taken on Dagon’s responsibilities on the Dark Council and the Lord of the Files would have moved into the coveted position. Either way, it didn't make much difference which demon was in the seat. They were all cut from the same cloth.

Something in him twists at that thought. Not all, he amends. There were exceptions to every rule.

As the lift approaches the first floor, he straightens his bowtie, adjusts his coat, rolls his shoulders back. He lets just a little bit of Heaven's Grace shine in his skin, not too much, but enough to remind whoever it is he is meeting just who it is they're dealing with. He's not just an angel who spent most of his years on earth. He's not the Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden. He's no Cherubim or Principality. He is The Supreme Archangel of Heaven. With that, the lift doors open.

A hall with several gray doors greets him. The gray tile floor is accented by intricate patterns of black and white. At the end of the hall, the largest door is flanked by angelic guards on one side, and a pair of mid-level demons on the other. Standard procedure for any officially sanctioned meeting of the representatives of Heaven and Hell.

Aziraphale approaches the door quickly. His internal clock indicates that he is three minutes late. He tells himself that there's nothing wrong with making Hell wait a few minutes, though. After all, with how they run things Downstairs, waiting is surely quite familiar to them.

With a nod to the angels, who respectfully nod in return (at least the lower angelic ranks don't seem to hold the same ire towards him as the upper ranks), Aziraphale pushes open the door and enters the room-

His heart literally stops beating, the physical functions of his corporation all stalling as his mind freezes, attempts to re-process what he is seeing, and fails miserably. There must be a mistake, or someone is playing a great bloody joke, or SOME other explanation that makes who is seated before him, lounging at the head of the table with his legs up like he owns the place, make sense.

It doesn't make sense. It can’t make sense.

Aziraphale finally finds it in him to choke out, “Crowley??”

“Don't think I've ever seen you so speechless, angel,” Crowley drawls, uncrossing his ankles and uncoiling from his chair, every bit the Serpent. “Something got your feathers in a twist?”

Aziraphale tries to take in the demon as he steps around the table. There's so much to take in, though, that Aziraphale finds it difficult to even look at him. He forces himself to anyway. His gaze is immediately drawn to Crowley’s wings in their full manifestation. Even folded tightly against his back, they're huge and lustrous, shining like polished obsidian. It’s clearly a statement. And so is the rest of his appearance. He has a black metal circlet on his head, two curling horns giving the illusion of Crowley himself having horns. His dark red hair is longer than it has been in years, curling around his shoulders. Aziraphale can see black snake skin on the sides of his neck, disappearing under the collar of his shirt and reappearing on the back of his hands. And at the ends of his fingers he's got claws, for Heaven's sake. His gaze travels back to Crowley's face, to his eyes, hidden behind his usual dark lenses, and then, unbidden, to his lips. His eyes snap down, but he knows Crowley saw.

He inhales shakily, trying to gather himself. Memories of the last time they were together are themselves almost a physical blow. Aziraphale can recall with perfect clarity the feel of those lips pressed to his. He can remember the array of unfamiliar sensations and emotions it elicited.

Aziraphale finally steels himself and looks back up at Crowley, Grand Duke of Hell.

“I know we didn’t leave things on the best of terms, but whatever it is you think you're playing at, this isn't funny,” Aziraphale finally snaps at him, dropping the file on the table.

“Not meant to be,” Crowley shrugs, “I saw an opportunity, and I took it.”

“After everything you said to me about- about not rejoining their side-”

“I'm a demon,” Crowley cuts him off. “I lied.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. “So that's how it is,” he says, not sure where this leaves them.

“That's how it is,” Crowley agrees. He claps his hands together, “Right. Now that's out of the way. I didn't come here just to shock you, Supreme Archangel. There's things that need to be discussed. Now this Second Coming nonsense your lot have cooked up -”

Aziraphale shakes his head and holds up his hands, confusion and betrayal warring within him, “Crowley, you can't expect me to play this charade with you.”

“Not a charade, angel,” Crowley corrects him.

Aziraphale huffs in frustration and steps closer, eyes darting to the sides of the room as though the walls are listening, and says with quiet vehemence, “Oh, really? You’re the actual Grand Duke of Hell, and you think that we can, what?”

“Work together. Obviously,” Crowley hisses back in a stage whisper, “You and me against the forces of Heaven and Hell, working towards the common good of humanity.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, “You know it isn’t that simple.”

“It can be,” Crowley says, taking a step towards Aziraphale. They’re close now, close enough to touch. Crowley hesitantly reaches across the space between them. When Aziraphale doesn't pull back, he tentatively curls his pinky around Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale looks down at their hands, joined by that smallest touch, and feels his heart beating a quick rhythm in his chest.

“You and me, angel,” Crowley says again, his voice sure. The mockery is gone now, the act vanished. Beneath the gaudy costume he is simply himself. Crowley continues seriously, “We have an opportunity here. You at the top of your totem pole, me at the top of mine. What do you say?”

Aziraphale meets his gaze.

For the first time since before the Metatron came to his shop, Aziraphale feels…

Hope.

He curls his pinky around Crowley’s in return, their fingers linked in a promise.

“Where do we start?”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading! This (even more so than its prequel ficlet) is essentially a first-draft mini-scene from a multi-chapter fic that I'll likely never write in entirety. I figure I can let them gather dust on my computer, WIPs dead in the water, or I can release them to the internet. I'd rather let them be free. But hey, maybe someday I'll write enough of them to string together into an actual story.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #fanfic #good omens fanfiction #supreme archangel aziraphale #grand duke of hell crowley #scenes from a fic i'll never write

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do-not-lick-the-walls · 4 months

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a devil put aside | chapter two - angel's advocate

masterlist | read on ao3

(lovely gif by @goodsirs!)

beelzebub x fallen angel!reader

summary: after saving you, beelzebub attempts to convince their dark council to give you a chance.

(she/her pronouns are used for reader, no use of y/n)

warnings: strong language, smoking, some religious themes

-----

This meeting has been going on for two hours, and in that time, astoundingly little progress has been made, even by Hell's standards. This may actually be a new record for Least Gotten Done In Two Hours.

Beelzebub has spent these last two hours leaning back with their feet on the table, fiddling with their cufflinks, and losing their mind.

An odd (and, frankly, unpleasant) cocktail of feelings swishes around inside them. One moment it'll settle in their chest or lower spine, only to be reanimated at the slightest thought and go back to sloshing through their body. Some of it, they understand---boredom, irritation, both good friends of theirs---but some of it is unfamiliar. Or, at least, estranged to them.

Amongst those usual, dull emotions that often accompany Dark Council meetings, there's an uncomfortable fluttering of the heart. An urge to shift in their seat, to leave, as if they're afraid, or... no, not afraid, just... something adjacent to it.

Whatever this is, Beez is quite sure they're not a fan, and the way it's roughing up against the sound of Dagon wasting time is starting to get torturous.

Are we really sure it's her?"

"For the last time, Dagon, yes. It's her."

"How do you know?"

"I saw her face."

"Faces can change. You change yours."

"Yes, but---" Beez groans, pinching the bridge of their nose in an attempt not to smite their coworker. "Why would someone else have her face?"

"I don't know!"

Dagon's insistence on checking, double-checking, and deca-checking everything is exactly what makes her an excellent Lord of Files-slash-Master of Torments, and a real pain in the ass during emergencies. Everything's a trap with her, something she's got to unravel between those pointy teeth.

"She could be a... what's that human thing? Trojan Goat! She could be a Trojan Goat!"

"What the heaven are you on about?" The smoke off Hastur's cigarette curls, and Beez's insides go swimming again as they're reminded of your smoking wings.

"Upstairs could just want us to think she's Fallen," Dagon explains, "How do we know she's not an angel in disguise?"

"I literally found her smoking, wings broken, having smashed through the damn ceiling, remember?"

"I went to see the damage," Hastur says, "It was rather impressive, actually."

"How is that relevant?" Asks Dagon, Lord of Irrelevant Questions.

Beez throws their hands up. "Because if she wasn't Fallen, there wouldn't be a huge fucking hole in the ceiling!"

Had this meeting been about anything else, Beez would consider Dagon's point. It's a smart one. But you aren't a Trojan Goat. You just aren't. And this entire conversation isn't even really on topic, anyway.

They take a breath.

"The question we're trying to answer right now is what to do with her."

It's the fourth or fifth time Beez has coraled them back to this topic, in the hopes of getting their idea on the table, getting it agreed upon, and then getting themself out the door. So far, it's proven a massive failure every time. Probably because the council is made up of Dumb, Dumber, and Dagon, all of whom make getting off-track into an art form. But they can't exactly give up, here.

"I think---"

"Well, I could arrange eternal torment for her, or we could throw her in a really deep pit, or we could---"

"Actually, Dagon," Beez looks up from their fiddling. "I'd quite like to train her."

"You wot?"

Usually, Beelzebub cares about what their council has to say. They did hand-pick these three to advise them. But right now, after the events of tonight, Beez is resenting that they can't just decide shit themself sometimes. It's never that simple, is it? They've got a plan already forming, but instead of putting it into motion, they have to sit here and convince their own subordinates into a majority vote.

"I said I want to train her."

Dagon chews on her pen. "Beelzebub, with all due respect, that idea is absolute shit."

"And why's that?"

"Because she's a fucking angel!"

"Technically," Ligur finally joins the conversation, for better or worse. "She's not. Anymore."

"Still, you don't find it at all suspicious that a Seraph just fell out of nowhere? After six thousand years? Nobody's fallen since we did."

"I'm well aware of that, Dagon." Beez's voice starts to buzz with irritation, and they swallow it back down.

Ligur whistles. "She must've done something bad to get the boot after six thousand years."

"Thank you, that's what I've been trying to say, but Dagon here can't seem to get it through her thick skull---"

"Falling doesn't make her one of us, though," Hastur joins Dagon's team. "Who knows what her motives are?"

(Beez would hazard a guess that your motives include safety, comfort, and possibly revenge, if they're lucky, but they doubt these three would understand that.)

Ligur nods, making his chameleon wiggle. "She didn't side with us the first time, after all. And she's not someone to just be lettin' run amok without allegiance. Do you remember what she was like in the war?"

"Yes, I had an... unfortunate encounter with her on the battlefield." Hastur grimaces. Beez doesn't blame him. "Had a lot of wings. Felt like she could see me even when she wasn't looking. Probably could, now that I think about it." He shrugs, blowing a puff of smoke that once again sends their heart into that uncomfortable patter. "Does she still have all the wings?"

"No, just the two. Dunno what happened to the rest."

Beez remembers the wings. You had six of them, or maybe eight. Huge, when they were unfolded all the way. They remember you, even from before the war. They used to see you around sometimes. Ever-smiling, ever-playful.

You were radiant. And strange. Something just a little bit incomprehensible, even to other celestials. All Seraphim are like that. But you, in particular, Beez always thought you somewhat... ineffable. How could you not be? You made the prophets, every one. Nostradamus and Cassandra and Agnes Nutter; all blessed by you, fed with knowledge passed down from God herself. Beez only ever looked on you from afar, but part of them always wondered if you knew they were watching. If you saw them with all your hidden eyes.

And in the battle, Satan, in the battle, you were...

"Probably a good thing, makes her easier to contain." Hastur takes another drag. "I wouldn't care so much if she was a nobody, but considering..." He shakes his head. "Power translates. 'As above, so below' and all that. Best to be rid of her before she gets a handle on whatever she's got now."

There we go! Beez pounces on that sentiment and twists its neck to their advantage. "Exactly. Power translates. If we do this right, we could have another Duke of Hell."

The point goes whooshing directly over Ligur's chameleon. "What's wrong with us?"

"Did I SAY anything was wrong with you?"

"We could always give her to Satan," Dagon chews thoughtfully on her pen. "He likes a snack every now and again."

"Or feed her to the hellhounds." Adds Hastur.

Ligur shakes his head. "We can feed anyone to the hellhounds, seems a bit of a waste."

Good, good, somebody's getting it---

"Feed her to some of the lesser demons, then. Throw 'em a bone. Morale's been low."

What the fuck, Hastur.

"Morale's always low, we're in hell." Ligur snatches Hastur's cigarette and takes a drag. He then hands it to his chameleon, who also takes a drag.

"We're not feeding her to anything!"

"Alright," Dagon narrows her eyes, folding her hands under her chin. "What's your plan, then?"

Finally.

"Like I've been saying: We make her into one of us. Properly."

In one motion, Beez swings their feet off the table, stands, and leans in.

"Hastur, you said it yourself. Powerful angels make powerful demons. You want to waste whatever chaos becomes of a Fallen Seraph?"

The council is silent for the first time in over two hours. Beez takes this as a sign to continue.

"I'd train her myself. With help from you all, of course, and whoever else as necessary. Think about it. We have a powder keg here, and one we can mold into whatever we need. You said morale's low, we could... I dunno, make her into head of... whatever that is. Or a new Lord of Temptations, or Master of Hellhounds, or whatever! The possibilities are endless, really."

That seems to finally crack the brick wall that Dagon's put up around her brain. But she's a fish of habit, and there's a variable that Beez hasn't addressed yet.

Here goes.

"How do we know she'll cooperate? And more importantly, not stab us in the back first chance she sees?"

This is, by far, the flimsiest piece of Beelzebub's argument. There's no guarantee that you'll even sign on, let alone become loyal to the cause. But Beez is nothing if not a good bullshiter, and the thought of you becoming dinner is making that fear-adjacent thing whirl around in their chest again, so they sit back down, and prepare to save your life via two of their greatest skills; false overconfidence, and making shit up.

"She'll cooperate."

All great bullshit begins with part of the truth. The trick is to build outward off of that truth, make it sound like more than it is. Beez has three pieces of not-really-evidence-but-close-enough at their disposal to spin off of. If they play their cards right, they can appeal to all three councilors.

"Three reasons."

Beez looks at each of them. Dagon, cautious and objective; Ligur, dense but thoughtful; Hastur... whatever Hastur is. But who first...

Ligur.

"One: I just saved her from being torn apart by those assholes over in Accounting. And I fixed her wings. She'll trust me, probably even feel indebted to me after that. She even said she trusted me before I left."

Ligur strokes his chameleon's tail, a gesture which usually means he's managing to make his brain work. The chameleon fades from green into blue.

Got 'im. He's always the easiest to sway with pure logic. Beez feels the smirk start to creep into their mouth. They push themself out of their chair to pace around the room---well, as much as somebody can in this stupid, cramped space---height gives an extra kind of authority, and they want all the help they can get. Plus, they're not sure how much longer they can sit still with this coil all wound up inside them.

One down, two to go. Dagon needs established proof, Hastur needs some kind of emotional push. Beez glances back and forth between them, and decides to save Dagon for last.

"Two: she wants revenge on heaven. She obviously wasn't very happy with how it was running if she did something bad enough to get kicked, and she's definitely not happy with them now. Fuck's sake, she was cursing the bastards the whole time."

Hastur laughs. All it takes with him is a go at the angels. Two down.

And now, for the hard bit...

"Three. She just cooperated perfectly for me. Did everything I asked without batting an eye. Seriously, she takes direction like she was born to it. Or, well, made to it. She's already proven herself a good follower, and she doesn't even know us yet. Think how malleable she'll be once she's fully under our influence."

Dagon thinks for a minute, spinning her pen idly. Come on, Dag. You know you want to.

"Alright."

Gotcha!

"But."

Shit.

Eric chooses that exact moment to show up with the hellfire they ordered thirty minutes ago, nearly hitting Beez in the face with the door, mouth already open to make his usual pointless commentary. Beez is about to wring his neck, but Dagon ignores him, and continues asking her pointless question before he can start blabbering.

"Do you really think she has what it takes? To be one of us?"

Beelzebub pauses.

They think of you, broken on the floor in a pile of rubble, tears in your pretty eyes. They think of you, trusting them without second thought, placing yourself in their hands. They think of you, stumbling down the hallway in their arms, looking as if you could kill just as easy as you could die.

But mostly, they think of you, writhing beneath them in the dark, bloody and panting, enough fight left in your body to nearly push them off.

Beez takes their cup from Eric, and downs it in one go.

"Yes."

"We talking about the angel?" Eric chimes in, entirely uninvited. "Saw her in the hall with you, Lord Beelzebub. She's got a killer glare, that one. Very scary. I'd bet on her being a good demon for sure."

"NOBODY ASKED YOU!"

"Right, sorry---"

"Get out. Before I turn you into a pile of goo."

Eric gets out. Before Hastur turns him into a pile of goo. The not-really-fear-but-close-enough continues to slosh around.

"Right. Are we decided?" Beez says, in the way that means 'we better be decided,' edging backward toward the door. The urge to get back to you is growing as the feeling whirls more insistently within their chest.

Dagon does not get the memo.

"Not quite yet, I've got some suggestions."

Dagon's always got fucking suggestions.

"Fine, whatever. suggest away."

"First, she should be submurged in sulfur and hellfire, just to be certain she's not a Trojan Goat of some kind."

"Yep, gotcha, fair enough, I'll see to it. She needs a bath anyway. Covered in blood."

"Second, we can't let her wander about freely. She could do some serious damage if something goes wrong."

Beez has got their hand on the knob. "Alright, I'll keep her on a bit of a leash for now, probably good for her own safety."

Hastur raises his hand. "If something goes wrong, can we feed her to the hellhounds?"

Ligur raises his. "Or to the IT department?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever. Sure. All in favor of keeping her?"

As soon as Beez gets an 'aye' out of all three, they're out the door before they even finish saying "meeting adjourned!"

They manage to control themself from sprinting down the hallway, instead replacing their usual stroll with something more urgent. It's a long fucking walk back, but they don't want to send any more gossip spreading. Word of you, and of them helping you, has no doubt already made its way through the hive many times over by now. This could very quickly turn into a PR nightmare if they're not careful.

But still, they can't bring themself to walk quite as slow as normal. This entire plan hinges on you liking (or at least accepting) your new climate, and if you wake up alone and locked in, it's not going to reflect very well on them. Accounting already made a bad first impression, Beez can't afford a bad second. Especially not now, after fighting Dagon for a stupidly long time on your behalf.

Before you passed out, you asked them why.

They don't know why.

They want to say it was a simple recognition of potential that made them swoop in like that. They saw an opportunity, and set themself up to take it. There's part of the truth in that: you're a living ball of could-be, covered in gasoline and waiting to be ignited into something amazing, they know it. And they want to hold the lighter.

But there's more, they can't shake it. If it had been for nothing but your possible utility, they wouldn't have been so... whatever to you. No, there's something else here. Something sitting next to that unpleasant jumpiness in their gut. They just don't know what.

When they found you, you just looked so... sad. Pathetic, yes, but it wasn't pity, exactly, that so captured them in that moment. It was more like... looking at some kind of old reflection. Somebody who they used to be. Some kind of ghost in the mirror from a very long time ago.

Whatever it is, both the swishy thing and the ghost, it's almost certainly out-of-bounds for the Prince of Hell to be feeling. For fuck's sake, they're meant to be the example, the kind of evil that the lesser demons aspire to. Feelings aren't a part of the job description. Feelings aren't a part of them.

When they healed you, you squeezed half of their wretched heart between your hands. And half is too much.

Better swallow this before it's too late.

As Beez rounds the last corner, they walk past the "WE HATE YOU" poster. It makes them feel a little better.

#beelzebub x reader #good omens #good omens beelzebub x reader #x reader #beelzebub good omens #good omens demons #beelzebub #beelzebub/reader #fic #good omens x reader #ft eric my favorite little guy lol #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #light angst #but this chapter is mostly funny ngl

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