Title: Night Terrors
Words: 100

Ligur padded up the slime encrusted steps and knocked on the door to Hastur's quarters. The elder demon opened it wearing a white gown and nightcap and carrying a saucered candle. He yawned, pointedly. “Ligur. I might have guessed. Do you know what time it is?”

“January. I can't sleep.”

“So? I warned you about torturing those people with an end-of-the-world prophesy until all weeks.”

“It's not that.” Ligur incy-wincy-spidered his fingers. “Can I sleep with you?”

“Oh dear Lucifer! Why?”

“I think there's an angel under my bed waiting to get me.”

I know this comm's been quiet for months, but I just came up with this and couldn't resist. I got sick of the wing-colour argument; the book does say angel and demon wings are the same, but it never says either sides' have to be any specific colour. Also, reference to the Cthulhu Mythos Hastur (a.k.a. The King in Yellow) because I will never get tired of that. X-posted to lower_tadfield.

Title: Wings.
Author: chelonianmobile
Rating: G.
Words: 100.

Demon wings are the same as angel wings. But no two sets of wings on either side are exactly the same.

Beelzebub and Metatron bore flames instead of feathers, red and gold.

Azrael’s were wing-shaped holes in space, star-sprinkled.

Hastur, since the incident at Arkham, had become famous among demonologists for his wings; brimstone yellow. Ligur’s were shadowy grey. Vague memories of gold and silver wings occasionally nagged at Crowley.

As he sat beside Aziraphale, the angel’s white wings brushed against Crowley’s black. One like pearl, the other like an oil slick. Both shone with rainbows, in the right light.

Crowley smiled at the man, accidentally-on-purpose showing all three rows of needle-sharp teeth. "I'm sure there must be some mistake."

Police Constable Ryan Marsh looked away, regretting his lunchtime prawn and pickle baguette. "I'm sorry sir." He paused while the whine of the low loader made speech impossible. "This vehicle matches paint traces from one used in a hit and run last Tuesday. It's being impounded pending further investigation.."

"Good grief." Aziraphale watch them strap the Bentley down. "Do you know a good lawyer?"

Crowley looked at the receipt the policeman had handed him. "I know all the lawyers."

Okee-dokee! The Murder challenge has finally come to an end. Thank you to those that participated!

This week's challenge is: Grief. Have fun!

~ for the 'Murder' challenge.

Thunderclouds gathered over the field, as if at the drawing of a furrowed brow. The first fat drops began to fall, raising small clouds of dust where they hit the sun-baked ground and mingling with the red stain of blood, making it glisten.

Heedless of the rain, Aziraphale stood unseen in the centre of the field, eyes fixed on the place Cain had disappeared back into the trees. "How could you?" he murmured.

"Don't look at me," came an indignant hiss from the stubble near his feet. "I fear they're going to be rather more inventive than we ever expected."

Hastur looked at the body sprawled over the bonnet of Duke Ligur's 1967 Pontiac Firebird. "You've murdered him."

"Accidental death, surely? He jumped out in front of me. I couldn't avoid him."

"After you chased him along three streets and through a pedestrian alleyway." Hastur examined the paint scrapings on the wall. "The Powers aren't going to like this. They frown on us killing mortals. Takes away free will."

"An accident." Ligur gestured and all the flecks of red Firebird paint changed to glossy black.

"What was the point of that?"

"Now they'll be looking for a black 1926 Bentley."

Okay! The Resurrection challenge has come to an end. Thank you very much to leatherdykeuk and possibly_thrice for your wonderful drabbles. It's been great seeing some life brought back to this community again.

This week's new challenge is: Murder. Have fun! :)

For the prompt 'resurrection'. None of the funny bits belong to me.

It was a bright and tastelessly pink dawn.

This was pure luck. For every deity who gets a rosy-fingered sunrise when his Son unstiffens on the slab, dozens rot under thunderheads while the Yggdrasil clocks up symbolic-number-of-days-spent-carrying-a-corpse.

Still, the two glowing figures in the graveyard derived some satisfaction from it.

Satisfaction, tempered by impatience.

"Where is he?"

"Aziraphale's always late."

A meaningful pause.

"It doesn't matter, anyway."

"Oh?"

"New orders," explained the other, pointing at the Words written on the sky, which read as follows:

for the Resurrection challenge

Hastur looked at what used to be Timothy Spaulder. The ex-geography teacher, who had taken his own life when the 'Hollow Earth' theory proved to be true, did his best to shrug and grin sheepishly; a task made significantly more difficult by the lack of lips. "I thought you said it was the resurrection?"

"You know how it is." Ligur sniffed. "They give us a list of people to be resurrected before the Second Coming but do they mention how? No. They wait for you to cock it all up and then send me to an audition with George Romero."