#prey crowley prey that Aziraphale returns to you

[lookinori]

I’m trying my best to get the whole Angel outfit which is obvs Good Omens inspired yay

[tartanbowtie]

Good Omens Heaven Is a Cult

In Good Omens, Heaven is a cult. A religious cult.

And Aziraphale and Crowley are not on the same page about this.

Crowley was cast out of the cult for (presumably) openly questioning it, and sees it for what it is. He is still deeply traumatised by the experience (we see it with his houseplants, his reactions to rejection, to forgiveness, etc), but he has shed his identity as a cult member entirely. He isn't that angel anymore, nor does he want to be. 

He has been forced to depend on another cult—Hell (which has some elements of a commercial cult, multi-level marketing style)—but very clearly resents having to do so. He isn't a demon by choice, and when Beelzebub offers a deal to welcome the former demon back, he tells them just where they can stick it. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, still can't admit to himself that it is a cult. He's uncomfortable with Heaven and aware that it isn't nearly as good as it's supposed to be. He has distanced himself from it, but he hasn't left it.

Aziraphale rationalises and makes excuses and uses mental compartmentalisation to deal with the massive cognitive dissonance. While he enjoys the relative freedom he's had after Heaven partly disowns him after Armageddidn't, he is still, deep down, in its clutches. He believes that underneath all the atrocities, Heaven is still "the good guys", and craves being welcomed back, because he still identifies as a cult member an angel.  And he carries his own religious trauma.

This is why he fundamentally can't understand that it is unthinkable for Crowley to return to the cult Heaven, to give up his independence, his identity, and become an obedient cult member angel again. He still thinks that Crowley, deep down, craves to be accepted by the cult again. And he really doesn't understand how hurtful his continued insistence on this is to Crowley. 

Crowley understands all that. He sees it, and he knows that you can't argue with a cult member to make them see that the cult is a cult, that it's toxic. It's something they have to discover for themselves. He knows that trying to force Aziraphale to see is most likely just going alienate him and drive him back into the arms of the cult (although he's so desperate in the final fifteen that he does just that).

He's been trying for 6,000 years to nudge Aziraphale into a position where he can make that discovery and admission, patiently offering the tools Aziraphale needs to get there.

And it seemed he was getting somewhere. Especially after Armageddidn't.

But then the Metatron showed up, expertly using cultish mind-control techniques to reel Aziraphale back into the cult.

Others have described the Metatron's manipulation tactics in great detail (here's a great YT analysis), so I'll just give a few examples here:

"I am your new best friend"; love bombing; threats, over-the-top promises

denigration of the past self; emotional unfreezing; heightened emotion

And finally, information compartmentalization; not letting you see the big picture until you are "ready" to accept it, or it's too late for you to back out (this is where I think the Metatron makes his fatal mistake, but more on that later)

The Metatron skillfully plays on Aziraphale's millennia-long cultish conditioning to sacrifice his own wants and needs for the cult's Greater Good, his inferiority complex, and his genuine desire to protect and make right (he is a guardian angel, after all).

Paradoxically, Aziraphale’s love for Crowley makes him more susceptible to the Metatron's manipulation: He wants to keep Crowley safe, from Heaven (the Metatron's implicit threat), and from Hell's retribution (a danger that was always there, but which has become more tangible after Shax' threats). And as Supreme Archangel, he really believes he would be able to protect Crowley—if they're together in Heaven.

The Metatron's (insincere) offer to restore Crowley as an angel preys on Aziraphale's own guilt at (he believes) having caused Crowley to Fall. He sees a chance to make amends and right a wrong, to restore to Crowley what should never have been taken from him: his rightful place in the cult Heaven. Because as I said, he doesn't understand.

But Crowley doesn't know that this is what's going through Aziraphale's mind. Or, his capacity to understand is effectively short-circuited when Crowley’s own religious trauma makes him think Aziraphale is saying he isn't good enough for Aziraphale the way he is.

Nothing to see here, just an ex-cult member a fallen angel reenacting his religious trauma

Unpacking all the miscommunication going on in the ineffable divorce scene needs its own post or ten, or a hundred. But for the record, I don't believe in the coffee theory, the time-manipulation theory, or the body-swap theory. Or any of the other theories that make this anything other than the heartbreak of two people deeply in love, hurting each other because of a complete breakdown of communication caused by unresolved trauma.

So Crowley drives away, gutted by the experience of laying his heart bare for Aziraphale only to be rejected, and of seeing his life companion choosing the cult over him, of going to the one place he cannot follow. I'm worried for Crowley. Yes, he is, at heart, an optimist. But how will our hero cope?

And Aziraphale is devastated, too, at having his outstretched hand slapped away, at having his own oblique declaration of love denied, at Crowley running away from them, from responsibility, again.

But still, this is where I am hopeful. Because Crowley's patient nudging hasn't been in vain. Aziraphale has already stopped the end of the world once, and he was the one who convinced Crowley to continue fighting long after Crowley would have given up (guardian angel, right?). 

I know, I know. Aziraphale didn't listen when Crowley told him "When Heaven ends life here on Earth, it'll be just as dead as if Hell ended it." But that's because he didn't know, then, what Crowley knew: that this was what Heaven was already planning at that very moment, and that the reason Heaven went after Gabriel was that he tried to stop it (Aziraphale probably still thinks it was for loving a demon, which further colours his thinking). Crowley never had the time to tell him. The Metatron saw to that. It's always too late. 

Or is it?

The Metatron has just told Aziraphale about the Second Coming, sure in his belief that he is "ready" to accept it. But Aziraphale isn't ready. He is appalled, shaken to his core. I think this is the moment the scales fall from his eyes, and he finally allows himself to see that Heaven is a cult. A destructive religious cult. And now, everything clicks into place for him. At last, Crowley's words and actions make sense. And our determined guardian angel starts making his plans.

I don't know what Aziraphale is planning, if he's going to tear down the cult from within. But I think the Metatron is about to find out that evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction.

[falliamnation]

Just a little post S2 drabble - PG rated

“Crowley...” The angel’s voice is small, his eyes darting about, his hands nervously picking at the buttons of his worn waistcoat. “I... I suppose I have a confession to make.”

There’s a pause as Crowley carefully considers his response.

“Go on, then.”

Aziraphale fights his inner turmoil, considers backing out of his confession, but then the demon takes off his glasses, and it’s the first glance of those glorious amber eyes that he’s seen in a long while. Knowing it’s Crowley’s way of giving his permission, Aziraphale musters the courage to continue, just not graciously.

“It’s... Well, it’s just that I’ve been having some thoughts and... feelings, none of which are particularly holy, ever since you kissed me.”

An eyebrow raises, a head tilts to the side, the corner of a mouth turns upwards ever so slightly.

“Oh?” Crowley responds in faked innocence.

“Yes, I-“ exasperated, Aziraphale blurts out, “oh, really, must I spell it out for you?”

“See, Aziraphale, ever since that day I’ve vowed to not assume things about you ever again.” Crowley crowds Aziraphale, intimidatingly so. When the angel steps back slightly in surprise, the demon follows him. It’s like a well rehearsed dance, until Aziraphale finds himself pressed snuggly against a bookshelf, feeling very much like Crowley’s prey. It makes him weak in the knees, his cheeks burning, heart racing, the air around them thick and tangible. “So yes, you are going to have to spell it out for me, I’m afraid.”

“You know what I’m trying to say.”

A shrug.

“Afraid I don’t. So, if you want something,” Crowley’s voice drops an octave as he leans down to whisper into the angel’s ear, low and sultry, “ask for it.”

Aziraphale shudders, his eyes closing momentarily as he savours the demon’s proximity. He breathes in so that he can take in the familiar scent of Crowley’s aftershave. His voice sounds raw when he breathes out, “At this point, I’m not sure if it’s a want or a need.”

A low chuckle rumbles in Crowley’s chest. The demon moves so that they’re face-to-face, their gazes meeting, electricity sparking the moment they do.

“What is that you need, then?”

He groans internally, but he’s come this far. Aziraphale figures that he can’t back out now.

“I can’t get the feeling of your lips against mine out of my head, I... I crave it, Crowley.”

That wicked smile returns.

“So ask, Angel.”

Angel.

Hearing Crowley call him that is like music to his ears, proof that he has finally been forgiven.

“Kiss me,” he eventually pleads, “please.”

Apparently, that’s all Crowley needs to lose his composure.

In an instant, a palm lands at the side of the angel’s head, pressing against the wooden shelf behind him, boxing him in. Crowley’s slender fingers cup his cheek, and they both move to close the distance between them, eyes closing moments before their lips meet softly in the middle.

At first, the kiss is gentle, sweet, full of longing, until the hunger in both of them wins over, and hands explore, carding into crimson hair, lips press together achingly, mouths moving in a desperate rhythm, needing more, more, more.

It’s like watching Crowley create galaxies all over again.

Sparks explode, stars are born.

Two halves of one soul collide.

[sentientsky]

Excerpt from one of my gomens fics, in which I reveal that I have abandonment issues (and should probably start going to therapy more often. whoops!):

Three years, eight months, and seventeen days ago, the world had nearly ended. Again. And he and his angel had (with a great deal of help from Muriel) brought it back from the brink of destruction. Again. And when the metaphorical dust had cleared away, the Almighty had found him in the dawn of a new world, all unearthly gaze and shimmering ethereality. She had offered him a complete return to the way it was before—not as a principality or even an archangel. No, She offered him the chance to be as he once was: an engineer, the Starmaker, a seraphim with all of creation at his fingertips and all of divinity at his feet. In a new world, too—one without Heaven or Hell, She promised. He had gripped his angel’s hand tighter, felt him return the pressure in equal measure.

Crowley had leveled his gaze at Her, terrified but unflinching in the face of so much heavenly heat. Like looking into the sun.

He would not leave, would not fall prey to a God that made too-pretty promises. Even if She had let him ask all the questions he desired, he would still refuse, and he told Her as much.

She had accepted this decision with a somber nod. Eyes full of plasma, She’d looked at him one last time and asked for forgiveness.

“My dearest Starmaker, I hope you understand.” A flock of birds flitted across the sky behind Her. He tracked their movement from the edges of his vision. “I am so sorry for all the pain I caused you.” She reached up to try to touch his face.

He pulled back, nearly snarling.

Dreadful memories of falling from a great height flashed through his mind. The taste of sulphur coated the back of his teeth, noxious and terrible.

“You let me fall. You pushed me—for asking questions ,” he had hissed, all venom, all jagged teeth. So many eons of abandonment, of sheer loss…Well, it does something to a not-person, to a beating, not-human heart. You learn to go cold, to slow your breathing and keep yourself boarded up and hidden. Your body learns to react to affection like a rejected organ transplant. You carry on through life scarred and spitting and backing against the wall like a cornered animal. You believe you don’t deserve tenderness. You believe it will ruin you. Because to love, to let yourself be loved, is to turn all vulnerable and underbellied—to show your hand in a game of cards with everything on the table.

And yet…a very young, hands-trembling part of you yearns for it—begs, desperate and hungry and aching, for love. Like a starved dog with all its ribs showing. Like Sisyphus pushing that damn rock, knowing full well which way the hill slopes.

After so long spent in the mires of self-destruction, Crowley would not—could not—forgive Her. For not only the violence inflicted against him, but also against the entirety of a vast universe. He would heal himself—had been healing himself—but he would not give Her the satisfaction of forgiveness. A breeze picked up, tossed scarlet hair against his forehead. He set his jaw, felt his heart slam against his chest.

“I know.” Her gaze softened. “I made a mistake.”

He’d barked a laugh at this, strangled and bitter and full of unspent wrath. “No fucking shit.”

Aziraphale inhaled sharply beside him, and Crowley could practically feel the anxiety burn through his palm. But She made no move. She didn’t pull the edges of reality apart and rummage through the outer reaches of time. She didn’t pull the Book of Life from between worlds and condemn him to the heavy violence of non-existence—of never-having-been, never-will-be.

She only murmured into pearlescent air, quiet and resigned and infuriatingly serene, “I would take it all back if I could. I’d go back. Set things right.”

But she could, he thought, if she really wanted to, of course. She was God, after all—the Almighty. The one who held all the strings, the one behind the curtain, orchestrating the whole damned symphony. Was not everything within her control?

But of course, too much had transpired, too much had been changed in the last little stretch of eternity. And in truth, would Crowley have changed it—pressed restart—if given the chance? His gaze had flickered, momentary, to Aziraphale. From his periphery, he traced the soft line of his jaw, the arc of his curls. He breathed deep and tasted familiar bergamot on his tongue. Would they have been able to replicate what they had now, given the opportunity to do it all over again? How many times does lightning strike the same ground twice?

“Okay.” A beat. A ragged breath. “I hope you don’t expect me to forgive you.”

“I do not. And that’s alright; I understand.”

Thank u for reading!! Here’s the rest of the fic if u want it lol: x

[daneecastle]

Maybe 3 hours of sleep?

I can't stop thinking about them.....

Aziraphale and Crowley. Like seriously, I've been into relationships like this for .... a really long time. And usually it's maleXmale .... I thought after obsessing over any and all stories like it that it was purely hormonal. But I've been trying to fight the urge to it for quite a few years recently .... but this is more than just a similar "gendered" romance (especially since these are technically non-gendered beings). It's not about a hormonal connection. Not at all.

It's about a bond. A connection. A true relationship. Whether it is hetero or homosexsual, that doesn't matter anymore.

Admit it. Everyone saw the truth to their relationship before they kissed in season 2 episode 6. What is one of the most used scenes describing their romance that I fell on with season one?

This one! Whats the common phrase used?

"Sexsual tension?"

Arguable because they might not have the bits (shrug), but the point is made.

There is something there.

With Azi's long stares at Crowley like he's studying every inch of this demon, he cherishes so much. And Crowley's continuous yo-yo act of returning to Aziraphale, despite the frustration and constant rejection from his Angel encounters.

Then season two comes out, and the torture of the obvious reveal of their relationship starts to develop, bit by bit.

And finally the very abrupt manipulation of a couple of human girls, come in and innocently, unaware of the damage it evokes, try to get the two ethereal/occult beings to stay out of their loves lives by triggering Crowley's very damaged heart to open for a brief moment and reveal .... well, the truth. He loves his best friend. More than anything. More than his fear of rejection.

He really struggles. But, somewhat confesses his feelings.

I'm not blaming Nina and Maggie, nor am I supporting what they said. But what is done is done.

And ..... as well all know....

.... it failed and broke the toughest of hearts.

Now we have to wait and all we can do is talk, write, draw, and create to fill the cracks with super glue until Neil can write again and Amazon can approve of a third season. Then prey that it doesn't last as long as it took season 2 to come out for the season one fans.

I wasn't part of that group. Thank God.

But I am part of this new fandom and will continue to share my broken heart with everyone who follows, watches, reblogs, and comments over my posts and art.

Thank you. ❤️

[jadevalentine-writes]

WIP Wednesday - Living in Sin: Chapter 2 Preview - Good Omens Fanfic

Crowley spent the rest of the evening watching Aziraphale arrange his plants around the bookshop. His contributions included the occasional comment from the sofa where he was sprawled while nursing a bottle of scotch.

“No, no, angel, that one is sensitive to light. It should go in the south window until winter at least.”

“Oh! Alright then.” Aziraphale gave him a warm smile as he scooped up the small plant and bustled across the shop to the other window.

All the moving about, as well as a few glasses of wine, had forced Aziraphale to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves. It was the most improperly dressed Crowley had seen him in recent memory and he spent a considerable amount of effort trying not to not think about the angel’s forearms. Or how strong yet soft they looked. Or how easily they carried around boxes of plants and piles of books and-

Crowley flapped the lapel of his jacket. It was quite hot in the bookshop and, oh dear, how did he reach the end of the bottle already?

Crowley squinted with amazement into the bottom of the empty bottle as Aziraphale finally returned to his chair and took a seat. He sighed and crossed his ankles as he picked up his glass of wine.

“I daresay, the plants will make this shop look like a veritable greenhouse tomorrow morning.” The angel smiled. “They should be much happier!”

Crowley wrinkled his nose as he set the empty bottle on the floor at his feet. “Eh, just don't over water them. I’ll handle that when I come back tomorrow.”

“Come back?” Aziraphale’s frown bordered on a pout and Crowley had to avert his eyes less he fell prey to its powers. “I thought you were going to take me up on my offer to…” Aziraphale flexed his right hand and then took a large gulp of wine. With liquid courage he continued. “You can stay, you know. As I said before, it should be perfectly safe, with Heaven and Hell giving us a break, as well as the wards-”

“Ach, I know. I know, alright?” Crowley sighed, slumping further into the couch. Aziraphale had spent the majority of their evening after dinner pitching and re-pitching the idea. Logically it was sound, Crowley knew, and he really had no strong argument against it save one: his pride.

Now, Crowley could save Aziraphale from destruction on any day ending in “y” and often did favors without being asked, but that was…different. That was Crowley saying thank you for not being smited (smote? smitten?) on sight in the Garden, and for agreeing to the Arrangement, and for, well, being his only friend on earth for over six-thousand years. But under no circumstances was that reversible. And that was the way of things, wasn’t it?

Demons did not need saving. They chose their path, and no one, not even a fussy angel, could save them from it.

Crowley released a breath he did not know he was holding, all while under Aziraphale’s blue-eyed gaze. Perhaps he had enough to drink for one night.

“I’ll think about it, okay?”

It was an olive branch, and likely a false one at that. Crowley could think about things for a millenia if he wanted. But the smile that lit up Aziraphale’s face, like the sun cresting a hill at dawn, well, it was enough to make the soft-hearted demon change his mind.

Almost.

“I should go,” Crowley grumbled, peeling himself vertical, hips first with spine and shoulders following.

Aziraphale frowned but hid it quickly behind the rim of his wine glass. “So soon?”

Crowley stretched his arms over his head, joints cracking and t-shirt riding up. If Aziraphale’s gaze tracked the newly exposed flesh like a heat-seeking laser, the demon was none the wiser.

“Well, I could be persuaded to stay,” Crowley drolled, “if you happen to have another bottle of that excellent scotch.”

Aziraphale raised a finger. “I shall check the cellar!” And then he was off, curls bobbing as he crossed to the back of the shop.

Crowley sighed, though it was not the sound of defeat. Rather it was the sound of fondness over a lifetime’s worth of habits well known. That was until he checked his wristwatch and grimaced.

Nearly three in the morning. The witching hour, the humans had called it, and at one point in time, it was. Now it was just the hour in which an angel, red-cheeked from light exertion and too many bottles of wine, would present a demon with a vintage bottle of scotch. And soon enough, dawn would come.

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Want to see through Crowlien’s perspective for this au now?

Here we go! This is Crowley’s perspective from this one-shot. 

Warning: mentioned body horror, jumbled thoughts

On with the fic!

--

Even with the fog in their mind, they still knew what they were looking at.

It was an emergency hatch to the vents, an extra escape route on the ship, apparently humans always needed backup plans. Clever things, humans.

They clawed at the hatch, and it took a few tries. These... hands, they were hard to work, they were too new, too similar, but all so very wrong. It angered them that they had to use these. The door opened and there was strong pressure, an airlock. They got in quickly and slammed the door shut, the air pressure returning just as quickly as it left.

The vents were a tight squeeze, it had been easier when...

When what?

Have they ever been in them?

To repair, yeah.

Probably.

Things were... hard. Hard to remember. They crawled through the metal vents before finding a grate and pushed it open with ease, then crawled out, landing hard on the floor. 

The familiarity of the room, a work space, was overwhelming. It hurt their head. They could smell themself in here, their long, forked tongue tasting the lingering scent of themself and their tools, but that of two other living creatures.

Their smells weren’t as strong, but they were there.

Blood.

Lots of blood.

Torn open.

Torn apart and scattered around.

They left the room.

It was quiet, minus the sounds of machines. Lots of smells, lots of metallic ones, not like the surface of the moon. Not like where they had been sleeping.

There was a smell of a cat, Bentley. That’s her name. Black fur, little jiggly collar she always seemed to try to lose. They had a cat, cats are friends, do not hunt her. 

Hunt other things.

Hunt other living things.

They could smell other living things’ smells here. They got into the vents again, deciding to hunt out of sight.

They picked up on a familiar smell, it was stronger than the other living things. But it didn’t smell alive, it smelled active. It was delicious and made their skin crawl. They wanted the source. They heard footsteps, the prey was close.

A grate went flying as they shoved their way through it, hitting the ground, before standing. They felt the need to chase, to kill, rising in them, until they spotted the prey.

No.

Not prey.

Never prey, cannot kill this one, this one was special, important, precious, loved.

Angel.

Fuck.

Right, yes, yes! Damnit, this was Aziraphale! Why would they ever hunt Aziraphale, let alone hurt him!? They would never do that, they made sure that he was safe before-

Before they became this.

They watched as Aziraphale held up a gun, looking scared and trying to be brave. It hurt, but they- Crowley, Crowley understood. They weren’t human anymore, they must look a mess. Crowley still had no idea what they looked like, but they were sure that it was horrifying, of course it was.

They stepped closer and closer, but Aziraphale never put his finger on the trigger, he must know. He has to know.

Crowley was now towering over him before lowering themself down to be at eye level with their angel. Aziraphale looked so scared, but so determined, angry and hurt. Then he stepped back a few steps, hitting the wall, and a door next to him opened a second later. Crowley watched him as he entered the room and then followed.

They glanced around, it looked to be... hhhh... fuck, they can’t remember. Just teeth, like plastic, always fake smiles. He was a total twat, the smell of his cologne was terribly strong in here, it tasted like too many lilacs. Aziraphale was behind the desk, glaring. “What do you want?”

Crowley stood up a little straighter, surprised that Aziraphale was talking to them. They moved to the desk and looked at it before tapping at it, they needed to write. Speaking was pointless, they had no ability to, at least, not that they know of. Probably. 

Their mind was so fuzzy and heavy, it was constantly like waking up from surgery.

Aziraphale seemed to pick up on what Crowley was indicating and gave him a paper and pen. It was hard to hold the pen, but they tried to write anyway.

Y OU

It was wonky, but it was something.

“Me?” He asked, frowning.

YES

“You… but why? How would you even know who I am?”

C

R

O

There was a gasp, and Crowley stopped, looking at the man before him. Aziraphale looked horrified. “No... no, that’s not true. You, you can’t be...”

Crowley made a sad, understanding noise. Of course he didn’t see them as Crowley. They must really not look like themself anymore. 

AN GE L

They wrote, carefully and slowly. 

I AM ME

“But... but you... I saw him go through the airlock, he had that horrible monster in his grasp! He went out on the surface and the door locked behind him! He never came back!” Aziraphale shouted.

What did he mean? What happened? Crowley couldn’t... they couldn’t remember much, so much was a blur, too many holes. 

BACK N O W

Because it was true, but they didn’t understand the hows or whys. 

Aziraphale stared at the paper, his hands twitching, his eyes looked wet. “I don’t... I don’t know, or beli-” 

He coughed, straightening his flight suit’s front, a nervous habit, Crowley remembered that. “I need to examine you.” He said, in a tone Crowley also remembered, his professional one he used to hide what he was really thinking.

Crowley silently followed him to the medical bay, tail dragging on the floor. 

--

Crowley remembers nearly nothing of what happened during the attacks of the Mayfair, their memory is a jumbled mess. But they remember Bentley and Aziraphale! 

Also, what happened out on the surface of the moon is still a mystery, as in, I still have no idea how Crowley mutated.

And yes, Crowley has a snake tongue. And a second mouth! Wait until Aziraphale sees that! :D 

[rhianwen24601]

Bahahahahaha, I got super high while watching my kitties play, and I woke up to find this in my notes app:

-----

"My word, what a spectacular view!" Aziraphale gasped, readjusting his grip on the curtain rod and gazing in awe over the bookshop below. "It was a gruelling climb, but so very worth it! Crowley! You must come up and see this view! Use the curtains!"

Crowley, hunkered down a few feet from his prey, looked up and snorted.

"I don't need to climb the curtains, angel. You don't need to climb the curtain. We have WINGS. D'you forget?"

Returning his attention to the bottlecap lying motionless on the floor, he settled in for a long wait. No good spooking it by acting too soon.

Patience, Crowley reminded himself, backside waggling slightly with the intensity of his focus. The key to the hunt.

"I wonder what's up there," Aziraphale was meanwhile musing, eyes fixed on the next nearest curtain rod.

[ganymedesbussy]

WIP: ark times snakefuckery

From his place near the railing, Aziraphale watched Crowley fly through the storm. He’d been at it for hours now, skimming low above the surface of the waters until he would take a sudden dive, arms reaching out to pluck up his prey as easily as a hawk catching a fish, and then turning to angle back towards the ark with another child held gently in his arms.

At first he’d had to grab the untended, the skinny strays with no parents looking over and ushering them inside. Later, as the waters rose, weeping mothers were pressing babies into his arms, raising them up high as he passed overhead. In the end, he just grabbed whichever ones he could find clinging to flotsam in the new and roiling sea, as many as he could carry. It wasn’t enough, but it never could be.

Now, though, the sky was darkening from the slate grey of rain clouds into the charcoal of dusk, and Crowley was still searching. He hadn’t returned with a new passenger for several hours, and the angel was worried.

Aziraphale gazed out at the open water, miracling up a bit of divine light to mark the location of the Ark, and by the time he heard the flapping of waterlogged wings and a body falling hard against the deck it was the only light left aside from the odd stroke of lightning. He ran to where Crowley had landed, a tangle of dark robes and feathers, and no passenger carried in his arms. Aziraphale looked back over the railing, and tried again not to picture the faces from the earlier crowd.

“Angel, help me out here,” said Crowley, clutching his robe. It bulged strangely at the chest, and the demon was twitching and wiggling as something moved inside it.

“Oh, of course.” He led Crowley into the ark, finally locking the hatch tight, and with a glance down the dim halls to make sure Noah and his family hadn't seen them, he led him into the room where he'd hidden the Mesopotamian children.

He probably shouldn't have done it – rather, he knew he shouldn't have done it, but once the waters had risen and children were being pressed into his arms, well, how could he not? The Almighty had told Noah to load his own family aboard, but nobody had mentioned to Aziraphale that he was supposed to just toss children over the sides, and surely it was a greater sin to murder based on what you thought someone might want than to save someone through kindness who it turns out hadn't meant to be saved.

(And if Aziraphale specifically avoided asking questions about what, precisely, his role ought to be, and didn't want to trouble Noah's family with the details, well... It had been rather a busy day, after all.)

The children were huddled together in various degrees of damp and nervous exhaustion. There were twenty-three, including seven infants, and as he followed Crowley inside and shut the door, he saw the demon reaching out to check on them all.

“Right,” he said, reaching into his robe. “So, here's the thing – not enough food for everyone for a month as is, yeah? BUT,” he held up one hand, forestalling quiet whimpers, and drew out a small black snake with a red belly. “See, thing is, 's a ship, and a ship's always got more mice and rats about than they think. So if you're okay with being a little snakey for a while, then there's plenty.” He continued to draw serpent after serpent from his robes, all of them small, some no thicker than his finger. They knotted and curled against each other, and Aziraphale could feel the tingle of demonic magic that had transformed them. “Now, I didn't have time to ask this lot permission first, so they're a bit shocked, but everyone who's old enough to say yes or no I want to hear from, okay?”

He reached his arms out to take one of the infants, who had cried themselves out hours ago. With a look of surprising tenderness, he stroked its hair, and both Aziraphale and the children watched as it shrunk down into one of the finger-sized snakes. “Even little snakes like this can hunt and eat, too,” he said, gently putting the new serpent down with the others. “It'll be like dreaming, I think, but when you wake up the water will all be gone.”

In the end, all of the children agreed to it, some because they were tired and wanted to dream, some because they were curious, and some because they didn't want to be the only ones left alone. One by one, Crowley embraced them, held their hands, whispered things Aziraphale didn't try to hear, and added snake after snake to the nest they'd wiggled into the straw. When the last one was done, he passed his hand over the group and murmured 'sleep', then sagged heavily against the wall.

“Okay, that's it for me,” he huffed, leaning his head back. “I'm knackered. Don't suppose you've got somewhere I could lay down?”

“Oh, goodness, of course,” Aziraphale said, only now taking in the state of his demonic companion. “Come now, I've a room, let's get you cleaned up, shall we?”

He bundled the demon inside the small cabin, miracling up a few fluffy cloths and rubbing them briskly against his chilled skin. There were dark circles underneath his eyes that hadn't been there before the rain, and the angel could feel him trembling slightly. With a wave of his hand, Aziraphale set the small brazier alight, offering what warmth he could in this meager space. His lips were a thin, worried line as he surveyed the demon, and he nodded brusquely. Those damp clothes would never do.

“Off with this, then,” he murmured, going to remove the tie at Crowley's waist. The demon’s yellow eyes only watched his hands as he rucked the dark robes slowly up his pale thighs, not moving to assist or hinder until Aziraphale gave him a gentle tug and a soft, “If you would, my dear?”

Crowley raised his arms and let the robes be pulled off, goosebumps rising on his limbs and nipples pebbling in the cold. He folded in on himself, arms against his thin chest, and brought his wings forward briefly before the wet slap of them against his skin made him grimace and banish them back to incorporeality. Aziraphale soon had him relatively dry and wrapped in a blanket, but he was still shivering and blue about the lips. Looking down at his own damp robes, Aziraphale stripped and joined him on the bed.

“Here, budge over,” the angel said. “It will be warmer if we share the blanket.”

With a soft whine, Crowley pressed his chest against the angel’s, and buried his face into the crook of his neck. Aziraphale found his arms coming up to pull the demon close without a thought, rubbing over his bare back, and he turned his head to press his lips against the soft red hair.

It felt so easy to give comfort like this, so natural. The feeling of the demon’s skin against his felt no different than any of the human bodies he’d held in times of grief or pain, and that he’d come to this pitiable state trying to save children, to do something that Aziraphale could only think of as so wholly good—

He made himself stop that line of thought in its tracks. He was, at that very moment, cuddling a very potent reminder of what happened to those who asked questions of Heaven.

Somehow, despite the thud of rain against the side of the ark and the occasional crack of thunder, despite the chilled and clammy skin of the demon in his arms, despite the subtle scratchiness of the blanket wrapped around them both and the smoke from the brazier, the rocking movement of the ship lulled them both to sleep.

------------------------------

When Aziraphale awoke the brazier had long gone cold, and the body entwined with his was no longer as man-shaped as it had been. From the waist up, Crowley looked much the same, red hair now dry and spilling over his shoulders, skin a much healthier pink, but tiny, clear scales ran down the sides of his face and neck

----------------------------------------------- SOMETHING GOES HERE ---------------------------------------------

Crowley ran his hands over the angel’s soft chest, reveling in the give of the flesh under his fingers. His tail wrapped around the angel’s thighs and calves, holding him in place beneath him, and he draped himself over the soft rise of his friend’s belly and settled his hips into the soft divot of his thighs. Aziraphale could feel a warmth moving through his body, an unfocused tingling of pleasure not unlike the first glass of wine of an evening, flushing through his veins and moving in waves from his chest to the end of his limbs. Oh, it was lovely, it was glorious, and in his enraptured state it took him a moment to notice the soft pressing of a slick warmth against the smooth blankness between his hips.

“Crowley, what-- ?”

“Hnng. Feelssss good, angel. So soft, so warm, like… dunno, some soft, warm thing.” His hands squeezed around Aziraphale’s middle, face moving lower to nuzzle into the valley between his pecs, and Aziraphale could feel the open drag of his mouth pressing kisses and licks into the skin there, soft touches of teeth that only served to heighten the sensations of the demon’s lips against him. He felt Crowley's broad, forked tongue flick against his nipple, and he gasped and arched into the pleasure of it. The demon moved back up to his neck, hissing softly, and pressed kiss after kiss along the line of his jaw. Aziraphale turned his head to capture Crowley’s lips, one hand coming to thread into his lovely red hair, and the other stroked along his side, feeling the subtle shift from skin to scales beneath his fingertips.

“You’re so lovely,” he whispered, “so thoughtful and kind and… oh, Crowley, you’re so good.” He was close enough to see the blush creep up Crowley’s cheeks and his mouth fall slightly open, to feel the deep, shivering breath that pushed their chests together. It stirred something in Aziraphale that he couldn’t quite name, some unfocused, restless hunger to cause those blushes again. He pressed soft kisses into the demon’s temple, nudged the demon’s cheek with his nose and stroked the back of his neck. “So good for me, darling. So wonderful, so perfect.” He could hear soft whimpers against his neck, feel the demon’s arms clutching his back, his long tail squeezing and clenching around his legs, and with the stuttering thrusts of his hips more of that warm slickness. Aziraphale let his hand trace over Crowley’s hip, following the line of scales to his belly, and down to the strange swelling where his human legs would part. “Can I look at you, darling? Can I see?”

Crowley rolled them to their sides, reluctantly releasing his hold on Aziraphale’s body to display his own. In the center of his belly scales he had a long slit, opened now with puffy pink flesh along the edges. Aziraphale trailed his fingers over it, and Crowley groaned, pressing his hips into the angel’s hand and leaving them coated in clear liquid. Intrigued, Aziraphale brought his fingers up and sniffed, then licked at them. It didn’t taste like anything he’d tried before, somewhere on the line between sweet and musky with an almost metallic tang. When he looked up from his musing, Crowley’s eyes were wide, and his blush had spread halfway down his chest.

“Angel,” he breathed, and seized him again in a kiss, his tongue lapping at Aziraphale’s lips to capture his own flavor from them. The tingling pleasure was running through the angel’s body again, and he nipped gently at Crowley's jaw before pushing him gently back so he could continue his exploration.

“Angel,” Crowley whined, “angel, please.” His vent pulsed under Aziraphale’s fingers, releasing more wetness and sliding two thick, red cocks into the angel’s waiting hand.

They were similar to the ones Aziraphale had seen on the humans, for the most part, though the skin was far pinker and softer, and the heads didn’t have a slit so much as a gentle bifurcation revealing a dark channel within. The heads were thick, the shafts slick, and where they met at Crowley’s opening they swelled again, pushing open the edges of his vent. The angel drew his hand slowly down to the base and back up again, fascinated by the slick-hard-soft texture of them, and the way touching them sparked more waves of warmth.

His hand was still stroking up and down along Crowley’s cocks, and the demon was moving his hips in time with him, pressing their bodies together again and wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “You feel ssso good, angel. Ssso much better than rubbing off against my own ssscalesss.” Aziraphale could feel the slick cocks pressing against his belly, hot breath against his ear. “Wanna make you feel good too.”

He hadn’t manifested genitals of his own before, though he knew some of the other angels had, and gotten into enough trouble with them that it left aziraphale more than a little leery of the entire idea, but, oh -- Crowley did seem to be enjoying himself with them, and if he felt this lovely without having made the effort, how wonderful might it be if he did? Oh, what a shame that this was happening now, right when the Almighty was more than a little upset about the fruits of such divine unions. Regretfully, he shook his head, releasing his hold on Crowley’s cocks to hold the demon closer. “This feels lovely, darling, but I shouldn’t -- not with all this fuss over the Nephilim.”

“What’ve they got to do with anything?”

[FIND A WAY TO MAKE THIS CONVERSATION WORK, EXPLAIN THAT SEX MAKES BABIES BUT DON’T BRING UP UNICORNS OR IT WILL GET SAD]

“Oh, angel, there’s plenty we can still do.” His tail came and wrapped around Aziraphale’s legs, holding them tightly together, and Aziraphale gasped as he felt Crowley’s cocks slide into the space between the top of his thighs. The drag of them against his sensitive thighs was delicious, and the way that the wide base pressed against his bare mound! The skin there felt electric, the pleasure seeming to pulse in that space and then diffuse through the rest of his body. Crowley’s lips were sucking marks into his neck, his hands clutching at his sides, his hips, his cheeks, anywhere and everywhere he could sink his fingers in and grab. Aziraphale rocked against him, arms wrapped around the demon’s shoulders and hands tracing up and down his back.

Thinking back to those silky black feathers beneath his fingers, he pressed lightly between Crowley’s shoulder blades. “Let me touch you again,” he asked, and felt Crowley shiver as he brought his wings out once more.

At once that sweet smell enveloped him again, and he sank his fingers in deeply. Crowley groaned, hips thrusting forward with more force, and sank his teeth into the juncture of Aziraphale’s neck.

[infernal-scales]

AZIRAPHALE’S REACTION to the compliments almost makes it worth the agony of speaking them... almost. The blush on the demon only deepens from the sincere confession, however, and Crowley thanks Someone when Aziraphale finally GETS ON WITH IT.

Hypersensitive from being two orgasms in, he can't help the whimper that leaves him as he's breached, shuddering something violent as his own eyes roll back. This was his favorite part. The sound only grows into a moan as the angel's hips become flush with his own, gracing Crowley with every glorious inch of his cock at long last.

IT ONLY WHETS HIS APPETITE.

Long legs encircle Aziraphale's waist and the heels of his feet dig into the meat of his ass, forcing that cock to grind and shift within him. A breathless laugh leaves him.

��� OH, ❞ he agrees with a sigh, lazily lapping the rain up from the angel's skin like an offering ( let's just hope this water stays strictly in the UNHOLY territory ). ❝ 'S really something else, isn't it? ❞

Crowley knows the question will go unanswered: the first time is always a doozy.

❝ You feel that TUG IN YOUR GUT, yet? Might be a bit daunting at first, the way it jus'... sets your whole corporation on fire. Something that simmers low at the base of your skull 'n burns down to the soles of your feet, just waiting to burn you up entirely. ❞

It feels like SIN ITSELF.

Humming contently, a long tongue lolls out to caress the shell of Aziraphale's ear before the temptress whispers into it sweetly, ❝ Can you feel the way 'm squeezing down on you, angel? ❞ As he asks his inner walls do just that, returning the favor of that earlier vice grip with one of his own.

This was a prey he refused to let ESCAPE HIS GRASP, after all.

AZIRAPHALE TILTS HIS HEAD to the side as he tries to understand the implication of Crowley's first remark. It's by the last word that the boyish pink returns to his cheeks, and he, too, is at a loss for words.

❝ Oh, well... ❞ Feathers quake with pure delight, and the angel in his entirety glows just a bit brighter. ❝ I think you're VERY PRETTY, TOO. In all forms. ❞

He alleviates Crowley of the burden of speech with a kiss, and it's that extra moment that grants him the clarity to whisper yet another confession upon Crowley's lips.

❝ And I like being with you. VERY MUCH SO. ❞

It's the last time he'll make such a request of Crowley for the foreseeable future, as it looked quite tortuous for him. Crowley receives his just rewards as Aziraphale reaches down, squinting ever so slightly as he attempts to align their corporations in the proper configuration...

Yes, that looks... correct.

The tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips, and his eyes flick up to Crowley's face before he watches himself sink into the wet warmth that's so BRAZENLY BEGGED for his company. His eyes don't remain fixed long, however, and Aziraphale's lashes flutter as pleasured moans tumble from his lips without abandon as he falls deeper and deeper into the heart of sin.

When the sensations have washed over him, he eyes open once again, and with his chest rising and falling with labored breath, he looks back at Crowley.

❝ OH. ��� The most weighted 'oh' Aziraphale has ever uttered.

[evilasiangenius]

And when they made it to the den, it was empty.

Aziraphale frowned to himself; he knew there should have been a small boar here, and had made doubly certain of it, both when heading out into the hills to look for other boars and on the return back, but there was nothing, not even the trace of footprints in the ground.

“Huh, doesn’t seem like anything’s here. Are you sure this is a den?”

Kneeling, Tyrimmas peered into the hollow in the brush. “Well, it has the look of a den, but maybe it’s just a hollow. If it was a den, it wasn’t one this season.”

“...I could have sworn,” Aziraphale said, muttering to himself. “After all, I saw it clearly with my own eyes...”

“It’s all right, shepherd human, I’m sure that we can find another,” Crowley said lightly. “And if we can’t, we can just go back-”

“Don’t fret, Akakios,” Nikanor smiled, patting Crowley’s back. To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley seemed to put up with it, neither appearing displeased nor pleased. That was odd; Aziraphale remembered that Crowley certainly hated being touched casually by people he didn’t know, and here he was, being casually touched and not flinching away or silently upset about it. Perhaps that suggested some familiarity with this human...

“I’m certain we’ll find a boar. It’ll be worth the effort,” Nikanor continued, eyes fixed on Crowley. “After all, hunting isn’t only about killing things. There’s fun in the hunt: spending time outdoors with your friends, the chase, the capture of shy, wary prey…”

An awkward silence, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, Crowley was using some kind of demonic miracle to avoid appearing like he was blushing.

x

[quidfree]

hello ! just wondering, how are warlock and adam doing ? any hcs that didn't make it into the fic? or any thoughts on them that you haven't mentioned? it has been a while since you wrote them so i understand if there's nothing that comes to mind !! just searching for maybe a few crumbs bc i haven't found anyone who writes them nearly as well as you do.

haha, wow, i haven't properly thought of that fic since i wrote it but i do love warlock and adam. let's see what i can offer.

updates on warlock and adam:

they've been fucking around trying to test adam's subconscious control over his powers, with varying degrees of success. adam's longest stretch a full week without any supernatural interference of any variety, but for the moment they are decisively not trying to replicate that success because once the week ended adam's powers went into overdrive and caused global upset as well as leaving warlock thoroughly disney-fied for weeks after the fact, to his profound irritation and adam's supreme amusement. brian enjoyed the veritable zoo of animals tailing him around, though. pepper did not enjoy the constant musical cues. wensleydale thought it was kind of cute. adam insisted that he was powerless to fix it after the 'exhaustion' of fixing the global upset part, which warlock absolutely did not believe given the absolute smugness on his face whenever warlock started sparkling.

on a less consequential level adam and warlock enjoy messing around trying to see to what degree adam can suppress his powers without concentrating on it too hard, but no one else particularly enjoys this because (as pepper puts it) 'you are not fooling anyone into thinking this isn't some kink thing'. warlock pleads the fifth. adam doesn't even bother.

adam is extremely intrigued by warlock's misappopriated demonic/angelic powers, which warlock finds supremely embarrassing given that they can do almost nothing, leave him with a horrible headache, and are in any event completely ineffective on adam himself. adam finds it fascinating, though- for one because despite angels and witches he's in short supply of supernatural friends, for another because he can actively feel that the power does not belong there and adam quintessentially enjoys prodding at a bruise, and of course because he finds warlock's embarrassed pride about his repertoire of tricks suffocatingly adorable. despite warlock's reluctance he does at least appreciate the ace he has, because even though his powers don't work on adam whenever he gets to the point of using them adam knows he's serious, and also adam will inevitably stop being mad at him in the face of his subsequent nausea. never let it be said he's above naked manipulation. gotta make nanny proud.

they've definitely had some extremely melodramatic fights since the fic ended, as is the nature of two antichrists(ish) dating each other. a lot of it is predictable- adam tries, but his powers have less of a conscience than he does, so there have been Incidents, like the time the oxford rowers capsized violently during a race. on a lesser scale the demonic powers are jealous to a fault, which adam really actively isn't (or at least not consciously), which warlock knows full well he should find less charming. it's just sometimes they kind of feed into each other's vices- adam doesn't keep a tight enough rein on his powers and warlock gets mad but also kind of maybe encourages it and then adam gets irked at warlock and...

adam takes great pleasure in being the boyfriend-iest boyfriend of all time, naturally, so reality bends for warlock's convenience if he so much as frowns to himself. warlock is really trying to be less flustered every time because he knows full well it only encourages him, but he's kind of a complete sucker for attention and affection, so it's not going very well for him. he would hate himself more if he wasn't so busy trying not to melt into the floor. adam is horrible and will fully just sit there chin in hands observing him dreamily as warlock fights to regain his cool. still, warlock gets him back as best he can- he's starting to combine crowley's vicious revenge plans with aziraphale's 'kill em with kindness' moves, which results in him darkly plotting just for the purpose of doing something nice that'll catch adam off guard. adam is always thrilled by being hoodwinked, and then also not actually all that used to people making a concerted effort to draw emotions out of him, so he falls prey to these shenanigans more easily than you'd expect. unlike warlock he never offers any resistance, though, so warlock has to content himself with the victory of watching his powers go wonky- blossoms bursting out of the walls or fireworks outside the house or the whole room going sort of liquid and pink.

crowley and aziraphale are both horrible teases with regards to the boys (as they should be, since they get it far worse in return). crowley likes to make pointed comments about lustful auras or needle them about the freudian implications of their behaviours, whereas aziraphale will just go on at length quoting love poetry or asking them about their feelings with the utmost tenderness until crowley takes pity and informs them he's doing it on purpose. they both find them intensely cute, though aziraphale is just delighted by this where crowley is trying very hard to appear less thrilled than he is. warlock is mostly weirded out about their commentary about the supernatural aspects of the whole ordeal, where aziraphale will be like 'oh, my, that poor demon fellow who hit you really seems to be taking badly to the dismembering and hot pokers in the pits of hell. could you pass the ladder?' and crowley will be like 'unholy hell, adam, control yourself, if i have to see one more demonic apocalypse murder-beast turned into an adorable stray cat i'm going to be sick'.

the them, obviously, are also weirdos and like to observe the whole warlock-adam dating debacle with the interest of scientists observing an experiment in a lab, mainly in terms of adam's never-ending capacity to reveal new and exciting facets of his personality and/or powers. brian takes it all in stride the easiest, so he'll just be like 'oh, neat, a peach tree' and take himself a peach when it erupts in the middle of the library. wensleydale somehow winds up playing confidante so he sits through all the over-sharing and also all the fighting details and then does deep research to attempt to provide them with a helpful answer. sometimes he just reads cosmos. he thinks warlock is onto him. pepper's very secret and very dark fear is that one day adam will decide kids would be fun and hellspawn will just pop into existence fully-formed and dangerously adorable. they are all very impressed by the odd occasion on which warlock actually gets adam to decide he was wrong about something, though pepper is firm that it does not count when adam is only agreeing because he's too blissed out to pay attention.

i hope that you enjoy these crumbs-and thanks, incidentally <3 comms are always open, if you're looking.

[goodomensblog]

The Demons of St. Jame’s Park

Prompt: “Tell me who did this to you.”

.

.

The Demons of St. Jame’s Park

Sidewalks typically do not sway. There are notable exceptions of course, such as when the earth quakes, a landslide occurs, or Satan himself fancies a jaunt to the mortal plane. 

None of these events are currently in progress, of course. 

So the swaying is, very likely, in Aziraphale’s head. The result of a minor concussion, no doubt. 

He’s getting stares as he shuffles, wobbling with a hurried determination through the trafficked London streets. 

The cold Autumn air is a stinging touch against his cheek; shivering droplets trail from the gash below his cheekbone. An eye throbs with a dull, insistent ache, and Aziraphale swears he can feel the skin around it darkening into an unsightly bruise. His wrist, bent just slightly further than human wrists are meant to bend, is cradled against his chest. And behind it, he carries a package, beaten almost as completely as he, wedged protectively between his wrist and dirt-stained coat.

He’s nearly made it back to his shop, and as he trots unsteadily over the swaying path, he very purposefully avoids meeting passerbys’ concerned stares. A few miracles would clean him right up, of course, but frankly it has been an exceedingly trying morning and Aziraphale would rather not spare the energy to divert the attention of curious eyes prior to actually doing the healing. 

The miracles can wait.

At least until he’s in the privacy of his shop.

And he does make it - back to the shop.

Not that he doubted he would, but his wrist was throbbing something awful and the sidewalk had begun an alarmingly frantic tilt. 

The chime of bells as he shoulders into the shop is a lovely accompaniment to the ringing in his ears. 

The shop is dim and mercifully quiet, and Aziraphale heaves a sigh. He leans against the door, and it closes behind him with a comforting click. With his good hand, he carefully sets the battered package on a nearby shelf. 

With the knowledge that his precious cargo is safe, a wound up part of him relaxes. His head falls back with a thunk, and braced against the door, he closes his aching eyes.

“You’re back. Finally.”

Aziraphale starts at the voice, which rises, low and petulant from the shop’s dark interior.

“I’ve been waiting forever, angel.”

And now the voice is accompanied by loping footsteps. 

Aziraphale is exhausted, his body is bruised and aching, his package was very nearly lost, and he does not have the energy to deal with whatever chaos Crowley’s presence will inevitably bring to his day. 

It’s not that he fears that Crowley would hurt him - or anything of the sort. Even before The Arrangement, Crowley had really never seemed keen to harm Aziraphale. It’s just - well, Crowley always wants to do things. Grab lunch. Go on a walk. See a play. All lovely activities; and really, the demon isn’t bad company. At all. 

And therein lies the problem. 

Aziraphale likes spending time with Crowley. 

Far too much, considering their respective allegiances. 

If Aziraphale is summer-dry tinder, Crowley is the lit match. 

And after the morning he’s had, Aziraphale doesn’t have the energy to resist burning. 

“Crowley-,” Aziraphale starts, squinting into the darkness. With an irritated snap, he ignites the lights around the shop. “Now is really not a good time-”

“You’ll change your mind when I tell you about the restaurant I just discovered,” Crowley hums, slinking out from where he’d been hiding amongst the shelves. “Let me tell you, the things they do with eggs-”

Crowley freezes. 

He’s stopped mid-sentence, and with his hand half-raised, still gesturing, he looks as though he’s somehow fallen prey to his own time-stopping trick.

“...Crowley?”

Aziraphale straightens up. Lifting a hand, he takes a tentative step into the shop.

Crowley’s throat works, bobbing. And then his nostrils flare, as though sniffing the air.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale repeats his name slowly, unnerved by the odd behavior. “What’s-”

Like a marionette whose strings have been yanked, Crowley starts forward with a jerk. And then he’s in front of Aziraphale. And he’s close. At least, closer than the polite distance they normally keep. Despite his rapid movement, there’s an eerie stillness about him; like a snake coiled, ready to strike. His breaths come slowly; careful inhales through his nose, and long exhales that slip between sharp, white teeth. When he leans in, Aziraphale feels each slow breath, a light brush against his skin. Goosebumps rise in their wake.

“Angel,” Crowley says - and his voice is strained, like he can’t properly push the sound from his throat. 

Aziraphale looks up, seeking an answer in his gaze, but Crowley’s dark glasses shroud his expressive eyes in shadow. Instead, Aziraphale sees his own reflection: a purple bruise darkening his eye, a raw, sliced cheek, and the bent wrist still cradled against his chest.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks, brows lifting in silent horror, I look horrendous.

Aziraphale is pursing his lips, thinking up the miracles that will rectify his sad state of appearance, when a soft, careful touch draws him forcibly from his thoughts.

Surprise is a reasonably appropriate word to describe Aziraphale’s reaction to the touch - much in the same way as a bit chilly is a reasonably appropriate phrase to describe the Arctic. Suffice it to say, Aziraphale momentarily forgets how to speak, let alone think.

Crowley’s thumb traces a deliberate path beneath the gash. It trembles, unsteady against the angel’s skin.

Crowley swallows once, and Aziraphale watches, mystified, as his throat bobbles with the effort. When he speaks, his voice is low and hoarse.

“Angel. Tell me who did this to you.”

Aziraphale’s mouth falls open - because there it is, the chaos. 

Because Crowley seems to have forgotten that his thumb is still stroking Aziraphale’s cheek, and the touch feels entirely too nice and it’s doing something odd to Aziraphale’s stomach. 

And Aziraphale is pinned, between the touch and Crowley’s stare - which the angel can’t see but he can nonetheless somehow still feel, because Crowley has asked him what turns out to be a reasonable question, given the circumstances, and is now waiting for an answer. 

Aziraphale has a choice.

He can tell the truth.

Or - he can lie.

One is vastly preferable to the other. 

“Enemiesss?” Crowley hisses.

Aziraphale, watching Crowley’s dark brows curve together, manages a slight nod.

It’s not even that much of lie, Aziraphale thinks. Practically the truth, all things considered.

Crowley’s shoulders are hunching up. 

“Demonsss?” he asks, and his voice is dripping with venom. 

Aziraphale blinks and hedges. “Well, yes. I suppose they were quite hellish.”

Crowley makes a low noise in his throat. Twisting around, he twitches, raking an agitated hand through his hair.

“They weren’t to touch you. I told them. The bastards - they were supposed to leave you to me.” 

Aziraphale blinks again, and he’s doing his best to ignore what that particular string of words is doing to his stomach.

“Leave me to you?”

“I tell them I foiled this, you foiled that. Wax on in my reports about how I very nearly got you this time. You know,” Crowley says, waving distractedly. 

“Really?” Aziraphale says, beginning to smile. “Oh Crowley, I do the very same.”

Crowley, however, is not listening. His lips are pressed in a thin, dangerous line, and he paces a tight circle around Aziraphale.

“Who was it? Which ones did thisss to you?”

“Oh, um,” Aziraphale stalls, shifting uncomfortably. “It all happened very fast. I could hardly see anything, really.”

Crowley turns on a heel, and then he’s growling low in his throat. “Hastur. He’d do something like this - go behind my back. The rotten bastard.”

“Oh - um -”

Crowley turns. He reaches a hand towards Aziraphale - 

- and stops. 

Aborting the gesture, Crowley makes a fist. Drawing in a deep breath, he swallows and nods. 

“Right. Angel I - this shouldn’t have happened. I can’t-” he frowns. “I’m... not so good at healing. So I’ll, uh, leave that to you. I will however, take care of this.” Gently clasping a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, he dips his chin, somber. “Wait here, angel. I’ll make damn sure they don’t touch you again.”

And before Aziraphale can say anything more, Crowley is brushing past him, yanking open the door-

And oh good lord, Aziraphale’s stalling thoughts finally manage. Crowley is about to get into it with a duke of Hell.

Aziraphale twists, and with his good hand, snatches the back of Crowley’s jacket.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

Halfway out the door, Crowley turns a look over his shoulder.

“I can handle myself, angel.”

“I’m sure you can, but I wasn’t - ah - being completely upfront about, um, precisely what occurred to my, ah, face.”

Crowley frowns, and as he relaxes back, Aziraphale tugs him back into the shop.

“You said you were attacked by enemies. Demons.”

Aziraphale is wringing his hands before he remembers his wrist. Wincing, he miracles the fracture away with a touch. 

“Well,” he says, lips pinched with the memory of pain, “they were enemies, in that they were attacking me. And they were really quite demonic, if I do say so myself.”

Crowley closes the door with a click. Pulling off his glasses, he rubs at the creased skin between his brows.

“...hold on. Angel, I think you need to start at the beginning.”

“Yes. Fine, alright. But first I’m healing my face. And I need a drink.”

Ten minutes later, they are sitting on Aziraphale’s old couch. Two glasses of wine are perched on the coffee table, and between them, rests the battered box.

As Aziraphale takes a long swig from his glass, Crowley eyes the box.

“What’s with the package?”

“It, my dear boy, is why I was so mercilessly attacked.”

Crowley, slowly lifting his glass, turns a second, wary look at the box.

“So what happened?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says, and pauses to take a slow, deliberate sip of wine. “I’d picked up the package and was returning home. I’d decided on a stroll through St. Jame’s Park. Even brought some bread. For the ducks.”

“Right,” Crowley says, slowly. “Sure. The ducks.”

“Yes. The ducks. However, as I was tossing pieces of bread into the pond-” and here Aziraphale gestures, tossing imaginary bread over the table.

Crowley stares, glasses slipping down his nose.

“The geese arrived.”

Crowley’s wine lists dangerously in his slackening grasp. His eyebrows lift.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says with appropriate venom, wiggling a bit in his seat. “They came and gobbled up all the bread, and then wanted more.”

“Oh?”

“And what did I have in my grasp?” And here Aziraphale reaches out and flings back the lid of the box with a flourish befitting the contents within. “Freshly baked croissants from Dominique Ansel Bakery,” Aziraphale spits. “And those - those demons, they could smell them.”

“Oh?” 

Wine completely forgotten, Crowley is leaning forward in his seat. A splash tips over the edge of the glass, but Crowley doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are bright where they peek out over his glasses, and he’s pressed a hand over his lips.

Folding his arm over his chest, Aziraphale takes another long, slow sip. 

“The geese at St. James are ruthless. They’re horrid. Monsters, I tell you.”

Crowley nods, fingers splayed, pressing determinedly over his lips. “Ruthless. Monsters, yeah. Of course, of course.” His eyes are glittering, suspiciously bright.

But he’s quite literally on the edge of his seat, and Aziraphale never could resist an eager audience.

“They smelled my croissants, Crowley. And they wanted them.”

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice is tight and high, “Please. Please tell me that you’re about to tell me what I think you’re about to tell me.”

“What?”

“Were you or were you not, beaten up by a bunch of bloody birds?”

“Horrible, vicious, monstrous birds, Crowley!”

Crowley convulses. Wine splatters the floor as the demon clutches his stomach. His glasses slide down, slipping off his nose as he heaves in silent, breathless laughter.

“Oh it’s not funny! They were pecking me! And slapping me with their wings!”

“Oh I beg to differ.” Snapping his fingers, Crowley miracles the wine back into his glass. Lifting it to his dangerously twitching lips, he takes an unsteady sip. “You have powers angel, why not use them on the bloody geese if the bastards are as bad as you say?”

“And have a scuffle with some pastry hungry geese recorded in my log of daily miracles? I think not!” Aziraphale huffs. “Would you want that on your record?”

Crowley’s lips twitch. “Depends on what I do to the geese.”

“Oh I know you wouldn’t actually hurt them.”

Crowley takes a petulant sip of wine. “You don’t know that.”

“Please,” Aziraphale breathes and reaches for a pastry.

He bites into the croissant, and his eyes flutter closed as the flavor washes over his tongue.

Watching him, Crowley smirks over the rim of his glass. 

“Worth it?”

And because Aziraphale is a bit of a bastard, even if he won’t yet admit it, takes another delicate bite and says, primly, “yes.”

.

.

Bonus:

Crowley (the one hundred percent besotted demon that he is) agrees to come with Aziraphale on his next pastry laden jaunt through St. Jame’s Park. When the geese arrive, waddling and honking as they march across the grass, wholly undaunted by the demonic and holy auras before them, Crowley’s laughter dries up in his throat.

[impishnature]

Acolyte

Another quite big one! But more I’ve just been too busy, sorry! Will get another session of writing in this weekend c:

Imptober Prompts so far

AO3 Fandom: Good Omens Rating: T+ (Warning for blood, maybe some body horror?) Prompt: Forced to knees Summary: Set in @sightkeeper‘s Chosen Faces AU. (Because I have no self-control and love sandboxes and seeing if I can make them happy) An unwelcome visitor to the shop makes Aziraphale rip off his mask and show everyone just what he truly is. Crowley will not stand for this. 

.

"Tea?"

"How could I refuse?"

Crowley, busying himself with cups and drinks, preened as lips brushed his cheek, a grateful warm peck that he gladly took and leaned into. But before he could reciprocate, the other backed away from him, setting up the small kitchen table for their impromptu lunch date behind him. He could hear the clack of crockery and cutlery, the soft hum drum of domesticity that he drank in greedily, happily addicted to the shift their world had taken. He tried not to smile too widely at the small trills of joy from behind him as Aziraphale opened the bakery boxes one by one, finding all the spoils of Crowley's foray into the bustling London café that Aziraphale loved so much.

"Oh. You do spoil me, dear."

"Nah." Crowley threw back over his shoulder at the chastising tone, cheeky grin well and truly glued to his face. It was obvious when there was no sincerity in Aziraphale's words, as much as he tried to scold him, and he refused to let him play this game. "I give you exactly what you deserve, Angel." 

"Is that so? Well-" 

Whatever Aziraphale had been about to quip back to him was cut off by the sudden chime of the front door opening.

Crowley turned to him again, ever so slightly, just enough to catch his eye. His eyebrow raised slowly as he looked over his glasses at him to convey every ounce of exasperated disbelief he had in him.

"...I was sure I flipped the closed sign."

"Uh huh?"

Aziraphale huffed, looking for all the world like his feathers had been ruffled as he smoothed down his jacket. "I did! Blasted customers and ignoring signs-"

"I, for one, think you just got distracted by the thought of lunch and forgot."

Crowley chuckled as Aziraphale walked away, deigning him with a withering look as an answer before scowling deeply and shuffling into the public space of the book shop. He rolled his eyes, turning back to the kettle, sure that the poor person who had interrupted them was about to have a rather stern lesson about etiquette.

If he wasn't entirely convinced that it was Aziraphale's fault and the sign wasn't set to closed like he so obviously thought it was then he'd have had half a mind to go do it himself. But then again- he was completely sure that whoever it was out there was about to be completely blindsided by the fire that was his irrational angel.

So instead, he minded his own business- just this once- and pottered along with his own task, safe in the knowledge that a bashful Aziraphale would slink back in a few moments and he'd be able to playfully tease him with the faux pas for at least a little bit before their date. He found himself sighing happily at the scent of his favourite coffee, one that Aziraphale always made sure to have well stocked for him, as he waited for the other's inevitable shamefaced return.

He should have realised something was wrong when he didn't hear an immediate and startled apology from the shocked patron.

He blinked, a fizzle of energy sparking at the hairs on the back of his neck, pulling him from his languid thoughts and making him stand up straight. It was a strange energy, moving in odd stilted motions across his flesh like it had a mind of its own, and his tongue unconsciously slipped out to taste the air in response. It wasn't a familiar tang at the back of his throat; nothing like the mess of sulphur that accompanied demons, nor the sharp clear ozone that preceded an angelic intervention. 

This felt... older. 

Less definable. 

It didn't sit in a clear cut box and refused to stay still long enough- morphing and twisting, breaking and bending- for him to really catch hold of it.

And sure this wasn't entirely new- he'd come to terms with the fact that technically his angel wasn't what he had made himself out to be.  That maybe 'angel' wasn't a term that he should be called but suited him nonetheless. He'd worked harder than any of them to become one, to exist peacefully among them, never being caught out, so who was he to deny him that moniker? Especially when, in reality, all of them in their lofty ivory towers could never compare to Aziraphale?

Regardless though, Aziraphale's miracles were familiar to him. They were laced with everything he wished for, propped up with love and hope, and wrapped up so tightly that they were almost indistinguishable from any other miracle any of them might choose to perform. 

So Angelic or not- this was not Aziraphale. 

His pupils contracted, vision sharpening to points as his hackles raised. 

There was a threat in the bookshop. One fuelled with energy that tasted of soil and stardust, and smelt of something archaic that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It stretched back, eons and eons, barely definable even to his long time walking the earth, and filled him with a dread that seemed to seep in from outside rather than inwards, ringing through his ears as if he was hearing something he was never meant to hear.

Whatever this was, it meant to cause fear, meant to latch on and linger, cold and cloying so that fighting back was futile. 

It sharpened like a lightning bolt, a crackle of energy that caused goose bumps to dance across his skin.

And just as quickly, the energy abated, a loud yelp and a sudden thud from the adjoining room cutting the strings that it had held him by.

"Angel." He spun wildly, limbs moving faster than his brain really allowed, as gnawing, aching fear bit into his chest and ignited his nerves.

Whatever it was, it wasn't after him.

He propelled himself into the bookshop, refusing to let his brain stop him and try to persuade him to take a better route; no thoughts on safety or ambush able to coalesce when Aziraphale was in dire danger. He didn't care how much noise he was making, nor what he was walking into, only that he got there in time to help. 

Actions which promptly had him skidding to a halt as he took in the scene before him with utter perplexity.

They were just... humans.

Though at this moment, he knew better than to underestimate them, even if none of this made any sense at all.

They might not be Angels or Demons, but in this instant, they were humans who had somehow managed to bring Aziraphale to his knees. Without a struggle, without an injury to themselves. Three humans standing over his Angel, who had his arms curled around his waist in obvious pain, legs useless and splayed beneath him. He was breathing heavily, listing forward so that he could only stare down at the ground. He looked on the verge of collapsing, swaying ever so slightly with each exhale. Crowley swallowed painfully at the sight, not sure what to do or how to help, especially when the humans seemed to have frozen at the sight of him as well.

"What's... going on?"

Aziraphale groaned, one hand dropping to the floor to keep him from crumbling entirely. "The book." The words came out garbled, pained hisses through gritted teeth, but there was also something else there, something Crowley had never heard before. It was like a reverb, a tight distortion, like his mask was slipping and his human vocal chords couldn't keep up with the manifestation that might soon follow.

And as much as Crowley wouldn't care about him shucking those restraints, he refused for it to be forced by anyone.

His eyes snapped to the central figure, the book open in his hands. He hadn't even noticed it, body too focused on checking on Aziraphale, but now he knew what was causing him pain, he wouldn't be taking his eyes off of it or the one holding it anytime soon.

The man glared back at him disdainfully, grunting to the other men behind him. "Great, it has an acolyte. Should have guessed it wouldn't be alone. One of you make sure he doesn't get in the way, while I finish the ritual."

He was so... nonchalant, so calm, as if the fight had already been won. As if Crowley wasn't a threat at all and he'd already broken Aziraphale to the point of no return.

Crowley wanted to sink his fangs into him. 

How dare he.

Quick as a flash he was in front of the man, the book crashing to the floor in shock as he backed him up against a bookcase. His forearm locked against his throat, pinning him tightly as he bared his teeth.

"Who do you think you're calling an acolyte?"

The words came out as a harsh hiss, forked tongue lashing out to punctuate the words. His adversary- prey- paled, the colour leeching from him as his jaw slackened.

"Shit! It's another one! Grab the book!" 

He felt more than saw as one of the others launched for it. He snapped his fingers quickly, the book vanishing from sight with a soft puff of air, and the man who had pounced for it smacked painfully into the wooden floor. Crowley made sure to kick him for good measure to drive home the point that it would be best for him to stay down and instead turned his gaze to the last remaining enemy, one eyebrow raised, practically begging him to try something. Fortunately for him, though rather disappointing for Crowley's vicious urges, he seemed intelligent enough to know that they weren't winning this round. 

Not intelligent enough to have not come on this foolhardy mission in the first place, but that wasn't something Crowley really cared about.

He let his head roll forward again to stare at his still held victim. He wanted answers, but before he had a chance to ask for them the man seemed to shake himself, stuttering out a mantra through his constricted throat.

The ringing returned to his ears, the loamy breeze of power fluttering on the edge of his senses as it brushed ineffectually past him and dissipated into nothing. 

He pushed forward further, watching the fear cross the other's face as his words did nothing and his throat closed all the more. Crowley's grin turned vicious, his free hand slowly removing his glasses to give the man the full force of his sharp slitted gaze.

"Oh, you really have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?"

Brimstone simmered around his sharp edges, bubbling out of his very core and seeping into reality. His anger hissed out of him with every breath, smoke and ash billowing between sharp fangs, and igniting the air around him. It was hard to contain when he could still hear the pained gasps and stuttered breaths behind him. It would be so easy to be done with this, to tear them to pieces for what they had done and rush to Aziraphale's side. But he wasn't sure that would be the end of it. He needed to know what they had done. Needed to know if killing them would break whatever spell it was that coiled through his lover's bloodstream. 

But even as he tried to think clearly, to pull back, he could feel his teeth baring, the points growing thicker and sharper as scales erupted down his spine, ready to snap and lash out, his body poised to spring into action at the smallest hint of movement. 

The man in his grasp choked, the sound a diminutive wheeze as he thrashed half-heartedly at his arm. 

The sound seemed to grab someone else's attention.

"Cr-Crowley, stop."

Crowley tried to swallow the viscous anger lodged in his throat, the constricting mass that wanted him to snarl and hiss instead of vocalise his thoughts cohesively. "Why should I?"

"Because I-I need-"

And just like that the anger broke.

Nothing mattered more than what Aziraphale needed. 

Crowley took a step back, letting the man drop, panting and heaving, to the floor in a heap. "Don't move." His head snapped to the only one still standing, who flinched, cowering at the sudden movement. "That goes for you too."

And with that warning given, he ignored them all, rushing to Aziraphale's side, the desperate need to do so finally winning out now that he'd been called for. He knelt before him, pulled him up to prop against his arms from his curled position, and stared deeply into his eyes, willing him to let him help. "What do you need, love?" His gaze shifted from place to place, swallowing down the burn of fury that wished to take hold of him again. He took in the pallid complexion, the sheen of sweat across his brow- the white glow of barely restrained power illuminating his eyes. He combed his hand through his hair, slipping an out of place curl back behind his ear even as it vibrated against his fingers. "I'm here, what do you need?"

"I need-" Aziraphale swallowed, closing his eyes as another spasm of pain swept through him. He cursed. "They've set off a chain reaction. I can't- I need to heal." He said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth, like the mere suggestion was disgusting, too disturbing to even think about.

"That's good. Healing is good." The words came out of him fast, pouring out in a thick wave of comfort as he ran a hand up and down Aziraphale's twitching arm. "So what do we need to do, to do that?"

Aziraphale took a deep breath in, steeling himself as he locked eyes with Crowley, determined and commanding. "You need to leave." The moment broke just as quickly as he looked away from him, face guilty and pained. "B-But make-" He winced, eyes screwed shut. "Make sure they can't."

That... wasn't what he had been expecting.

"I'm not leaving you alone with them."

There was no debate in his assertion. It was as simple as needing air to breathe. Aziraphale was not dealing with this alone, plain and simple.

Aziraphale's shaking hand found his, where it had dropped to the floor, and gave it a soft squeeze. "I... I don't want you to see me- not... not like that." 

Oh.

Of course.

As much as Crowley knew, Aziraphale still only ever showed him the face that he had chosen. 

But right now, he wasn't sure whose benefit that was for.

Crowley turned his hand so that their palms were together, giving a tighter, reassuring squeeze in return.

"Whatever you need to do, I'm not going to judge you. They attacked you."

Aziraphale growled, a deep reverberating sound that vibrated through Crowley's teeth and made his jaw ache, echoing with the power of all the eons that he had kept it in check. His bright glimmering eyes locked with Crowley's, a sudden surge of power breaking through the pain as he tried to desperately convey everything that he was trying to, with as little words as he could stand to force through gritted teeth.

"Crowley. I need- I need to feed."

Crowley stared right back at him, feeling the energy in the room shift and bend ever so slightly. There was a spike of fear behind him, but the pair just continued to stare at one another, ignoring them as they silently questioned each other. Aziraphale seemed to be waiting for his permission, some kind of sign, his eyes glowing brighter and his aura stretching further and further around them, tendrils slipping unseen through the air to slink and shuffle towards his meal. But it was obvious from the hesitance, the slowly permeating atmosphere, that he would go no further than this until either Crowley left or approved.

So Crowley gave him exactly what he needed.

The locks to the doors and windows clicked loudly one by one, snapping to attention as the curtains closed and the room descending into an unnatural darkness.

Crowley's eyes gleamed gold in the light that Aziraphale cast off, the moon reflecting the suns rays, locked in their own miniature universe. 

"Then feed."

It was like a switch flicked with his words.

The room hushed, a cold dampness filling up the empty spaces. The white light took on a strange unnatural hue, a shift that made Crowley's eyes burn ever so slightly like he was seeing something he shouldn't; colours that he had no right to perceive. It was an intangible thing, like they had slipped to the bottom of the ocean and it was clogging up his senses, his lungs filling with water, the taste of salt sticking to the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat with every uncomfortable suffocating breath. 

And before him Aziraphale was an angler fish, eyes bioluminescent as they grounded him in place, humbled him as he powerlessly knelt against the wooden floor.

But he didn't feel afraid, not like he was sure that he was supposed to.

Aziraphale watched him intently, eyes flicking ever so as if drinking it all in. He felt seen, in a way he never had before, so very vulnerable if it weren't Aziraphale that was reading every inch of his psyche. But instead he just saw his Aziraphale, not a monster, not something wishing to tear him down piece by piece. This wasn't some horrifying realisation or proof, it was just- Aziraphale. So, he stared back at him defiantly, his heartbeat thudding in his chest and willed him to see deeper, to know that no matter what happened here, nothing between them would change. He would still see him as he was, he accepted all of him, angel or not. 

And with that acceptance bleeding out of every pore, Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss, far more biting than he ever had before.

"Please try not to look, my dear."

 And with that, Aziraphale stood. It was a disjointed affair, like his body was a puppet that he was haphazardly forcing along strings he was unfamiliar with. Crowley found it hard to look at him, though still tried, regardless of Aziraphale's soft plea. The image doubled, tripled, conjoined, overlapping versions of him that snapped back to one solid piece only to melt apart all over again in strange erratic bursts. There was a buzzing at the base of his skull, growing louder and louder the more he stared even as the other walked past him without looking back. 

He could still see his Angel, at the centre of the haze of power, but it was hard to keep track of him amongst all the sweeping swirls of that same strange power that he had felt from the book before. It was still inherently Aziraphale however. The sharp smell of ozone still slipped through the air at intervals to mix with the scent of earth and that same solid tang of archaic power that reminded him of the darkness before the stars.

And even though he knew he should be horrified, should be fearful of all that Aziraphale was, he couldn't help but notice the hints that made this power so him. Where the book had smelt of dirt and decay, this felt like life. Soil after the rain, cut grass- 

The mingling energy of an eldritch being that so desperately wanted to choose to be good-

An angel that had earned his place-

Crowley couldn't ignore all of that, just because of what he was underneath his mask, when you peeled back the layers to his core. 

Because underneath all those layers, he was still just Aziraphale- plain and simple.

And these people had hurt him.

What kind of demon would he be, if he didn't encourage him to defend himself? To punish them for their sins?

A sharp cry brought him back to reality.

He didn't really know what was happening, only seeing Aziraphale's back, moving in and out of focus, but whatever he was showing to the humans was making quick work of their mental states. They seemed to be contorting, doing everything they could to move away from the view before them but with nowhere to go.

More fool them for trying to hurt him.

The buzzing in his ears came back the longer he stared, stretching around his skull in a band of vibrating discomfort. Perhaps it wasn't what they saw so much as the aura that he was producing, the energy pouring out of him in waves that hit him the longer he tried not to blink. One by one, the men crumpled without so much as being touched and he heard the breath in that Aziraphale took, the one that seemed to suck the life in with it and pulled at his essence in an uncomfortable manner.

The atmosphere slowly dissipated, as if the plug had been pulled out and it was spiralling inwards, withdrawing back into Aziraphale's frame as he took another unsteady step and started to collect himself. Crowley felt something warm run down his neck, shivering at the sensation as he rubbed at it in disgusted confusion. 

"I told you not to look, dear."

Aziraphale sighed, shaking his head exasperatedly before looking at him with concern and slight worry.

"You told me to try." Crowley gave him a toothy grin, before glancing down at the red, viscous liquid he was smearing around his fingertips. "Didn't expect to bleed from it."

"Well, I wasn't quite sure what I would do to a demon." Aziraphale was in front of him in an instant, eyebrows furrowed as he produced a handkerchief and began to run it over Crowley's neck and up towards his ears. "As you can see, I drive humans quite mad. Not that I make that a habit." 

"Angel." Crowley's hand found his, making him look him in the eye for the first time. "I know that. You wouldn't have done this if you didn't need to."

Aziraphale's hand shook beneath his, the handkerchief dropping to the floor before he leant forward resting their foreheads together. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to- whatever they did to me hurt. I've never felt like that before, so close to actually- and I couldn't just heal like I normally would, I needed to give in to-"

"Shh." Crowley pulled him in closer. "Shh, It's OK." 

"It's not but thank you." Aziraphale pulled back, still shaking. "We need to deal with them-"

"Not right now." 

Aziraphale huffed. "At least let me seal that book up."

"Can't. It's already burning." 

"Crowley." Aziraphale gave him a disappointed glare. "You can't just burn a book like that. It's probably one of a kind, rarer than most books I have in here."

"Yeah, well, I let you do what you had to do, so-" Crowley punctuated his sentence, drawing the word out petulantly, before looking back up at him. "-you'll have to let me do what I have to do too." His face softened, concern filtering through as he cupped Aziraphale's cheek. "I don't want anyone to be able to hurt you like that ever again."

Aziraphale melted against his palm, Crowley inwardly crowing at the victory. "Alright, you do have a point. Perhaps I should let you dispose of similar parchments I have hidden away throughout the years." 

"Sounds like a plan, but one for later. For now-" Crowley gave him a grin as Aziraphale tiredly looked back up at him. 

"How about we have that lunch we were meant to be having?"

[mostweakhamlets]

"You can't just pick up a child off the street like that!"

"Why not?"

Aziraphale doesn't know how much longer he can stand in front of the demon before he pulls out his hair in exasperation. Crowley has his arms crossed in front of him and eyebrows furrowed as if his side of the argument has any standing.

"Children belong to people!"

"She didn't look like she belonged to anyone. You didn't make a fuss when I took in that cat for a week. Or the goat. Or the calf."

"I believe you'll recall that I did make a fuss about the calf, and we did find the rightful owner."

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Alright. But that was once."

"And you can't exactly compare a human child to a stray animal who needs fostered for a little while."

Crowley throws himself down in one of his chairs at his kitchen table. He tosses his long hair back over his shoulders and slumps down, staring at the ground.

Aziraphale watches him. He swings one leg over the other and kicks his sandaled foot. He presses his arms close into himself and pouts. The poor thing is hurt.

"Crowley, I do admire you for wanting to take in a child. It's very kind of you--"

"It's not kind."

"But children have families that look after them, and those families worry when the children go missing for an evening."

"And then you go out and look for them."

"Naturally. I'm supposed to be helping these communities. I'm an angel. I retrieve children from demons."

"I wasn't going to do anything... you know, bad. I just thought I'd feed her and water her for the night. Kids are kinda off limits for my kind."

"I don't doubt you had good intentions, but the point still stands that you can't keep a child as a pet."

"Who made that rule?"

"It's a collective agreement, I suppose."

Aziraphale takes the seat next to Crowley in a creaky wooden chair. The whole house--just a little shack--looks impersonal and old. Crowley must have a short assignment there, Aziraphale supposes. One task and then he's off to another community.

"It was a bit of a pleasure to learn that you here, though."

Crowley looks at him. His eyes light up. He smiles and leans forward, chin in hand.

"Are you admitting you like my company?"

"Oh... no." Aziraphale can't tell if he's being wiley or genuinely warm. "Of course not. It's just a bit nice to see a familiar face every now and again. Even if it is one of a demon."

"Whatever you say... angel."

Crowley retreats. He still looks pleased with himself, and his eyes are still fixed on Aziraphale as if he's prey.

"How about we go into town and have a bit of lunch and then see if we can find you a feral animal to shelter for a few days."

"Only on one condition."

"What's that?"

"We tell our sides that I kidnapped a child and you saved it from me and my demonic influence."

"Why would we do that?"

"Sounds better for both of us. Makes it seem like we're actually doing something out here."

Aziraphale wants to say that he's doing quite a bit, and that lying to his superiors would be wrong. But then he thinks about how it's not exactly lying. He did return a child back home. The archangels don't need to know that rather than kidnap her, Crowley really just gave her a bowl of soup and talked to her a few hours.

Before he can agree to anything, Crowley is jumping to his feet and rushing to the open window.

"There goes a rabbit!"

And he's out the front door with Aziraphale following behind, reminding him that rabbits do quite well on their own.

[kaesaaurelia]

as a treat

For @whumptober2020 day 16: “A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day” (specifically “hallucinations”)

Continues on from day two, wherein Aziraphale was kidnapped by very health-conscious Satanists, day nine, wherein we find out how Crowley got there, and what the Satanists are after, and day ten, wherein the Satanists took a lot of Aziraphale’s blood.

Aziraphale/Crowley; involuntary transformation and mild but threatening innuendo.

Whatever sort of horrible angel blood concoction Fancy Robes was making, it was either finished or they needed some other horrible ingredient, because he was bringing the bowl over to Crowley.  "Open your mouth," Fancy Robes said, clutching the cheap plastic mixing bowl, and Crowley looked at him incredulously.

"What, you think I'm going to just cooperate?" he asked.  "You might've threatened me with holy water and --"

"Open your mouth or we'll kill this angel," said Fancy Robes.  "It sounded like you wouldn't like that."  It wasn't the kind of power tripping attitude Crowley was used to from these high-ranking Satanists, which made it all the worse; this idiot genuinely thought what he was doing was necessary and would work.  He wasn't getting any joy out of this, or any thrill, and that meant Crowley couldn't divert his attention into something more fun.  He'd come this far; he wasn't going to back down.  But Crowley had to try.

"You can't kill him, you said I was going to kill him," Crowley pointed out.  "Come on, you didn't cause all this nonsense individually.  Well, maybe you did do some of it.  Depends on how you voted --"

"I don't want to kill him!" said Fancy Robes, plainly frustrated.  "But I will if I have to.  We'll keep you here, and then we'll find another angel."

Crowley grimaced, and then opened his mouth reluctantly, but when the sickly, half-clotted lukewarm mixture hit his tongue, he spat it out reflexively.

Fancy Robes retaliated by kicking Aziraphale in the ribs.  "I really wish you wouldn't," Aziraphale said weakly, still tied up, and Crowley didn't know what he was going to do to these costumed fucks when he got out of this mess, but whatever it was, he'd really make it count.  Then Fancy Robes wrenched Crowley's jaw up, and, holding his mouth open as if he was a recalcitrant pet, he poured the sickly mixture down Crowley's throat.  Crowley could have bit off his fingers, of course, and wanted to, but Aziraphale had a better chance of survival if the bastard didn't keep kicking him.

So he swallowed it all, and grimaced after.  "Well, that's the second most disgusting thing I'll ever taste," he said, the flavor of iron lingering in his mouth. "What's the most disgusting thing?" Aziraphale asked, indulging Crowley's little joke, because the Satanists sure wouldn't.

"His throat when I rip it out," Crowley said, glaring at Fancy Robes.  "I'll -- I'm going to --"  But things were going all swimmy now; Fancy Robes shifted and changed.  He was Death; he was a giant vulture; he was a monk Crowley had tempted to greed; he was one of those awful chattering nuns.  He didn't feel himself at all; everything was hot and that was usually lovely, but just now it was overwhelming and terrible and loud.  And Crowley felt himself change, too, which only added to the noise and the heat and the light and the dizziness, and he was surrounded by enemies, and there was someone among them he wanted to find, needed to find.  Whoever they were, they tasted absolutely delicious.

Crowley flicked his tongue out to smell this delicious prey, and it was so close!  He strained forward, using his hands and his tail to push, but there was something restraining him and it was right there and he wanted it, he wanted it more than anything, it was his favorite, and he lunged until, obligingly, one of these strange enemies shoved it forward.

He didn't like that; didn't like the enemies touching his favorite prey, so delectable, so sweet and delicate; he had to protect it.  So he snapped at the enemy's hand and hissed, before returning his attentions to the... meal?

"Crowley," it said, sounding beautifully worried.  "Crowley, you're not really going to -- I mean -- I mean that would be silly," it said, and Crowley paused, listening blissfully, because he liked the noises it made.  He cradled the creature's face in his claws.  He ought to savor this thing; it was very pretty, and -- Crowley licked it -- it tasted very good.  Maybe he shouldn't eat it.  There was other fun to be had with something like this.

[next part]