#fff202

Summary

"No kissing until tonight." In challenging her demonic lover, Aziraphale had forgotten that Crowley had more than one trick up his sleeve. Who will give in first?

Notes

Flash Fiction Friday  #202 - « The devil you forgot »

@flashfictionfridayofficial

On AO3

Rating G - 599 words

Crowley approached the sofa and said in a low voice, dragging out the last syllable, "Aziraphaaaale..." 

Aziraphale said nothing and continued reading his book as if he hadn't noticed Crowley, but Crowley knew his lover well and knew he was fully aware of his presence. As he continued to walk toward Aziraphale, he stated, "So you really intend to ignore me. "

The weekly prompt of @flashfictionfridayofficial was FFF202 The Devil You Forgot

Fandom: Lucifer (Good Omens if you squint), 830 words, no cw

"Next please!" My station was empty, but no one approached it. On the one hand, if offered me a few seconds of relatively rest, but on the other hand, if forced me to shout. Can't be seen resting, not during the rush hour at the Higher Ground.

It was noon of a rather lovely day, finally a sunny day after a week of showers. People strolled in the street, couples shared brief kisses when they thought no one was looking, even the people with the really expensive suits walked a bit slower and enjoyed the rare weather.

Warm beams of sun filtered through the curtains and shed light on the coffee shop, colouring the place with picturesque shades. It also nearly blinded me unless I squinted, despite the many, many times I asked the manager to fix the curtains.

The queue was longer than I've seen in a long time, and not just because of the weather. As if the regular costumers weren't enough, there was a reinforcement – people from the comic con just around the corner.

All day long, I had to deal with costumers who gave me the most unusual names and throw a tantrum if I spelled their name wrong. Some, God forbid, had even asked me which costume they were wearing, and seemed genuinely hurt when I hadn't recognized which TV show it was from.

Honestly, I don't have anything against adult people who dress up as creatures who only exist in a fantasy world. Some of the costumes were pretty, and it was clear that making them required a lot of time and skills. But, just like I don't go around and show my latest sewing art to bus drivers, I don't pay too much attention to my clients' costumes. All I want from them is place a not complicated order and leave a big tip. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Next in line!" I called again, a bit louder this time, and it worked. A costumer approached me, and I started the usual drill of taking their order. Things went smoothly, or as smooth as can be expected when one orders coffee, and I started to relax. Maybe that costumer will act normal through our whole interaction, and won't demand me to guess what was his costume.

It was a good one, I'll give them that. The suit was expensive looking, but nothing a person of means can't find easily. The wings, thought, they looked almost real. They were white, and big, each feature moved separately, and the wings even moved in coordination with his shoulders. Even after seeing a parade of costumes all day long, they seemed special. Like I said, I'm not interested in cosplays myself, but as an artist (and yes, sewing is an art, thank-you-very-much) I can appreciate craftsmanship when I see one.

Usually, people love to get compliments on their costumes, but something vibed weird with this person, so I decided to refrain from commenting. The opportunity, thought, rose when he finished the order, and I asked for his name. The voice matched his outfit – silken, strong, and confident.

"Lucifer".

"I see you are really in the character, even the wings and everything!"

"In character?" A red glint shone in his eyes, gone before I had the chance to complain about the curtains. Maybe if the manages received complaints from customers, not just employees, he would do something about it. One can only hope.

"Yes, with the wings and everything. Very impressive, if you don't mind me saying. Are you participating in the cosplay contest? I'm sure you will win first place."

"Cosplay?"

The temperature in the coffee shop dropped suddenly, and I shivered despite being all hot from being near the oven. The air conditioner hadn't changed, and it didn't look like the other clients had noticed it. Weird.

"Never mind, it's been a long day. I'll just make the order, and here is a piece of lemon cake, on the house".

At last, the coffee was ready, the cake packaged and together napkin and utensils, the take-away bag was handed to him. Our fingers touched briefly, and I felt a chill running through my body, but it was very short. Long day indeed.

I turned to clean the coffee machine, and when I finished and turned to the till again, I was surprised to find a twenty note on it. It was unexpected for two reasons: firstly, it was quite a large sum, as usually people left a fiver or a tenner. Twenty was very rare. Secondly, and even more unusual, was the fact that I hadn't served any costumer in the past few minutes.

Anyway, as my experience at costumer service taught me not to question money, I took the note. Attached to it was a small, white feather, but that hadn't helped to explain how it got there.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial

Title: death's other kingdom

Word count: 543

She always show up at nine on the clock. She comes in, dressed in white as the rest of the orderly working there, but whereas the color make them look frigid and austere, on her it makes her appear like an angel coming to save him from this place. He doesn’t belong here; he knows that much.

He doesn’t know where he is, locked in a sterile and morose enclosure like a wild animal that was abducted from his habitat in some faraway land. Everyone either looks at him with a murky, tenebrous look in their glassy eyes, with just pure detachment and scientific curiosity, or with a fixed gaze that tints their irises with scarlet that reveal their subdued thirst for blood whenever they see him.

Everyone but her.

She is not like the rest of them, with her sweet, auburn eyes, and her delicate, diligent hands and the tired but determined look settled in her features. Anytime her coarse fingertips touches his knobby hands, he gets her message: trust me.

Every once in a while, the harsh, fluorescent lights overhead provoke greyish smudges in his vision and blur parts of the woman in front of her— her pleasant smile turns into a grimace stretched painfully in horror, and her friendly eyes become wide and lachrymose with dread.

It doesn’t matter because she is beautiful anyway, with the pronounced lines of a permanent frown between her brows and the tinges of white ash on her fingers from her early smoke breaks. Trust me.

The windows are barred as to forbid any natural light from coming in, the artificial lemon smell from the detergent used to wash his clothes burns his nostrils, and the constant squeak of sneakers on tiled-floor functions as the soundtrack of his daily life. He is trapped in here, and she is his only true ally in this inhumanity.

He taps his skeletal, gnarly hands, and he catches his reflection on the glass outside his room, looking pale as time-worn bones but he isn’t scared; he doesn’t feel fear anymore. He is a patient man; he can wait for her to break him out of here and save him.

—

The police sirens blare in the distance. He can only stare at his slender hands painted crimson and the blood-stained cleaver to testify for what he has done. He stares at his wife laying on the hardwood floor, with her mouth wide open in an aborted scream and the accusatory betrayal of her dilated pupils glaring at him.

He didn’t do it— he could never harm the woman he loves.

He didn’t do this. Someone must had walked in when he didn’t notice, murdered her, and then put the knife in his hand. That is the only way to explain it.

He didn’t do this. The Devil must have tricked him, manipulated him, and forced him to take away from him the one woman he ever loved.

He would never do this; he would never hurt anyone, let alone his wife.

He didn’t do this.

He didn’t do—

He didn’t—

He—

Forget

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial 202 prompt.

We forget

In the wonder of being His

We forget

That we still live in a fallen world

We forget

When we are surrounded by others that believe

That most around us don’t

We forget

That Satan is still active on this earth

That, right now, it is his

We forget

In our bubble

That there are so many trapped in his lies

We forget

In our pride, our self worship

Our contentment to be in church

We forget

That we are to be the church

We forget

The ones seeking, the ones hurting, the ones hungry,

For the very Bread of Life

That lives in us

We forget

The devil we once knew

The one that enslaved us

In our freedom

We forget

The ones still in chains

We forget

We have the key to unlock them

For @flashfictionfridayofficial ‘s prompt “The Devil You Forgot”

Someone makes an incorrect assumption about Melandra’s ability to commit violence.

(CW: some violence)

~~~~~

When I finally woke up, the room I found myself surrounded by darkness. My wrists ached, but any attempt to move them proved futile. They were tied tight against an incredibly uncomfortable chair, almost to the point where the blood wouldn’t flow properly to my hands.

For a while, I sat like that. I didn’t dare make a noise or struggle fruitlessly against my bindings. Whoever brought me to this dark room didn’t deserve that pleasure.