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alias: Jessica
age in ##: 6000+
story: Good Omens
gif (150x150): http://orig04.deviantart.net/9089/f/2017/010/6/e/3aa1f9108dfd6219ba7fce63fcb9bf27_by_mycers-dauy7l5.jpg
Application: http://ourheroesandvillains.jcink.net/index.php?showtopic=2724
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Joined: 10-January 17
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Last Seen: Nov 21 2017, 01:43 PM
Local Time: Nov 24 2017, 01:01 PM
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Aziraphale

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Nov 21 2017, 01:43 PM
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<div class="azbox">
<div class="azlyr1">angels dining</div>
<div class="azlyr2">at the ritz</div>
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<div class="azmain">
<div class="azpb">Domestic bliss, this was. Aziraphale sipped at his cocoa, taking a nibble off the marshmallow on the top and settling back into his armchair. What with organising the shop he didn't often get that much time to read. And what a page turner this was. Regency Snuffbox Collectors' Annual. Everything you'd want to know about snuffboxes - and a bit at the back about the Proms. Honestly, it was like Aziraphale Weekly. Or more accurately, Aziraphale Yearly. <br><br>

From 1854, but he liked re-reading stuff. <br><br>

Or he did until the bell rang. He at first didn’t respond, too absorbed, only to come to as he realised what this had to be. The delivery - of course. He’d been expecting a new collection of antiques all day. He glanced at the clock, only to scowl. Late. Did people even do deliveries at this time in the evening? Apparently so. Honestly. Deliveries down the drain, people not taking their jobs seriously anymore…<br><br>

He groped his way through the half-darkness of the shop, narrowly avoiding a strategically placed encyclopaedia placed specifically for stubbing toes. Hey, there had to be some sort of defence here. Against what the angel had never really specified on, but it went from anything from customers such as the one trying to get in now and creatures from beyond this plane. He'd had a drunk witchfinder in here once. It was just unfortunate that he'd gotten his theology mixed up and, ahem, confused angels and witches. Or so Aziraphale could gather, because that accent - of apparently every worst aspect of every accent on the British Isles - had been near on gibberish. There was a distinct difference, of course, not that the witchfinder had actually paused to find that out. Awfully rude, chucking him in his own summoning circle. <br><br>

And really! Making him incorporeal was even worse. He’d had to join the queue to get this body back. Getting a body from Base Camp was harder than it looked, you know. There were forms to be filled in and all sorts of things, and everyone looked at you like...well, like you'd killed someone. Crowley used to say that it was like going to a bloody-minded stationer's who asked, before giving you a pen, exactly what you did with the other pen you had down to the narrowest detail when all you wanted to say was 'it doesn't matter, give me another bloody pen'. Yeah, Aziraphale thought. That was accurate. The two sides weren't that dissimilar after all, were they? <br><br>

Avoiding the various obstacles, He padded to the door and opened it. "Hello," he mumbled, around a mouthful of cocoa and marshmallow. It came out more like 'hwello', because he was cultured and stuffed his face. He looked out of his book, dimly considered the person in front of him to check it was vaguely human and then ducked down to read the rest. "Put 'em down over there, would you...?" he mumbled. He was already turning away, flicking a hand towards a corner of currently unoccupied carpet and heading back into the parts of his shop. He didn't even notice that the person at the door wasn't carrying anything even resembling a new shipment of books. <br><br>
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<div style="background-color: #dddddd padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="azbb">ADD.: Open! <3 Jump right in! | WORDS: 547 | NOTES: </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Nov 14 2017, 01:49 PM
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<img src="https://orig00.deviantart.net/2799/f/2017/162/b/3/o_bill_nighy_facebook_by_mycers-dbcbues.jpg">
<div class="zmbox">
<div class="zmlyr1">between here and the end of the universe</div>
<div class="zmlyr2">....LOADS OF BUGGERALL, DEAR BOY</div>
<div style="background-color: #dddddd padding: 2px; margin-bottom: 2px;"></div>
<div class="zmmain">
<div class="zmpb"> Aziraphale hated noticing things. Noticing things usually meant noticing things that went wrong, and he knew what happened there. Oh yes. Some poor bastard had to get on and fix it - and that poor bastard was usually him. Like the apocalypse, for example. He and Crowley had had to deal with that because no one else wanted to. And how had that ended up? A baby swap that went wrong, that's what. Aziraphale had never particularly liked kids, but after spending eleven long years half-raising a kid that wasn't even remotely the Antichrist he could say he hated them. That birthday party had been bloody scarring. Plus a shootout at an old convent and possessing a TV evangelist and quite frankly he never wanted to get involved with anything ever again. Quite enough excitement, thank. You. Very. Much. <br><br>

So of course, yesterday evening, his eyes had skimmed over the top of his shop when he'd come home with a Granny's hot cocoa in a paper cup and a newspaper. And he'd seen the sign overhead, grimy and not cleaned since he had gotten into Storybrooke, and he just sighed and thought not again. Yes, again. <br><br>

So it just so happened that he was perched on top of a ladder outside his front door, a sponge in one hand, a bucket looped on the elbow of the other and wearing, to compliment all of these fashion statements, a superbly bad mood. Taking a moment to steady himself he dipped the sponge in the bucket, squeezed, and then began to clean in long steady strokes across the front sign. Water rained down onto the pavement as he scrubbed at the paint. Honestly. Couldn't get the staff nowadays. Had to do everything himself, like it or not. Even the most menial of tasks, surely below him, had to be done by yours truly. He scrubbed a little harder, trying to shift a particularly stubborn spot of dirt. No no no. Just him. Him and the shop. He could do it by magic, but what was the point of that? It was just like clothes. He had a moral obligation to buy clothes, of course - keeping up the local economy and all that, supporting your nearest supplier of tartan print and '50s revival costumes - but he didn't magically repair those, either. You could tell the stain was still there, under it all. You could just tell. Same with the sign. Nope - this needed elbow grease. Good old fashioned hard work. <br><br>

Knock knock.<br><br>

Aziraphale stared at the sign in front of him, sopping wet and soaking with soap suds. He exhaled, the look of several thousand years of soul sucking retail work behind his eyes. "Here we go again," he said, under his breath. You'd think, he thought to himself, that people wouldn't need to look up magical books anymore. Everyone came from magical places, didn't they? They didn't need him. And there was a library. And another shop. What did they need to come to him for? Yet here they were. Earth and its mother, it would seem. <br><br>

It would be an awful, awful thing for an angel to hide from people who needed his help. Really awful. Probably morally compromising in some way, because this was someone who wanted help and probably couldn't do without it too. So obviously, Aziraphale would never dream of such a thing. But the thought did occur to him that if he stayed very still maybe he wouldn't be....ah, noticed. No such luck, of course. Not on top of a ladder in plain view. Still, you couldn't blame him for at least considering the option. <br><br>

Or pretending to be acutely deaf. <br><br>

"For God's sake," Aziraphale muttered, getting down with a creak that he was pretty sure didn't come from the stair. He lowered himself by a few steps, not coming off entirely - he wasn't ready to walk away from this job, anyway. Getting down equalled commitment. "You - yes, you!" He pointed a bony finger towards the person below. The bucket hooked over his arm sloshed back and forth as he moved. Some customer, he had no doubt - they better not just want to browse. He waved to get their attention. "Hello. Have you seen the sign?" He teetered off the stairs to look at the door, craning his neck a little to peer at the letters written on the tiny sign. "I think you'll find it says - " <br><br>

He cut himself off. In fact, the sign on the front was a cheerful 'OPEN' in cheery letters. Just to add insult to injury the letters were bright red, bolded and in capitals, just to make it really clear that the shop was in fact open. He grumbled something under his breath about legal requirements and made a quick gesture. The sign promptly turned itself around so it showed 'CLOSED'. And a very defiant 'CLOSED' sign it was too. "There," he muttered. He looked to the stranger and cleared his throat, still hanging on for dear life from the ladder. "It says 'closed'," he said, as if it had been like that all the time. Obviously. <br><br>

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<div class="zmbb">ADD.: John Constantine | WORDS: 857 | NOTES: </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Nov 8 2017, 11:12 AM
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<img src="https://orig00.deviantart.net/6a81/f/2017/162/f/e/167693_by_mycers-dbcbufq.jpg">
<div class="azbox">
<div class="azlyr1">the devil has all the best tunes</div>
<div class="azlyr2">BUT HEAVEN HAS THE BEST CHOREOGRAPHERS</div>
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<div class="azmain">
<div class="azpb">Aziraphale swirled his whiskey where he stood on the porch. <br><br>

He would’ve smoked a pipe, as he had wont to do during the Victorian era, but something about having a wooden house made it a decidedly bad idea. It was a bit glorified to call it a porch, really or even that much of a house anyway - just steps and a little awning over the door. But it was one of the exterior features of the little shop that had come with him when his house had landed, Wizard of Oz style, in Storybrooke. He sighed, taking another sip of whiskey. Aziraphale had seen that movie and really didn’t consider himself the type to go about with a glittery red pair of slippers, except the nice expensive ones you could get at Marks and Spencer’s to shuffle around the house in (and where you could get a reasonably priced bottle of wine a few aisles over, which was obviously just as important), but apparently he was if he decided to travel via house. <br><br>

Just to be safe he had checked if he'd squashed anyone, terrible tights or otherwise. Awful amount of paperwork, he'd thought, and he'd heard there actually was a witch from Oz in town who he was keen to avoid. But apparently there were no slippers to be seen. <br><br>

Only him. <br><br>

Aziraphale frowned even as he stood there. There he was again - almost as if he’d been summoned. The same boy. He seemed to lurk around this street….not that he’d really noticed at first. <br><br>

No no no - Aziraphale's attentions were mostly directed inward, both in the form of the shop and in the form of actually just concentrating on himself. Alright, he was selfish. He owned it. Other accusations like that had been levelled at him in the past and he didn’t bat an eyelid. He had things to do and, typically, didn’t go around making work for himself. It came with the job. He had enough work, thank you very much, and he deserved to put his said slippered feet up once in a while - or every while, or maybe every day. Once his bookshop door was closed the rest of the world didn't exist. <br><br>

And if it had been maybe an old man, or a mother with three misbehaved but charming children who went past his shop every day, he would’ve ignored the visitors even more, at a level where he could've ignored for the Olympics as he turned up the Bach a bit higher (never anything more recent than 1800 - steady on, old chap) and snuggled into his armchair. Yeah. Whatever. Someone lurking around outside. Not his problem. <br><br>

But he was a teenager. And that was what made the angel pause. <br><br>

Teenagerdom. It was one of those periods in life (there were many) when a human being was at it’s most insufferable point in its short little lifespan. He knew he wasn't meant to say that but it didn't mean it wasn't true - and as it was he didn't deal in lying. It was like taking something already a bit erratic, pumping it full of hormones and chemicals and giving it an identity crisis. What did that do? Muck up an already faulty model was what it did, the angel thought to himself grumpily as he looked out, watching him even now. It created a whole lot of little individuals running around with opinions and weird subcultures that "weren't a phase, Dad" and - oh, Aziraphale didn't know. Did he look like he knew anything about the youth these days? Tattoos, probably. They always seemed to have tattoos. Skateboards. And, um, the paint stuff. Spray-paint! That was it. Spray-paint, to paint things on walls that the angel honestly couldn't differentiate from summoning circles. And maybe those big boom-boxes, though he hadn't seen one of those for quite some time. He wondered if they still had big music boxes. Or those things. Runmans. Sprintmans. Walkmans. Whatever. <br><br>

He didn’t care - regardless, it was safe to say Aziraphale was pretty nervous of teenagers. They always looked like they were going to raze down a village - or, ahem, a bookshop. And once he'd actually looked out of his own business enough to notice him the angel couldn't help but feel uneasy. This boy looked like a rebel. The dodgy type, the kind you meet down a dark alleyway - you know, he had a certain look. It was the same boy every time, he thought, unless the local teenagers did shifts outside his shop. <br><br>

Come on, they all looked a bit alike. <br><br>

But he was sure other teenagers didn't seem to talk to themselves. And Heavens, did this boy talk to himself. It was more like some sort of elaborate mime like the people he was talking to were really, really annoying him - full of broad gestures, frowns and the odd snappy comment. Aziraphale was pretty confused by that. Surely imaginary friends were meant to be just that - your friends? Apparently not for this young terror. Sometimes his voice would raise and the angel could hear it from across the street - even over Tchaikovsky. <br><br>

He huffed to himself. Really? That was just not on, to use a slangy phrase he was probably never going to use again. It was that which bothered him the most about this little visitor, even beyond the faintly menacing air he was giving off. Talking to yourself when people were trying to live their lives and sell their wares, like he was doing, wasn’t exactly social behaviour. It wasn’t seemly. It didn't really matter that Aziraphale didn't want to actually sell anything, and secretly he quite liked to have a local bogeyman scaring visitors away (and indeed what was scarier than a teenager?). Regardless of all of that, he was sure talking to yourself was distinctly antisocial. Something had to be done, he thought. <br><br>

So he sat and waited for someone to do something about it. <br><br>

....But with everyone else on the street apparently fine with having their own local village idiot, Aziraphale had peeled himself off the sofa, reluctantly and with a lot of grumbling, to actually do something. Someone had to. All of that nattering going on outside was getting on his nerves. Taking one last swig of whiskey and putting it on a side table just by the door, he squinted at the troublemaker himself. Yep. Still talking. What was this about? Enough was enough, dodgy teenagers or no dodgy teenagers. "Hello?" he called out, going to walk down the steps into the street. Was he being heard? He raised his voice. "You there! You - um - urchin!" <br><br>

Urchin. Worked, didn't it? <br><br>

Eh. That'll do. Worked in the 1890s. <br><br>
</div>


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<div style="background-color: #dddddd padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="azbb">ADD.: Nico Di Angelo | WORDS: 1130 | NOTES: AN BOOK-RELATED PHRASE I'VE ALWAYS WANTED TO USE AND MY FAVOURITE (ALTHOUGH NOT AZIRA'S) DEMIGOD <3 WHAT'S NOT TO LIKE? ALSO SORRY NOT SORRY FOR LENGTH LOVELY </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Sep 30 2017, 02:43 AM
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<div class="azbox">
<div class="azlyr1">heaven has no taste</div>
<div class="azlyr2">AND NOT ONE SINGLE SUSHI RESTAURANT</div>
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<div class="azmain">
<div class="azpb">Aziraphale had a lot of time to think in his shop. <br><br>

Whether or not this was a good thing depended very much on whether you happened to like the fellow (debatable) and, indeed, what him being left to his own devices resulted in (rarely anything good). Lots of muttering under his breath and book ordering, mostly, with the occasional hunt, and destruction of, the dust bunnies that tended to linger in the corners of the old establishment. And old it was. Aziraphale had seen it built, thank you very much. It had even survived the Fire of London - though, suspiciously, every other house in the area had been reduced to so much ash. Well, even angels got distracted. And it had been very hard to find a decent baker in those days. <br><br>

Anyway, that was normally the kinds of things Zira got up to when, unwisely, he was left to get along with his own bits and bobs. Until he grew a bit stir crazy. It was easy to do that, when he forgot about the outside world and retreated into the four walls of his bookshop to repair a book that was in desperate need of attention or he was very, very busy with keeping people out of his bookshop with everything but physical force. It was tough work. And people thought getting people to do something was hard! They should try getting people to not do something, Aziraphale thought dryly. Honestly. People got an idea in their minds - something as criminal as ‘wanting to buy a book’, for example (how dare they?) - and they just wanted to run with it, didn’t they? Come hell or high water, and Aziraphale had had fair experience with both. But that was the human spirit for you. Bloodyminded. <br><br>

Still, there were some things that Aziraphale liked about the humans. He was fond of them, really, in the same way that you would be of a weird exotic pet that you didn’t have the accompanying manual for and no access to a vet, so you muddled through and hoped you wouldn’t one day accidentally poison them. That sort of fondness. You know the one. And it was today, in one of those same stir crazy moments between ushering customers out of the door ("No, sorry, this isn’t a bookshop," he said, whilst leaning against a shelf full of books and shaking his head in vehement denial) and cleaning that he decided he wanted to try out being a human. Human for a day, if you will. <br><br>

"Oh look," he said dramatically, one arm flung across his forehead like he’d seen in dramatic Shakespeare plays, "I've walked into a room and I've forgotten why I'm here. Woe. Is Me. I am part of a species of amazing individuals and instead I watch cat videos on the Internet!" He gestured to an invisible crowd to his old computer, the one falling apart at the circuits. "I do all sorts of things to my planet and then I wonder why there's a lot of pollution. I stare at my phone so much I walk into lampposts." The angel grabbed the nearest skull-like object. It was, as it rather predictably turned out, a book. He regarded it and pretended to wipe away a tear. Humans - so emotional. "To be, or not to be. Oh! Yeah!” He clicked his fingers as he remembered something else about the darling little loves. “ I say sorry to inanimate objects. I find dangerous animals cute so I think I’ll domesticate them and have them as pets to eat my food for no reason. And I don’t read history books so I’ll keep making the same - " <br><br>

Mistakes. Funny timing, actually. Yeah. Um. The angel coughed delicately. It was at that point that Aziraphale suddenly became aware the shop door was open. <br><br>
</div>


</div>
<div style="background-color: #dddddd padding: 2px; margin-top: 2px;"></div>
<div class="azbb">ADD.: Open! | WORDS: 645 | NOTES: </div>
</div>
<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
Jun 17 2017, 01:18 PM
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<div class="azbox">
<div class="azlyr1">What d’you call it? </div>
<div class="azlyr2">The line at the bottom?</div>
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<div class="azpb"> The bar was like how it always was; crowded, the atmosphere bubbling with chatter and music so loud it had decayed to a dull thud. But you didn't come here for the music, so that was fine. It was fine for Aziraphale too, quietly nursing a brandy and a cup full of salted peanuts. Every so often he took one or two, munching on them thoughtfully as he looked about the room. He leant back in his seat, the frame gently creaking under his weight. <br><br>

Typical Friday night, this. At the moment everything and everyone was in a pleasant haze of the first or second drink. The sun was still descending down outside and night hadn't quite fallen, a dull blur of twilight across Storybrooke - still enough to see by, to confidently know where you were without the misshapen forms of nighttime taking over. Distantly, over the noise, he could hear a dog barking outside, perhaps the faint roar of a car engine. People were still piling in, happy to spend the first few hours of the weekend tapping their nails impatiently across the wooden counter. Ah, people watching. It was quite relaxing. <br><br>

Things rarely went so well at the pub, of course. It was all fun and games until time ticked on that much later. Aziraphale would be drifting into the danger zone of nine or ten o'clock then, when the local rabble might get a bit more rowdy than usual after the fifth and sixth glasses. But he'd be long gone by then. At that point he already be going home, back to the shop. What could he say? He wasn't really one for excitement. And bar brawls, if there were any, were a bit of a morally grey area when drink was involved. Best to stay away. <br><br>

No - he liked his little trips to the bar. Not staying too long, not having much to drink either. Just a little pick-me-up before tottering back home. One of the highlights of his week, really. And for now he was happy, teetering back on his chair like a schoolboy and looking about, beginning to feel the creeping relaxing effects of his brandy slide over him. <br><br>

It was that point, relaxed and peering aimlessly though the crowd, when he saw the stranger. <br><br>

It wasn't as dramatic as that. Whoever he was, he was just looking for a place to sit - that much was obvious. He could see him weaving through the hodgepodge of chairs and tables, amid the clinking of glasses and the sliding of beer mats. Aziraphale swallowed his peanuts and cleared his voice. "Excuse me?" He raised his voice to be heard over everyone else, looking straight at the man to demonstrate he was talking to him and not anyone else. It wasn't always easy to tell in The Rabbit Hole. The yelling of 'oi, you' across the bar was simply quite unseemly. The angel nudged the spare chair of his table outwards with his foot to indicate an invitation, cupping a hand around his mouth as to be heard a bit better. "You're welcome to sit here." <br><br>

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<div class="azbb">ADD.: Rupert Giles | WORDS: 517 | NOTES: HOPE THIS IS ALRIGHT!</div>
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<div class="tcred"><a href="http://shine.b1.jcink.com/index.php?showuser=1892" target="_blank">♛ Ames</a></div></center>[/dohtml]
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