taakitz good omens au (idk how, but go for it)
pauline you always get what the fuck is up
Kravitz takes his job very seriously. It was his choice to fall, after all, and he wasn’t about to spend millennia mourning over gold highlights and the cold sterility of heaven when there were so much more interesting things to do. Mortals are so fallible, after all—effable, he supposes one could say, with their petty fears and jealousies and rages. He’s serious enough about his job, anyhow, that he doesn’t really go in for that surface-level tormenting. No, his realm of expertise lies in subtler arts—plugging one’s USB stick in wrong both times, for example. Or poorly-composed songs where the beat drop falls as flat and unsatisfyingly as a slab of moist clay. He shudders at the thought.
Little nightmares, he thinks to himself as he strolls leisurely down the street. That’s his forte.
Long, well-manicured fingers wrap around his shoulder and jerk him backwards. “Hey, hot stuff,” says a voice as familiar to him as his own. “Snag anyone’s earbuds on a door handle lately?”
Kravitz, about six thousand years familiar with Taako’s idea of a polite and friendly greeting, gives him a look. “It’s AirPods now, angel. Wires have been deemed gauche.”
Taako falls into step beside him, fussily folding and re-folding his Gucci blouse sleeves. “Was that my side or yours again?” he asks.
Kravitz shrugs. “I lost track a while ago,” he admits.
If there is a demon of tiny torments, there must be an angel of grand delights. Off the top of his head, Kravitz can attribute the Michelin Star program, the concept of gold leaf, and most Baroque paintings to Taako. Once, in a fit of pique somewhere around the 1350s, he’d asked how something so self-indulgent and extravagant could be considered virtuous, especially if, like Taako, it seemed to rub shoulders with gluttony, lust, and sloth. Taako lobbed an exquisitely painted vase at his head and they didn’t speak again until England had sorted out their War of Roses.
“It’s not my fault you can’t distinguish between a celebration of art and human ingenuity and cardinal sins,” he’d sniffed as they watched the crown descend on Richard the Third’s scowling head.
Kravitz, who had just woken up from a century-long nap, just nodded along, glad enough that Taako had decided to keep talking to him at all, let alone give him anything resembling an explanation.
“So,” says Taako, shoving a handful of what looked and smelled like wasabi peas into his mouth, “Antichrist is about to show up.”
“If my superiors are to be believed,” says Kravitz, who disdains both eating snack food and Hell’s upper management style.
“Baller.” Taako wipes his fingers on his hand-embroidered linen pants. “I think I found him.”
“Oh, good.” Kravitz speeds up his pace a bit. “I have to admit, I lost track of the child for a bit, but I have no doubt his blood will out and he has begun manifesting all sorts of—”
“No, I think he’s been trailing us,” Taako interrupts. His tone is remarkably lax for an event that heralds the apocalypse. “Getting a lot of some kind of energy from right behind us.”
Kravitz feels his eyes go wide and he spins around, immediately meeting eyes with a child that comes up to his midsection.
“Hello, sirs,” says the child. His eyes are comically wide behind thick glasses. “Can either of you explain the ineffable plan? Or will I have to figure that out for myself too?”
