#existentialflirt

The bell chimed as Aziraphale walked into the shop. He looked around and saw nothing but the cluttered worktop where his angel would have arranged her orders of bouquets.

"Hmm." He tucked the bottle of wine into the crook of his arm. "Crowley?" Was she out? Watering her plants? The latter was more likely since the door was not locked so he let his feet lead him towards the back of the shop where the air grew humid and warm as it opened into a greenhouse. It was no Kew Gardens, but he knew some of the botanists there would have chewed their own leg to acquire some of the species Crowley had in her collection.

She'd been called to appraise a couple of items. The business in question wasn't high-class, but it was owned by a friend of a friend, and she was already a billionaire. Besides, Oraia liked helping people, and she sought out the bittersweet feeling that came with looking at things from decades and centuries past. She had just began to pout at a mutilated fragment of The Iliad, all the way from the 2nd century AD (or AUD, or CE, or whatever you preferred) when she felt it--a divine spark, a strong aura that meant something with immense magical ability had entered the store. The goddess gulped. She had no way of knowing which pantheon they were apart of, assuming they even were a god (she'd spent quite a while in Avalon with the fey a while back). And yet, if they had come to steal something, she'd have to step in. She couldn't just hide in the back of the shop.

Oraia summoned her mystical knife and held it behind her back as she went to the counter, where the completely oblivious human Artie Fletcher was talking to the strong presence: a dapper, rather lithe male with bright red hair. She told herself to keep calm and nodded to him politely.

"This is Artemisia Stavros, my consultant for appraisal. She's visiting," Artie said kindly. Oraia forced a smile.

"Cr—hic—Crowley, my dear," the angel spoke, followed by a syrupy blink. They were several bottles into the night and he was beginning to feel it. He motioned for Crowley to come closer.

"Crowley? Ah, there you are." His eyes had gone all soft in the radiance of his smile. That was before he remembered himself and the circumstances of their last parting. Aziraphale shifted on his feet, the plush carpets of the Ritz giving him a sinking feeling that went all the way up his corporeal throat. Dear someone but he'd almost forgotten how heavy a corporation was. He was an angelic picture of nerves before he gestured at the empty seat next to the demon.

⭑ The people in his neighbourhood would disagree. They were fighting a war against a cult, a crime ring, whatever it was. The Hand was hurting them, all of them, and Sam was going to find someone to train him to fight them damnit. He had a sister who needed him, a mom in too deep. He had chosen his side, and he wasn't sitting there peacefully. Big eyes blinked at the Devil from behind his mask and Sam took a steadying breath, ' I'm choosing this war, but I need help. '

** ' hm, silly of me to forget that fingers exist outside the realm of flesh, ' foggy laughed and opened the top draw of his desk to fish out a band-aid ( dolphin shaped and neon pink, intended for his nephew ) and padded over, ' you know, I've seen you deal with much worse with way less . . . fanfare ? '

@existentialflirt said: What happens to anything beautiful? (from Harley. Hi hello~)

Maeve's lips tilt up in a way that you could mistake for a smile if you didn't know her. Ah, she knows the answer to this question. Has studied it. Has let it seep beneath her bones and infect her soul. She leans forward, clasping her hands together. ❛ Trick question. Beautiful things don't exist. ❜ Beautiful things don't wither or rot. Even a flower is something to be stomped on. Because people who say there's beauty in vulnerability are fucking lying to you, too.

No.

He had brought down the smell of sweat and the heartbeat of prey with his wrath, shattering bones and bruising others on their shared hunting ground to come to what Yumie would reluctantly call a rescue.

No.

She clutched her bleeding arm and screamed bloody murder, executing the cult member in front of her with bare hands. What would Matt think as she held the head of a panting man in her grasp, thumbs neatly tacked within gushing eyesockets? Monster, less of a woman than any, probably.

But Matt had morals, and Matt had a soul she couldn't quite grasp the concept of, one she hesitantly would admit to praying for.

When all was said and done, when rain poured like entrails from heaping clouds and pounded against them both in the walls of a now corpse littered alleyway, she wondered why he'd ask.

What did her trust do for him?

Lurching across the space that separated them, she envied Matthew Murdock. She envied his heaving breath and heightened senses, she envied his ability to have a steadily dysfunctional daytime life when she knew nothing but night. Yumie Takagi wanted to devour what he had-she'd always been the jealous type.

Despite grievous injury, her arm was shot to shit and her right leg still had a knife in it, naked hands shook in their pursuit of his face. At first, her grip was a bit too strong, but she forced it to soften- he couldn't become one of her many casualties.