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lady-divine-writes · 4 years

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12 Days of Blasphemy - Demon Side (Rated NC17)

Summary:

It's Christmas time, and Hastur hates Christmas time. Avoids it like chocolate and candy canes (since he actually enjoyed the plague). But here he is, on Earth in December, to meet with his least favorite demon ever. But his mind changes somewhat when it seems Crowley has started taking his job seriously again ... But, of course, things aren't always what they seem ... (1561 words)

Notes: Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'kneeling'. Also, I'm going to cling to the idea that this is a Christmas fic the same way 'Die Hard' is a Christmas movie XD NSFW in the suggestive sense. Warning for implied oral and mention of Crowley's demon form. Basically, Aziraphale is a horrible angel to his poor, overworked husband.

Read on AO3.

“Hail Satan.”

A muffled squawk! and ruffle of feathers greet Hastur as he trudges through the muddy field to reach the assigned meeting place. ‘Bloody pigeons,’ he thinks, scanning the ground for a glimpse of the flying rats. ‘They’re everywhere. Been kicking them left and right all day.’

Of course, he’d been doing it on purpose, mostly for fun, but they still got under foot of their own accord far too often.

“Yeah, uh, you know … hail … and all that,” Crowley calls across the field, offering up a stunted wave, just the wiggle of a few fingers from beneath his collar, his voice hitching up in pitch on the word hail. He sounds uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere but here, which is often the case, but more so than usual on this dismally wet (yet still festive) December night.

Hastur growls. He hates Christmas, loathes the good tidings and cheer that come along with it. There’s a farmhouse nearby, dressed to the nines with Christmas lights and puffy inflatable things that move their arms and turn their heads to reveal the manic smiles on their faces. He doesn’t understand their purpose other than they make children laugh.

And he despises the laughter of children most.

Hastur took the liberty of cursing a handful of them in various front yards on his way over – snowmen, Santas, reindeer, a polar bear or two. Even a bouncy castle, set up and waiting to entertain at a holiday party tomorrow afternoon. Some will simply deflate at odd intervals and require replacing, others will attack pets and children. At full capacity, the castle will collapse in on itself. There may be survivors. There may not.

Either way, the outcome should be hilarious.

Hastur does his best to stay below ground through the entirety of December when he can, avoids large cities entirely, but this meeting couldn’t wait.

Hastur stops a few feet from Crowley. On the whole, he tries not to get too close to him, especially since the bastard did set him on fire.

And after what he did to poor Ligur.

Why Beelzebub decided to give him clemency, along with another fucking chance, Hastur will never understand. But Crowley was a favorite in Hell once. Orchestrate a few wars, pull off a few inquisitions, mess with the construction of a highway, and you can get away with anything apparently.

Hastur looks Crowley over, baffled as to what the flashy asshole is wearing. He’s gone native. That’s generally understood. So nothing he does should surprise Hastur anymore. On the off chance Beelzebub doesn’t have anything ulterior planned for Crowley (along the lines of his utter extermination), Hastur should probably start giving Crowley the benefit of the doubt. He’d agreed to this meeting, for one. Showed up early even. That proves he’s making an effort, right? A demon who can withstand Holy Water doesn’t really need to worry about playing by the rules so the fact that he’s toeing the line should account for something.

Maybe Hastur doesn’t care too much about fitting in with the humans, but that doesn’t mean Crowley’s efforts to blend in aren’t, in some way, rooted in Evil. Maybe that coat of his is Evil, made from some critically endangered bird, like a giant ibis or a California condor, and constructed by child slave labor in Indonesia.

But the closer Hastur gets, the more disappointed he becomes because no, it’s not.

What Hastur thought was a coat is Crowley’s wings, wrapped completely around his body, gleaming like black ice in the dark, more than likely the product of thrice a day grooming or something else equally and ridiculously vain.

“What’s with the wings?” Hastur asks, gesturing to Crowley’s body. The feathers shift and adjust upon mention, as if trying to contain the whole of Crowley’s corporal form from escaping.

“I’m chilly,” Crowley replies, his voice tight. “Mmmph. You hate my clothes anyway. What do you care?”

Hastur stares at his colleague. Crowley is using a great deal of strength to remain impassive, indifferent, stoic, but Hastur can see the struggle on his face – a pain simmering beneath his skin like the dormant claws of his demon self shredding a path to the surface, longing to break free.

Crowley breathes in sharply, rolls his shoulders back together, then one at a time as if trying to relieve an itch without scratching it.

He used to be a snake, Hastur reminds himself. Perhaps he’s shedding.

Hastur shrugs.

“I don’t,” he concludes.

“Great. Ngk. Now that we have that settled, can we please continue? I have places I need to be, you know.”

“What do you have to report? And it’d better be good.”

“Well, I … mmph …” Crowley’s feathers shift again, trembling as if they’re deliberating between staying fixed to his body or falling off.

Maybe Hastur was a bit off the mark. Maybe Crowley isn’t shedding. Maybe he’s molting.

The image that brings to Hastur’s head of this preening peacock losing his precious feathers and looking like a plucked chicken almost makes Hastur smile.

“Well you what?”

“I’ve been working in secret. Uh … uh … undercover as it were. It’s not been long since the whole execution thing, has it? You lot still have operatives on Earth who’ve decided there must be a price on my head.”

At that, Hastur does smile. Whether or not that was his doing is entirely irrelevant.

But yeah, he did that.

“Fine. You’ll get more time. And the angel?”

“Wh---what about the angel?” Crowley stutters as if he’s about to sneeze.

“We’ve heard from our informants that the two of you are now … living together?” Hastur grimaces, the taste those words bring to his mouth vile, even by demon standards.

“Yes, I’m living with him!” Crowley snaps, but then relaxes a little, head lolling back on his shoulders, shielded eyes aimed at the sky. “That’s how I gain his trust … get him to put his guard down.”

“And how is that working out for you, eh?”

For the first time during this whole meeting, Crowley grins. “I’ve got him right where I want him.”

Crowley’s wings around the middle bulge out, then up. They shudder violently, then smooth back into place. He swallows hard, a complicated look clouding his expression. He makes an odd sound, like a whimper. Hastur frowns.

“What the Heaven is wrong with you?”

“Like I said … ngk … I’m cold.”

“You’re a demon! You don’t get cold!” Hastur watches, stares intensely at Crowley’s face contorting, his body undulating beneath his cloak of feathers but only subtly as he forces himself to fight it, and suddenly it all becomes clear. “I know what’s going on …”

Crowley’s yellow eyes meet Hastur’s. For a moment, he looks ominously surprised and terrified. “Y-you … you do?”

“Yes,” Hastur hisses with glee. “Your façade is slipping!”

“That’s … uh … mmph … one way of putting it, I guess.”

“Take this as a sign, brother! Forgo your human shell and let your demon side out! Come back to us as the full expression of yourself and take your rightful place in Hell!”

“You make a convincing argument. I … uh … will definitely consider that … ah!” Crowley doubles over, breathing heavily, shaking as if every maggot beneath his flesh has finally had their fill of being trapped and is growing fangs.

“You do that,” Hastur says, so certain of himself, he wants to add this development to his report for the day. But no, he won’t tell Beelzebub about it just yet. He’ll wait until Crowley arrives, strolling down to Hell in his glorious demon form – grey skin, yellow teeth, leather wings, possibly even holding an angel’s head in his grasp. “See you soon, Crawly. Good to have you back.”

“Uh … right …” Crowley pants into the dirt, bowed so low that the sputtering remains of his breath moves the tips of the grass.

Between Crowley’s heaving breaths and Hastur’s footsteps fading in the sod, a soft voice mutters. “Is he gone?”

“Give it a second, love, a’right?” Crowley whispers, his brain melting into a mixture of anxiety and ecstasy, swirling about the rim of a large, cosmic drain. “That was a dirty trick, by the way. Do you know how much power it takes to shield you from their notice, and then you go and pull something like that?”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. You sound it.”

When Crowley feels Hastur leave, burrow through the ground and so far beneath the earth that something like a holy signature materializing in Crowley’s personal space wouldn’t be noticed, he opens his wings so he can give a hard, scolding look to the angel on his knees at his feet.

“Just thought I’d lend a helping hand,” Aziraphale says sweetly, licking his lips. “Or a helping mouth in this case.”

“Help with what?” Crowley reaches down trembling hands to slip his spent cock back into his jeans.

“Letting your demon side out.”

“Yes, well, you keep helping like that and you’re going to get me discorporated.” Crowley takes Aziraphale by the upper arms and helps him to his feet, but for all his fuss and bluster, there’s no mistaking the grin on Crowley’s face.

“Like you’re always saying, my dear - if you’re going to go … go in style!”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #12 days of blasphemy #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #Frankie writes

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