Rating: Light R
It's not a sin.
Love. Kiss. Join. As old as time, right?
It's not a sin.
Anthony J. Crowley stared at his reflection in the facets of the cracked bathroom mirror, amazed at the changes he could see wrought there, wraith-like shadows where none should be, tracing like dark bruises across his skin. His eyes, sunken pits of already-golden snake-slits, filled with expressions unnatural to his body - demons didn't fear, and they didn't cry. Still, the blood-tears were there, leaking slowly away. Red trails, slithering across his high cheekbones.
How.... It couldn't be a sin to love someone. He had been so sure, he had banked on that, had thrown all of his cards down on one simple belief.
How could he have been wrong? How could he have let himself be wrong?
His fault. All him. For a moment the snake-demon wanted to scream - but instead, he dunked his head in the sink of frigid water once more, for the tenth, twentieth time. His hair was slick and mussed, flopping every which way like a bedraggled animal, ringlets and curls and coils that matched those of a serpent's. His chest was pale, marked here and there by bites or claw marks, flushed a spotted, molted color where they had touched, loved, departed again. The familiar black of patchy scales splattered here and there, the water running down their opalescent edges and collecting in beady pools on the outskirts of darkness. It was his body, him, all him.
His wings were folded in the small, familiar bathroom - a white feather was caught in one of them, and the sight of it made him ill - he knelt, threw up, wretched up bile and acid and disgusting tastes. His bathroom. That's right, he was in his home, wasn't he?
Home. The bookshop - no. Crowley shoved his head down again, counted to thirty, sixty, two-hundred. He wanted to scream, and this time he did - but the water filled his mouth and nose until he was choking on it.
"Fuck," he whispered sharply, burying his face in his clawed hands, bits of humanity falling away in his despair, like melting paint. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"
Sin had never seemed so bitter. He had never .... been so scared ... so hurt ...
"This is hell," he whispered, digging his claws into his shoulder, distancing himself from the pain. All he could see was Aziraphale, all he could feel was his hot breath and slim fingers and burning lips, and the way he had breathed his name, had pleaded, and promised, and sounded so scared... all he had wanted was love...
Crowley had promised him, kissed his eyelids, smirked at his fears. After all, they were eternal, they would never die, so why not enjoy the time they had? He had said as much, scoffing at retribution as he explored virgin-angel-flesh, marking it here and there and treating the affair as almost a game, albeit an important one.
..........black wings, scaled in places and feathered in others, raising like a sprawling layer of hell towards the sky - bleeding sometimes pierced here or there by chains or punishment clawed-at-the-tips-of-bird-like-bones....
His thoughts were desperate as black blood leaked from self-inflicted marks on his arms, as he shivered against the cold tile, naked, bleeding. What had he said so cheerfully? Was in only three hours ago that he had kissed that slightly upturned nose, ruffled blonde hair and teased him with a gentle kiss? 'Virginity can be cured,' he had promised, and proceeded to ravage his angel's neck. It had been innocent.
Eyes glittering with pain, ecstacy, terror - glowing in the night, flashing like beacons of fire as they moved and melted and completed each other's mind.
Why hadn't he noticed?
Why hadn't Aziraphale spoken out?
Anthony J. Crowley staggered into the bedroom, dripping water all over the carpet. Broken glass crunched beneath his bare feet, leaving blood-black footprints trailing behind him as he moved to the shattered window, staring blankly at the night-colored feathers there. Beyond the portal the city was silent and sleeping. It was three AM.
"I should ask why, but I know why, don't I?" He leaned out, feeling the chill English air lick at his ears, swirl through his shaggy black hair. Supernatural snake eyes took in the horizon and the people below, and Crowley knew he had no right to complain about his lot, about his...
"Why you, though?" he asked, seeming to fold in on himself against the wall, sinking down and curling his arms around his knees, ignoring the glass shards tearing at his wings. "I wanted to tempt the world, but never you."
But he had.
The wings...Crowley shivered, blood-tears matching the footprints in hue, slithering down his jaw. Those proud, white wings, darkening so filthily, changing in texture and aura, gradually fading to gray and obscene black. Beautiful blue eyes that had widened in shock and pain as they consummated two thousand years worth of pent up love-lust, had finally joined, angel and devil -
But why like this?
True love was supposed to conquer. Aziraphale - the old Aziraphale - had always promised that they would be alright if they just loved each other. And Crowley had, despite his demonic tendencies, agreed - because if love wasn't solid, what could be believed in?
It had been so perfect. The two of them, together as one. And the world hadn't mattered, heaven and hell had never existed...
And then....Crowley's eyes had widened in horror as he realized that something had changed, and Aziraphale's face....
Different. It had been different. They had slept together, made love, and Aziraphale-but-not-Aziraphale had looked at him through eyes that were not his own. Blood red, and his hair, so golden had bled to crimson at the edges, falling long and unkempt and strange.
Aziraphale had stared at Crowley and laughed, a long, lingering laugh, like nails being dragged down a chalkboard. Then he had kissed his demon, raked his claws down the front of Crowley's human-snake chest, and hissed in his ear. "Aren't you going to welcome me, Crowley?"
Crowley's mouth had worked, unable to articulate his shock at the change in his angelic lover. Aziraphale had leapt backwards, chest broad and bare, naked and sexless, horrible, his grin malignant and vicious, blood-stained spikes protruding from joints and hips, skin patchy and flaky, sometimes boiled red, sometimes black, sometimes his pale human hue. And he had laughed again, raking bloody fingers across his chest.
"What? Aziraphale, what the hell are you-"
"Me?" Sugar-sweet, that voice, and the demon-angel had bowed mockingly. "What do I look like, demon dear? I'm your Aziraphale, your dear, sweet, *fallen* angel."
With that haunting statement, the window had exploded, and he was gone.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't anything like he had dreamed... And now the thing he had loved so much about Aziraphale - the lovely innocence, the curiosity, the naive smiles and silky smirks... his angelic demeanor, stripped away, until he was nothing more than ten thousand other blood-sucking demons in the netherworlds.
How could love so pure be a sin?
"I wanted to tempt anyone but you," he whispered, burying his face in his hands. He had nowhere to go, nothing more to say. "Anyone but you."