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legobiwan · 5 years

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Whumptober #8 (stab wound)

TW: minor gore; power dynamics; Crowley swears a lot (but so do I)

Fandom: Good Omens (Crowley, Aziraphale, (references to Crowley/Aziraphale), Gabriel)

Notes: Honestly the stab wound bit is really an excuse to get to the rest of this, which is self-indulgent twaddle. Also, I am not Catholic nor did I really grow up religious, so excuse any inaccuracies.

—–

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Aziraphale moans again, writhing in Crowley’s arms, golden ichor seeping from the wound in his abdomen, spilling onto the demon’s hands. It burns, Crowley’s skin smoldering with the holy lifeblood, but he pays it no mind.

He can feel Aziraphale slipping away, can see him dying, creamy skin turning to water, the embers of his once-rosy cheeks fading to a pathetic sizzle as Crowley grasps for a hand unable to return his desperate touch.

(He’s seen death before, has killed angels with his own hands. The knife was familiar, too familiar - the way his hand curled around the silver hilt, wrenching the blade from Aziraphale’s body. The First War, the Rebellion, he and Lucifer and all the others, spilling gold at every turn, sparing a single cold eye to the spirits they had laid to waste.)

(Self-defense, he would tell himself later, long limbs curled to his chest, acid creeping up the edges of his metaphysical form as each felled angel stared back at him, accusing, every visage melting into that familiar mop of blond-white curls and plump cheeks.)

(Hell’s tortures had evolved beyond the physical. Even the Serpent of Eden wasn’t above the mandated re-education sessions of the Damned. Physical torture could be endured. This, however had been something else, his greatest asset - his imagination - turned against him. Hell had finally figured out how to bring the snake to heel.)

Now, he would give anything to be back in the Pit, Beezlebub looming over him, Hastur grinning at their side. If this were punishment, again, for depriving the Lord of Hell of another soul, a demonic miracle he couldn’t talk his way out of, a fudged compliance report damning him a second, third, a hundredth time - he would endure it for eternity if meant the angel was safe.

Crowley pulls Aziraphale to his chest, long arms encircling the angel’s stout belly, thin fingers caressing the soft, woolen layer of sweater. He swallows the rising sob in his throat whole, like the serpent he is, burying his nose in Aziraphale’s shoulder.

It smells of pine and sulfur.

Please, I’ll do anything. Crowley trembles, his eyes squeezed shut against the inevitable onslaught of tears. He casts his pleas upwards, contravening every demonic instinct branded into his damned soul. She doesn’t listen. She never has.

But just this once…

Save him.

Desperation curdles in his chest. Aziraphale remains motionless, the sheen of sweat glistening in the reflection of the damned blade. Crowley lays a hand on the angel’s shoulder, digging into skin and muscle.

Nothing.

Crowley dips his head, trembling, fanged teeth finding that delicate patch between his own thumb and forefinger. He bites, hard, drawing blood from his own flesh, a sacrifice made willingly, even though he knows he can offer nothing that had not already been taken.

Answer me, please.

Only the dagger responds from its discarded spot on the ground, crackling with Hellfire, taunting him, laughing in return.

Damn you.

Crowley’s fist clenches against Aziraphale’s shirt. The fabric wrinkles, tight in his grasp, as if he can keep Aziraphale on this plane of existence by his own sheer determination, by dragging him bodily from the greedy arms obliteration.

“Do you hear me, God?” Yellow eyes snap open. “I said, DAMN YOU!”

Once again, Crowley draws on his occult power, pouring every bit of desperation, will, and imagination into the spell. Aziraphale’s wound remains unchanged, his waistcoast still slashed open at the third button, jacket peppered with golden stains.

“Gotta say, that’s not the strategy I would have gone with. Then again, you’re a demon. Heaven’s SoPs - Standard Operating Prayers - are probably out of your jurisdiction.”

Crowley goes rigid, almost preternaturally still save his tears, which succumb to gravity, winding down the sharp angles of his face.

Nononono. This wasn’t happening. Not now, not when he had offered the last part of himself up to an uncaring God, to a dispassionate universe, not when Aziraphale -

The leather shoes step forward, a quiet shuffle. The material gleams in the dying light, untouched by ash, by demonic brimstone, by the haze of sulfur. Crowley’s eyes travel up the perfectly pressed pants, just this side of grey, the soft, cashmere jacket, the violet scarf, matching those penetrating, condescending eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Crowley growls.

A smile, all the more insincere for how wide it is. Gabriel looks as if he has walked straight out of a stock photo session extolling the virtues of corporate synergy.

(Crowley would know. He received a minor commendation for that effort.)

Not that the archangel would have any idea. He looked down on Earth, on humanity, on any being who dared care for Her creations (creations She so easily cast aside).

Arms spread wide, hands, fingers all in alignment, Gabriel stands perfectly straight, chest forward, feet spread the ideal width.

(That had been another one of Crowley’s creations, Power Postures and You: How to Succeed in the Modern Workplace. The ideal width had not, in fact, ever been delineated and yet somehow Gabriel stood there, the utter wanker, unbothered by Hellflame, by the dying Angel in Crowley’s arms, feet spread the perfect amount.)

“I heard your prayer,” Gabriel shrugged. “Obviously.”

“I didn’t ask…you, anyone, I mean - “ Crowley spluttered, shaking his head back and forth in denial.

Gabriel’s smile widens.

“Went straight to our call center. Priority. Don’t get many of those these days, especially from such a…” Gabriel cocks his head. “Unique source. Obviously, my team had it directed to my office.”

“Obviously,” Crowley breaths, hugging Aziraphale, protective, as a child would hold their favorite stuffed animal. (Remember when you and Aziraphale raised Warlock). The thought threatens new tears, and Crowley swallows over the urge to sob.

Gabriel looks from Crowley to Aziraphale and back, disgust flitting across his face as the demon brushes a stray curl from the angel’s face, soft and more gentle than any agent of Hell had a right to be. There’s no point in hiding his affection, in denying what is before Gabriel’s very eyes.

The archangel clears his throat. ”I’m here to make a deal.”

Crowley’s hand stills, fingers caught partway through Aziraphale’s hair. “A…a deal?” he asks, the question wound with suspicion.

“Don’t look so offended, Crowley.”

It’s the first time Gabriel has uttered his name. Hell, Crowley didn’t even know the Archangel knew his name. It doesn’t hurt, to have Gabriel say it (names hold power, but not that much power), but still, it tickles at his inner organs, a strange discomfort, a crack his the edifice of his boundaries.

Gabriel looks pointedly at the fading angel in his arms.

“The Almighty made a deal with humanity - at the beginning. Well, close to the beginning. Your people had been…reassigned at that point.”

Crowley nods, not understanding. Was this supposed to be a bedtime story, a sermon, let us now read from the Gospel? He swallows his barbed commentary.

“She,” Gabriel points upwards, enunciating his words slow and sure, as if Crowley were a child, “offers humanity the chance at redemption. And in return they give Her their worship and obedience.”

Gabriel folds his hands to his front, eyebrows raised as if to say, you dumbass, aren’t you following?

That wasn’t what it was supposed to be, was it? Crowley frowns. God wasn’t hawking indulgences on the street, didn’t promise absolution in the form of quid pro quo. It was supposed to be based in faith, except faith came very certain terms and conditions, mostly don’t ask questions, obey and don’t think hard about it and how far a leap is from there to -

“All beings offering prayer are given the same options.”

Crowley hisses at the accusation. “I wasn’t - “

“Please, save him,” Gabriel mocks, his face a grotesque parody of Crowley’s pain, his desperation.

A mockery of his love.

(Demons don’t love.)

(Demons can’t love.)

Crowley runs a gentle hand through Aziraphale’s curls. This demon loves this angel. “Can you?” Nearly inaudible, a faint whisper stolen from his inner mind. “Can you save him?”

Gabriel laughs, full and hearty. It’s as pleasant a sound as a fork dragged across a ceramic plate and the hand laid on the angel’s stomach curls, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s wound. The angel whispers a blood-curdling moan, more golden lifeblood spilling onto Crowley’s digits.

“Of course we can save him! That’s what angels do!” Gabriel peers at Crowley through folded, disapproving brows, his hands flitting in a spastic, jazzy motion.

Crowley doubts Gabriel knows anything about jazz. (Aziraphale likes jazz, the smooth hiss of a brush dragged over a snare, the deep thrum of the pizzicato bass, the yearning of the saxophone under dim lights, a wordless confession as limbs slide dangerously close, a glissando of desire, a rim shot of lust and Crowley wraps a long arm around the angel’s shoulder and - )

“I mean, what do you think our purpose is?” Gabriel’s bright tenor shatters the memory. The angel slaps his own forehead with his palm. “Duh, Crowley!”

Crowley scowls, again burying his nose in Aziraphale’s neck. The angel’s skin has paled a few more shades, now nearly translucent.

“Thing thing is, I would just need….” Gabriel lets the sentence linger, angling his head towards Crowley, whose hand has now traveled clear through Aziarphale’s shoulder.

The angel doesn’t have much more time.

Crowley grits his teeth, despising himself for what he says next.

“What do you need?”

He doesn’t like this. Scratch that, he hates this, hates this stupid archangel who had condemned Aziraphale to death without a trial, who is now his only hope, this soldier, this messenger of Her, a God who can’t even be bothered to check her own damned voicemail.

“A deal. Well, The Deal.”

Crowley catches his meaning immediately. “What, worship?” The demon almost laughs. This situation, if it weren’t so heartbreaking, is absurd. “Hate to break it to you, Gabe, but demons aren’t exactly equipped for that type of thing.”

(A lie, he’s worshipped Aziraphale for 6,000 years.)

“To be honest, Crowley, the worshipping part comes later. Humanity requires fear, fear of loss. Or punishment. Doubt that last one would do much to you, having spent so much time in Hell. Except…”

Makes a pointed look towards Aziraphale.

“The thing is, you need to give them incentive. Change the behavior first. Later, they’ll come to understand the why, come to embrace the meaning of it all, to truly believe.”

“You want - “

“Serve me. Serve Heaven. No, not like that,” Gabriel rolls his eyes at Crowley’s undisguised horror. “Just a few errands here and there, a little bit of corporate espionage to get the ol’ one-up on Beezy.”

Lies. Sweet lies - Heaven had never known any other kind (and isn’t that why Aziraphale stayed loyal for so long? For a gluttonous angel who indulged in eclairs and crepes and devil’s food cake, it seems a natural predisposition). But no matter how much honey Gabriel pours on top of his shit sundae, it’s still a shit sundae, and Crowley has never shared the angel’s sweet tooth.

Aziraphale goes an impossible shade paler, twitching in Crowley’s arms. It should have been over, minutes, perhaps hours ago. No death of an ethereal being should take this long (Crowley would know), but this is somehow different, a long heat of the universe, cooling degree by degree, the end inevitable, writ in the cosmos, but the journey -

This is a damned test. Crowley sucks in air between clenched teeth. Gabriel is doing something, something he is supposed to notice, supposed to take as a gesture of good faith (but what is faith to the faithless?), as a promise, as bait.

He can save Aziraphale when Crowley (damned as he is) - can’t.

There are no other options. Say no and he loses the angel and inevitably himself. Sure, he’d try to raze Heaven on his way out, would march right up God’s front door and set fire to the whole place before succumbing happily to his own obliteration.

But here - he can make a deal, The Deal. The will angel live. And an alive Aziraphale, no matter what price Crowley has to pay - is a far more acceptable than a dead Aziraphale.

“Fine.” Crowley mutters, his face still turned downwards.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t quite hear that.”

You fucking prick, you know exactly what I said.

The demon somehow manages to lift his gaze, looking straight into Gabriel’s fucking condescending twat-face.

“Fine!” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, petulant and desperate.

“Uhuhuh,” the archangel wags a finger, and just like that, Crowley wants to kill him. “Not like that.”

“Not like what, you fuck-bucket? I agreed to your stupid terms now save him!”

He’s yelling, losing control and fuck it he has no pride left, here on the floor, Gabriel towering over him in his weakest moment, all of Crowley’s vulnerabilities laid out like a sodding picnic (don’t think about those outings with Aziraphale, don’t think about sharing champagne and little sandwiches on the beach, hands linked together, sitting side by side on a tartan blanket - )

“You’re familiar with the Catholic Mass?”

“What kind of stupid question - “

“The host,” Gabriel interrupts, paying no heed to the demon’s outburst. “The chalice, the Communion?”

Crowley’s stomach drops.

Fuck.

Fuck this fucking archangel.

(Crowley bows to no one. He’ll pretend, he’ll ingratiate himself, give due deference with a smirk and an ironic gesture. After a few rounds in Hell, he may, on occasion, even be halfway genuine in those gestures.)

But this -

He can’t do this.

“Time’s running out, demon.”

The angel in his arms is a cloud. It’s wrong, so wrong - Aziraphale is gravlax in dill sauce, Châteauneuf-du-Pape, he is old books and older knowledge, he is weighty and thick and everything Crowley adores about him is drained away to practically nothing, a shadow of a shadow.

He has to do this.

Swallowing the last of his pride, never letting go of what was left of Aziraphale’s metaphysical form, Crowley pulls his shins beneath him, gently resting the angel’s head above his knees, his back and shoulders flush with his thighs. He bows in supplication, his hands folded over Aziraphale’s forehead, a reminder of why he was about to do this.

(Genuflection, they called it. Adoration, respect. Crowley feels none of these emotions, only a sickness balled in his lower abdomen. He somehow manages not vomit as he submits himself to the archangel.)

“Please. Save him.”

Gabriel grins, wide and feral.

legobiwan does whumptober

#erg #yeah this happened #whumptober #whumptober 8 #trying to catch up guys #i'm actually having a really busy week at work and i have some DEADLINES for music shit coming up #crowley #aziraphale #gabriel #good omens #good omens spam #writing #gaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

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webcricket · 6 years

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Hell for the Holidays

Characters: Castiel X Sister!Winchester Reader ft. Lucifer

Word Count: 1910

A/N: Drabble for my SPN Advent Challenge December 13 Prompt Get Your Coda On - My reader insert coda for what happened to Cas and Lucifer after their imprisonment in SPN season 13 episode War of the Worlds. Warning - written erotica content! You and Cas find a delightful way to torture the devil and pass the time in Hell. Fluff and smut!

“Cas?”

The angel disregards your soft utterance of his name. He stands at the bars of your shared cell, craning his neck to peer down the hallway, both of you prisoners of Asmodeus. He’s been at it for hours today and you don’t know what he expects to find. The cell door is warded. The hall is abandoned save for an uncharacteristically silent Lucifer sulking in the iron-barred chamber opposite. A demon lackey already delivered a pitcher of questionably murky water and a loaf of stale bread for you to ingest this morning. At least you think it was morning. There’s no way to know for sure in this pit. But nothing has changed in days. And you know nothing is going to change until Asmodeus needs to leverage one or both of you as bait to lure in Jack or thwart your brothers. Heck, you could be celebrating Christmas and New Year’s in this hole for all you know.

“Castiel?” you whisper again. Moving to his side, you trail your fingertips down his arm to twine your fingers into his limp grasp, wrapping his hand between both of yours and giving him a gentle squeeze. “Hey, come sit with me.”

Jaw flexing, he avoids looking at you. He hasn’t talked about it, but you know he blames himself for what happened, for you being stuck here.

“Come on,” you insist, tugging him as you step backward.

He acquiesces to your persistence, settling into a despondent crumpled trench coated heap beside you.

Your fingers play with the curls of hair at his temple. “You know this isn’t your fault,” you murmur.

“Isn’t it?” His eyes flash to search your aspect.

“No.”

“Dean was right,” he sighs, “I should have listened to him. Should have let him come with me to meet Duma.”

“Maybe, or maybe it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Maybe it would be you and Dean locked up in here instead of us.”

“I shouldn’t have called you.” His apologetic regard flits to the soot covered floor.

You move your palm to massage the muscles of his neck, perpetually knotted with the self-sacrificing burden of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for so long. “You should always call me,” you reassure, “and I will always come when you call. We’re partners, got it? No matter what. Or who.” You arch a brow in Lucifer’s direction.

“But-”

“No buts! What happened, happened. And you know, it could be worse.”

“I don’t see how. Asmodeus has tricked Sam and Dean into believing we’re following a lead. I overheard him on the phone with your brothers earlier. They’re not looking for us.”

You give his hand a squeeze, drawing the clasped fist to your lips and pressing a warm kiss to his knuckles, physically reminding him that at least for the moment you’re together, and alive. And that’s something. You’re sick and tired of always wondering where the angel is – if he’s okay, and despite the dire situation, you’re thankful to be trapped here with him. “I love you, angel.”

He meets your adoring gaze and a small fond smile traces his mouth. Focus wholly on you, distracted by the knack you have for finding the bright side of any situation, of reminding him of what is truly important, all he has to be grateful for, he forgets the bars holding you captive.

“I mean it.” You reflect his smile.

“I love you too, Y/N.” He places a lingering kiss upon your lips.

“Oh, for the love of dad, can you two love-struck idiots keep the PDA to a minimum? Some of us prefer to do our suffering in peace.” Lucifer rolls his eyes, grimacing at you from his vantage across the hall.

“You realize that’s kind of an oxymoron, right?” You reluctantly remove your lips from your angel’s to hiss back. Cause if you’re being totally honest with yourself, you absolutely do blame someone for what happened, and that someone’s name is Lucifer. Asmodeus wasn’t looking for you and Cas – the prince of Hell showed up at the bar looking for his long lost creator. You were a collateral bonus.

Cas casts his brother a chiding glare for interrupting your kiss.

Lucifer mockingly wags his chin, crosses his arms over his chest and huffs, “You’ve literally found a way to make Hell even more tormenting. You make the cage look like Club Med.”

“That so?” You narrow your gaze.

“Yup,” he clicks his teeth, forehead crinkling for emphasis. “So, stop it,” he orders as if he has even a sliver of power or authority over you and Cas.

He’s so smug and conceited in his demand, you’re inspired with an idea for sweet satisfying revenge. You wink, purring, “Stop it, or what?” Smirking, you swing a leg over Cas’ thighs and shift into his lap and face him.

The angel fidgets beneath your weight and tilts his surprised countenance askance as he peers up at you. For an entity who allegedly doesn’t sweat, Cas’ forehead shines now with perspiration in the dim light. It’s sultry as Hell in here, and the oppressive warmth has a lot less to do with the whole fire and brimstone bit and the fact you’re in Hell than it did five minutes ago.

Maybe your better judgement is muddled by the heat; or maybe you and your angel both simply need to blow off a little steam, Lucifer be damned. You begin to loosen the knot of his tie.

Blue gaze widening as he realizes what you’re up to, Cas’ broad hands reflexively slide to your waist. “What are you doing?” he asks in a gravelly hush.

“Oh, you know.” Your hands smooth over his torso as you lean in to kiss the line of his scruffy jaw, peppering an affectionate open-mouthed trail to whisper in his ear, “Torturing the devil. You game?” You grind hard against him.

“You’re not actually going to-” Lucifer gapes, rushing the cell door to test the bars and search the hall for help – it’s as empty as any threat he could make against you right now.

Cas’ head slumps heavy to the wall, thick lashes shuttering as he stifles a groan and tries to maintain control of his vessel’s arousal. “What about Lucifer-” he tries to reason with you through gritted teeth.

You can tell from the bulging twitch in his trousers he’s not truly protesting or turned off by having a devilish audience. “What about him?” you simper, rolling your hips again.

Blue irises blown black with lust blink open to meet yours. His fingertips skim beneath the hem of your shirt to snake up your back, digging into the soft flesh there to pull you flush and gasping to his chest. A throaty growl spills from his lips as his mouth attaches to the exposed salty skin of your neck.

“Come on!” Lucifer whines. “We’re all buds here, right? Common enemy and what not. Castiel? Have a little mercy on a brother.”

Your fingers seek Cas’ belt buckle, making quick work of the barriers of fabric to free his straining cock. He kneads the rolling curve of your hips, biting into the delicate arc of your collarbone when you grab the base of his cock and twist your wrist in a fluid upward motion. He gasps, growling the Enochian equivalent of the word fuck into your marked skin.

You giggle, his deep voice resounding in the cell and vibrating to your core.

Lucifer pleads to deaf ears, “You want me to get on my knees and beg? I’ll do it. Do anything. Name it!”

Stroking the angel a few more times, you shimmy backward off his lap. You stand between his knees as he continues to palm himself and watch you undress. Unzipping your jeans, you wriggle out of them and kick the denim aside.

Nostrils flaring at the scent of your arousal, Cas lunges, grabbing the hem of your panties to pull you close. Mouth caressing your flesh, he murmurs ancient breathy veneration for your beauty as he kisses a deliberate line downward from your belly button, pausing to nose and mouth the thin stretch of soaking wet fabric shielding your center.

It’s all too much for Lucifer – the sweetness and worshipful adulation of your love – he retreats to the corner of his cell, curling into a ball on the bench and covering his ears with the lumpy stained excuse for a pillow provided therein.

You tangle your fingers in Cas’ hair and yank back, forcing him to look up at you. Normally you want this, want him to take his time, to taste and explore every inch of you with his tongue until your knees are weak and you’re begging to come – but you’re already trembling with excitement and you want him inside you, stretching and filling you with that perfect burn of bliss. You don’t care that you’re both still half-dressed. You’ve had a lot of practice fucking like this on account of your brothers’ stubborn penchant for giving you very little alone time. Fortunately, with his angelic grace, Cas doesn’t need you undressed to make you come and his stoic resolve means your deft fingers can occasionally return the favor in the backseat of the Impala without your brothers suspecting anything.

As the angel stares up at you, you don’t need to say anything for him to know what you need. He sits, urging you to straddle his lap once more. Nudging your panties to one side, a guttural groan rumbles his lungs when he swipes his fingers through your damp folds.

Moaning, you can’t help rocking against the slick digits in anticipation of what’s to come. You reach between your bodies to guide his tip to your entrance as he lifts your thighs. Gazing into your hooded eyes, he slowly lowers your shuddering body until he’s fully seated, your tight walls scorching around his aching cock as he remains inert, waiting for you to move.

Resting your forehead to his, you undulate your hips, nails scraping the nape of his neck.

His unleashed grace tingles, pinching and tweaking your nipples. He captures your mouth in a kiss, stealing your breath as your tongues dance a passionate waltz until you break away, panting and dizzy and then dive in for more. Grabbing fistfuls of your ass when you begin to falter, he thrusts upward, pace escalating mercilessly as he hits every sensitive spot over and over, sending a slithering wisp of grace to coil around and tease your clit until you’re screaming his name in ecstasy for Lucifer and the entirety of Hell itself to hear.

Breath quivering and ragged against your neck, his orgasm quickly follows, the rhythmic pulse of your pussy milking his hot release. He holds your languid figure in a tender embrace, fingertips tracing meandering lines over your body, grace flowing warm to sooth your overstimulated nerves and worn muscles until he softens inside you.

“You done?” Lucifer’s hopeful inquiry rings out into the silence. He dares a tentative glance over his shoulder.

You stir in your angel’s arms, shaking your head no in reply to Lucifer’s query. You nuzzle Cas’ prickly neck with kiss bruised lips.

“No, not nearly,” Cas answers with a grin, again growing hard as you sit up and start to unbutton his shirt. You may be in Hell, but you can think of a lot worse ways to spend the holidays.

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