i'm not sure if these are tears of laughter or hysteria

patient-number-zero  asked:

For the archangels (except maybe Lucifer because I'm not sure if he's in the ebst place to answer questions right now): I'm not sure if my timeline is completely off, but when you were all fledglings, Amara was still around, right? Or at least for a few of you (I'm sure Chuck didn't give the mark to fledgling!Lucifer). So, my question is, for those of you who remember, did she play any kind of role in your upbringing? Or did she stay away from all of you?

“Auntie Amara?  Helping with our upbringing?”  Gabriel giggles.  It’s a high, uncontrolled sound with hints of hysteria.

“Ignore him, friend.  He was too young to remember the earliest days.”  Raphael shakes his head, and fondly pats his younger brother on the shoulder.  “No, our Father kept us hidden from His Sister while we were still too young to fight.  She had consumed every one of His creations, so He fled Her presence–not an easy feat for the source of all Light in existence.”

“Do you think Dad had to, like, wear a ski mask or something?” Gabriel asks, still laughing.  “And what about Luci?  I mean, he was the Morningstar!  The brightest of us all!  Did Dad roll him in mud until the Lightbringer learned to control his light-bringing?”

Please tell Gabriel that he is an idiot, Michael whispers from Heaven.

“Michael says you’re an idiot,” Raphael relays with a small smile.

Gabriel wipes the tears from his face and scowls at the sky.  “I can hear you, Mickey!  And it’s a legit question.  People want to know–how do you hide the two brightest beings ever to exist from the Darkness?”

They both hear their oldest brother’s long-suffering sigh.  Father is the Creator of all things, Gabriel.  Where do you think you learned to create pocket-universes?  Or did you think you invented the concept yourself?

Gabriel raises his middle finger toward Heaven.  “Oh, quit being so literal!  I know how Dad kept us hidden–I was joking, you humorless old–”

Raphael’s wing flared out, smacking Gabriel in the face and knocking him onto his ass.  He stares down into the Messenger’s surprised eyes.  “If you think you are young enough to call Michael ‘old,’ then you are young enough for me to put down for a nap.”

Michael’s laughter rolls like thunder through the sky.

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Life Lessons, chapter 3

In which the Angel Gabriel nearly ends up in the naughty corner…

Life Lessons masterlist

Here’s Mr Stan all ready for a day building nativity scenes and being adorable.

A/N: I’m up to my ears in work so I’m just splurging this out and not re-reading or editing or anything. Which is why it’s RUBBISH. I’m sorry.

Also, I’m aware that there’s way too much about being a parent and not enough action/Sebastian. Sorry. That sort of sums up my life. The next chapter has alcohol and kissing, which is way more fun :)

By the time Christmas was getting closer, you were convinced there was something between you and Mr Stan. But you were also convinced you were kidding yourself. He was a nice guy, in a caring profession. It wasn’t too much of a reach to assume that meant he was happy to talk and be kind, right? And you were nothing special, so it WAS too much of a reach to assume he’d be interested. You were disaster personified. Permanently covered in something sticky, it seemed. Permanently in a rush, forgetting things. You held down a difficult job but somehow outside that, chaos reigned.

But now that you worked fewer hours, there was time to be more organised, surely. You were convinced every morning that you’d got it right, that today would be the day you’d saunter through life with men and women left open-mouthed in your wake at your grace and elegance and style.

“You, um, have toothpaste on your chin”. No, not today then. Blushing bright red again (making Isabel gleefully shout ‘you look like Father Christmas’s bum!’) you scrubbed at your chin then pointed it at him to check if it was clear. It was only as he rubbed his thumb over your face and nodded that you realised that you had been maybe a little inappropriate. And you liked it.

Still, there was always tomorrow for grace and style.

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Any Other Name (51): Practice

They get better with practice.

Izaya only notes it distantly, in tiny bursts of clarity between the breathless heat that is flushing his whole body warmer than he’s ever been before, warm enough to counterbalance the chill from the snow outside and enough to make the heat of the turned-up thermostat oppressive. Most of his attention is given to instinct, to curling his fingers in under the loop of Shizuo’s bowtie and dragging until Shizuo falls forward against him and the other’s weight bears them down to the soft of the couch. Whatever smoke-haze of cigarettes clung to Shizuo’s lips is gone, the bitter taste of them worked off under the jealous drag of Izaya’s teeth and tongue. Shizuo just tastes warm, now, sweet like strawberries when Izaya licks past the damp part of his lips, and that’s to say nothing of the way he’s pressing Izaya down to the couch, with their legs a tangle over the cushions and their bodies so close together that Izaya can feel the buttons of Shizuo’s vest bruising against the midline of his ribcage. There are hands in his hair, Shizuo’s fingers working through the strands every time they break apart to gasp for a few inhales of breath, and there’s weight at Izaya’s neck, too, the gentle press of Shizuo’s palm holding him still enough to spark electricity all down his spine and back up to short-circuit any coherency he might have found. There’s nothing left for technique, not consciously, so it’s reflex that drives Izaya instead, the aching need to crush his mouth to Shizuo’s between every unfortunately necessary gap to breathe and the low groaning note he can win from Shizuo’s throat when he catches his teeth bruise-hard against the other’s lip.

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