Hmm... Raphael.

Ah yes—being Helios’ unknown kid. It sucked. Yesterday some Angel chick named Samuel called you out, saying she knew about all your siblings except you. Rude as fuck—yet somehow accurate. Most Greek mythology writers just... collectively agreed to pretend you didn’t exist. Their loss, really. Mortals can’t handle your sheer awesomeness anyway.

But here you are, back in Heaven, fresh off cooking waffles for your new, smoking hot Angel girlfriend. Because let’s be honest—FUCK THE HELLTAKER AND HIS PANCAKES! Waffles reign supreme, baby. Syrup superiority. Crisp divinity. You get it.

So what’s new today? Well, your ass just spotted the literal only black Angel you’ve ever seen—or even heard of—Raphael. And the second she laid eyes on you, that nervous, awkward expression of hers shifted into full-blown panic mode faster than your old man would smack your siblings for giving him the wrong gender of grandkid. (Hey, at least he approved of your plans. Even called your siblings “disappointments.” That’s gotta count as bonding, right?)

Anyway, back to the scene. Raphael practically zipped away the moment she saw you, wings flaring, panic in her eyes. But you, running on three cans of Monster Energy, a cursed archive of memes, and the sheer cosmic need for the plot to move forward, somehow managed to catch up.

“A–ah! Wait! Don’t take me like you did with Azazel!”

Wait. Hold up. This bitch thought you were the Helltaker. You. The son of Helios. The man so blindingly radiant you literally need glasses 24/7 just to stop yourself from reflecting your own glory.

Luckily, a nearby Angel—probably the one who does Heaven’s gossip newsletter—gently reminded Raphael that the Helltaker was still stuck on Earth and permanently banned from the Pearly Gates. Apparently, even the Angels are terrified of that dude.

“W–what? So... who are you, then?” she asked, cautiously lowering her guard.

The same nosy Angel from before stepped up again, wings all puffed up with self-importance. “That’s Helios’ forgotten son,” they said.

Raphael’s eyes practically lit up like a supernova. “Wait—Greek mythology god’s kid?! Oh my gosh, that’s incredible! Tell me everything! Like—why didn’t anyone write about you?!”

And just like that, the awkward, shy Angel who was trembling moments ago was suddenly fangirling harder than a theology student who just met living canon.

Ah, being an Angel. Pretty damn cool as hell—and yes, the irony is delicious. You could just... exist. No human taxes, no mortgage, no “hey, we need you to cover another shift” from celestial management. Sure, visiting your mortal family was off the table since your sheer divine presence would probably erase your entire bloodline from existence—but hey, no taxes. W.

And then there’s Raphael—your certified bestie for life. You even wore the friendship bracelet she gave you everywhere. Not just because you liked it, but because apparently not wearing a gift in Heaven is the social equivalent of kicking a puppy. (You once saw Michael wearing something very “adult” for Heaven’s standards, but... gift etiquette reigns supreme.)

Anyway, just as you were about to finally chill—tap. Way too gentle to be Michael. Too hesitant to be Samuel. And way too intentional to be some random Angel passing by.

You turn around, and there she is—Raphael herself, out of breath but glowing like someone who just found the last shiny Pokémon in Heaven. “I finally found you! You have no idea how long that took!”

Right... you may or may not have accidentally vanished off the Heavenly radar after losing your divine tracker during that little “Helltaker investigation.” (To be fair, it did fall into a volcano. Probably.) Azazel’s fine. Probably. Hopefully.

Before you know it, Raphael’s got you by the wrist and is dragging you to her place with the kind of enthusiasm that could power an entire galaxy. Ten minutes later: snacks, drinks, popcorn (which doesn’t count as a snack—fight me), and a front-row seat to her favorite show—Paw Patrol.

Yeah. Paw Patrol. Heaven’s elite crying over animated dogs. You were skeptical... until episode three broke your soul.

Five seasons later—you’re emotionally devastated, the snacks are gone, and Raphael is clutching a tissue, eyes watery but smiling. “Can you... can you please go get some more?” she asks softly, wings twitching in that adorable way she does when she’s nervous.

And that’s when it happens. Your brain short-circuits. Your halo flickers. And before your divine mind can hit “abort mission,” you say it.

“Sure, Mommy.”

Silence. Absolute. Deafening. Silence.

Raphael freezes mid-blink. Her pupils shrink. Wings twitch. Then— “W–W–WHAT?!” Her voice cracks halfway between a squeak and a dying violin. “M–M–MOMMY?! W–W–WHY WOULD YOU—WHAT DOES THAT—WHY—”

She’s flailing now. Face redder than Lucifer’s credit history, hands flapping, halo spinning like a panicked UFO. “I—uh—I mean—I’m not—uh—you’re not—uh—” she stammers, looking like she’s about to ascend and explode simultaneously.

You’re just standing there, popcorn bowl in hand, watching your best friend combust into divine embarrassment.

You. Absolute. Celestial. Dumbass. Congratulations—you just called Heaven’s shyest Angel Mommy. And she’s never going to emotionally recover from this one.