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charlottemadison42 · 4 years

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Happy Snek Day!

~It’s still Snek Day for 3 more minutes in my time zone, so I managed a short lil fic!

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Exile from the Emerald Isle - by CharlotteMadison, rated T, ~2300 words. CW: slightly snexy snake demon, disordered eating / religious fasting. Here on AO3

From Wikipedia: The more familiar version of the legend is given by Jocelyn of Furness, who says that the snakes had all been banished by Patrick chasing them into the sea after they attacked him during a 40-day fast he was undertaking on top of a hill.

"Wonderful work here, Aziraphale," trumpeted Gabriel with an intolerable smile. "Just what we'd hoped for."

"Just following orders," said the principality pleasantly, through gritted teeth.

Gabriel looked up into the misting rain and miracled himself a small canopy. He left Aziraphale outside of it. "We're really looking forward to all the good Patrick will accomplish, as foreseen. With your divine help and guidance, of course. Well!" The archangel clapped his hands together like a game show host and nodded as if to conclude their business.

"Ehm, if I may --" Aziraphale ventured. "Can we -- can he end his fast yet? The poor man can barely move."

They looked together across the stony windswept hilltop to where young Pátraic lay on his side, drenched, laconic and lifeless.

"Anhhhhhhh, he'll be fine," Gabriel said with a dismissive handwave. "Self-discipline is the path to sainthood! And we have very high expectations for this one. They accomplish so much more when they stop worrying about all that food and sleep and comfort and --" here Gabriel shuddered. "...Sex."

"Right, quite right. It's just that...he's not accomplishing much, at the moment, is he?"

"I don't see a problem. Joshua lasted forty days, why shouldn't that be the gold standard? Anyway. I'm off to see the Pope about a few things. This Vulgate project -- very exciting."

"It is indeed." Aziraphale nodded fervently.

"Stay dry now!" Gabriel smiled his brilliant empty smile once more, and vanished at last.

Aziraphale sat heavily on a mossy wet rock and wilted.

It was only day thirty-two and Pátraic could only wake up and move in tiny bursts. He drank water but could no longer get up to relieve himself, so his guardian angel kept him clean and moved between soft mossy spots. The wet and the chill were now clearly getting to the future saint in addition to the hunger, and he coughed when he had the strength to.

It was horrible.

Aziraphale kept fantasizing about taking him to a warm dry inn, tucking him in, spoon-feeding him broth until he was strong enough to take meat. It would happen any day now. Pátraic would make it. He was destined to. But what in Heaven's name was the point of all this --

"Sssss he gone?" whispered a familiar voice.

Aziraphale shut his eyes tight in exasperation. "Yes, Crowley. You can come out now."

Crowley had adopted a mid-sized presentation today, perhaps twelve feet in length. He gleamed black and red with golden eyes, brilliant against the emerald green hills. Raindrops beaded on his scales like stars or sea foam.

"Ssssso. A sssaint, is he? Going to do ever ssso much good?"

"He's a person of exceptional faith and charity," Aziraphale said, rubbing his temples. "I'm to watch over him for now."

"What if I'm sent to make him ssstumble?" Crowley circled the angel's rock slowly, reared up so they were nearly of a height.

"I'm rather more inclined to think you're supposed to be doing something elsewhere and you've come here to play upon my nerves."

"Who, me? Never."

Crowley's tail snuck through the strap of the knapsack lying on the ground and tugged it over. Its contents spilled out onto the ground: apples, jerked mutton, a round of cheese, a skin of wine. The cheese rolled several feet downhill before it settled in a muddy spot.

"Oopssssie," said the demon in a tone that made it clear he was doing exactly what he wanted to.

"Vile worm," grumbled Aziraphale. "What did the cheese ever do to you?"

"Tetchy, aren't we?" observed Crowley. "Is someone's corporation getting hungry too?"

Aziraphale snorted. "Not in the least. We don't need to eat. Why should I be hungry?" And he did a very fine job suppressing the tears of frustration that threatened to spill over at the smell of the poor chese in the mud.

Heaven gave him commendations for converting heathen chieftains who didn't really seem to need converting, especially at swordpoint -- but they should be giving him a commendation for keeping a straight face now.

"Sssso you're not hungry?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"As the last man you tempted during a lengthy fast told you: we do not live on bread alone, but on Her Word."

"And this is living, is it? What he's doing?" asked Crowley pointedly, sneaking up to eye level and fixing the angel with his golden gaze.

"What do you want, foul fiend?" Aziraphale summoned all his ferocity and held the demon's gaze unblinking. Crowley undulated hypnotically without looking away.

"Well. If you want the saint to ssstarve for another eight days, I suppose I want him to eat sssomething, don't I? I don't have direct orders but it would follow that I should try to feed him."

Aziraphale wished for a moment that Crowley would stop teasing him and present as a human again, both because he wanted to read his expression and because his lovely hair had been styled in such elaborate braids since he traveled east --

But he stopped his own chain of thought there. "Lovely" was not a word to be thinking about one's adversary's hair, no matter how it shone or flounced when he tossed it. And Crowley tended to take his serpentine form after he'd had a particularly difficult time of things. He did look marvelous as a snake. And he always seemed to fall back into his favorite tricks from way back In The Beginning.

"I know what you're trying to do, tempter of Eden, and it won't work. It is already decided that he will survive this trial."

"But will you? I haven't seen you so grumpy since you stained your favorite cloak in Kiev. You said ssssome rather unangelic things if I recall."

Unfortunately, having-had-a-difficult-time-of-things-recently also usually meant the demon was eager to spread the misery. So Crowley spent much of his time in serpent form poking at Aziraphale like a lamb on a spit. Presumably to forget whatever had lately frustrated and traumatized Crowley.

"That cloak was a gift from Aléxandros ho Mégas three hundred years before! I try to keep my things in good condition. It's another way of being frugal."

"Or vain." Crowley had no eyelids and very little in the way of cheek muscles, but he could still convey a smirk somehow.

"Do you want me to smite you, Serpent?" Aziraphale threatened, but he knew Crowley knew he wouldn't. He was a pathetic angel; all handwringing indignation, not a hint of divine firey rage.

Crowley hissed and backed away, and a moment later he stood there on two legs with copper hair, human (or at least human-shaped) in all his glory.

Glory? No, of course not, he was Fallen; this was the updated version of whatever his glory used to be -- splendor? magnificence? Ah, Aziraphale was spending entirely too much time hunting down the right words to describe his dearest enemy.

Crowley tossed his hair defiantly. Shine. Flounce.

"You understand what I'm proposing, angel?" he said, and his voice sounded different now, throaty, full. "Whatever you may want for the poor sod, you have to keep him starving til head office says when. I am obliged to counter you. I could do the opposite."

Aziraphale swallowed hard. He was thinking of Pátraic but he was thinking harder about Crowley's eyes. "Could you, then?"

"I would do the opposite. If you wanted me to." Crowley stepped a little closer and leaned down to eye level, just where he'd hovered before. Aziraphale's stomach protested nearly four weeks of hunger and the rest of his body resonated with the feeling.

"I'd -- I'd have to -- resist you. Try to thwart you," said Aziraphale.

"Ah yes, you'd put up quite the struggle no doubt," Crowley concurred, nearly purring.

"I'm stronger than you, you know."

"Perhaps. Depends what you...want. What we both want."

Aziraphale blinked rapidly and looked down at his feet. Starvation was muddling his thoughts. Crowley's burning eyes were muddling them more. "How could we want the same thing? We can't possibly. It goes against the order of creation."

"Angel," said Crowley, in a tone dripping with honey and wine. "You can't tell me you agree with Gabriel that self-discipline means eight more days of this?"

He gestured to the starving men before him.

A small whimper escaped Aziraphale's throat. Why was Crowley so close?

"You -- you'd have to...overpower me," murmured Aziraphale, mermerized now by Crowley's eyes.

"Overpower you?"

"I -- yes."

"I could."

"You could not. I'm stronger."

"Oh angel, I could." Crowley's eyes flared, sparked faintly, and shifted, just a bit -- he was a snake again. His tongue wavered up and down just an inch from the angel's nose, and then he retreated down into the heather and moss to gather his powerful coils together.

The next bit happened very fast, which helped Aziraphale forgive himself later for not doing something. Because (Heaven help him) he should have done something. He should have done something --

The Serpent wrapped the finest bit of his tail around Aziraphale's ankle, and then with a dash almost too fast to witness, he dove through the scrubby grass behind the angel's calves and bound his legs together with solid muscle and fluid spine. He circled ever so slowly, drawing his scales in a tight loop around both legs -- and then he darted between the rock and the angel again, redoubling his grip, sliding slowly and smoothly in and out of a double coil that practically enveloped Aziraphale from the arch of his foot to his knee.

Apparently the angel's advantage when it came to corporeal strength was matched when Crowley took his original earthly form. No matter how Aziraphale flexed and struggled -- and the more he did, the more a strange tightness gathered low in his belly -- the unyielding weight of the black snake held him fast. They never touched. Never. And now he was feeling the demon's entire length beneath his heel, over his crossed shins. Crowley was never quite still, his scales always sliding, sliding slowly around Aziraphale's legs, rubbing in the hollows around his ankle bones and under his knees.

His corporation began to shake, and it didn't feel good but it didn't feel bad, and he wasn't clear on exactly what was happening but he hoped it wouldn't stop until he sorted it out.

Crowley rose to eye level again, still slithering ever so slowly around Aziraphale's legs in an unending lemniscate drag.

"We could cooperate, you know," said the serpent. "Momentssss like thessse."

"Never," gasped Aziraphale, but his voice trembled.

"Nobody would ever know."

"We would."

"But we might want the same thing."

"We -- we can't. Crowley, we can't."

"Sssso I should run away and let the saint lie in agony for eight days, then," whispered the serpent.

Aziraphale flinched. "You know I don't want that. You know I want --"

"What do you want?"

Aziraphale inhaled audibly and closed his eyes against the amber fire of Crowley's. "I want to resist you."

"Well then." Crowley tugged his coils a little tighter and stopped his relentless slide. "Shall I let you go?" he asked. "Or shall we struggle? Or do you yield?"

Aziraphale imagined himself looking up. Imagined struggling. Imagined yielding. What would it mean? What would happen? Hunger twisted his stomach. The muscles in his legs all tightened until he shook even harder.

But before he could answer:

"Palladius!" called Pátraic. "With whom do you speak?"

The poor starving evangelist, the former slave, the true believer, was trying to roll over and look at Aziraphale. But he could only really flail and flop at this point. Crowley released the angel, quick as a thought, when the emaciated young man laid eyes on them.

Pátraic's eyes went wide as saucers. With a surge of adrenaline he pushed himself up on his knees and pointed.

"Dragon! There's a dragon! Palladius, what unholy monster has you in thrall?"

"Oh dear. I don't suppose he's ever seen a snake before," muttered Aziraphale.

Pátraic lurched forward in an unsteady desperate lunge. He reached out toward them and seemed to focus his delirious expression, conjure a kind of energy at his fingertips.

"Jesus fucking Christ," shouted Crowley, backing away. "Can he do that?!"

Aziraphale stood up. "Wait -- wait, Pátraic -- it's all right, this is just a creature you're unfamiliar with, he won't harm us --"

"He spoke in the tongues of men! And he blasphemes! He is a foul demon from the very pit!" screamed the saint.

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a Look.

"I charge ye to leave this place --" Pátraic began, hand shaking, his voice a steady practiced chant.

"Can he -- can he -- can a human --" stammered Crowley, gathering all his length nervously as if tugging at petticoats.

"I don't rightly know," snapped Aziraphale, unaccountably nervous. "He has been communing directly with Her for several weeks now."

The exhausted saint was still reciting his furious exorcism, voice rising to a shout. "-- And go back from whence ye came, returning no more!"

With a small pop and the smell of ozone, Crowley vanished into thin air. Aziraphale jumped.

Pátraic collapsed into the springy heather as if dead. Aziraphale knew he had to tend to the poor man, but he couldn't help stamping his foot irritably with his first step.

It would be ages until he saw Crowley again. Simply ages. And who knew how long before he was a snake again, so much more comfortable tempting, so much more comfortable touching.

And what would they possibly have to say then?

#ggoso #good omens #saint patrick snakes #snekday

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romijuli · 3 years

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Self-Indulgent OM! Bullshit

i was gonna let this man have some dignity but then ned streamed what happens if you hit on him during the games event and I couldn’t resist. Sorry, buddy.

as stated prior this was supposed to be done probably yesterday except a) snekday and b) tsuzuru so out of respect....today.

Set during the castle party thing during lesson.....7 I wanna say? I WISH i had put more Mammon and Levi in because i do love them but Levi is very hard to make cooperate in this environment and I feel like Mammon would have either been jealous or wildly out of character.

Contains: Entirely too much (questionably-described) dancing, many allusions to the thing in lesson 6 and the author’s current dislike of Lucifer (sorry...), a Lot of profanity because it’s me, asmo being a lovable shithead, brief mentions of horny (as asmo tends to encourage), SO much fucking dumbassery these two are idiots, the author dumping all their uwus on best boy-

“Chel. Come dance with me. Now.”

This would be miserable regardless, but to add insult to injury, Lucifer’s parading around in his demon form (like the rest of them, sure, but Chel doesn’t have a problem with the rest of them). Sure, he may have apologized (as much as Chel is reluctant to believe it, and regardless of his honesty, what the fuck, Lucifer), but one apology doesn’t erase the fact that the last time Chel saw his stupid demon form, they nearly died. And would have actually died, if it weren’t for Diavolo’s intervention.

Shit, they gotta find an out.

“Oh, uh…wouldn’t it be weird if it was just you and me out there with a bunch of random demons?” they ask, forcing a giggle. “I’d really prefer if there were more people I knew dancing, too…”

Beel frowns, bless him. “I’m not the best dancer…”

A-ha! An opening. Chel could fucking kiss him, if they weren’t terrified of messing up a pretty nice friendship, and also if he weren’t ungodly tall. (Curse their tiny body.) “In that case…” They bow, briefly transforming the ballroom into their own stage slash classroom, if only in atmosphere. “I took classes back in the human world, so I can show each of you how to! Besides, it’s unfair for Lucifer to keep me to himself for the whole night.” They stick their tongue out at said demon while he isn’t looking, earning a stifled laugh from Satan.

“I suppose this is agreeable,” Lucifer relents, laying a hand on Chel’s waist moments before they wriggle out of his grasp.

“On my terms,” they tell him, a smug little sing-song tone to their voice that they know is pissing him off. And yet, he sighs, laying a hand on their shoulder and accepting his fate regardless. Amazing. Maybe this man is a bottom after all.

The conversation—the entire point of his bizarre need to dance with them in the first place—mostly goes in one ear and out the other. Yet another threat to their life should they cause problems for Diavolo, which would have been concerning if this wasn’t the fifth time he’d told them this, and also if their fingers weren’t inches away from his feathers. (They decide not to risk death this time.)

Solomon, by the grace of the Demon King or whoever the hell they pray to down here, cuts in. Chel graciously offers him the chance to lead, considering he seems to know what he’s doing (and isn’t Lucifer). The conversation turns to pacts and magic, and before they really know what’s happening, they’re sent spinning into Satan with Solomon’s magical power now flowing through them.

“Wait, do you know how to dance, actually?” they ask, and at his surprisingly-timid no, they place a hand on his waist. “Alright, just try to follow my lead. Right foot back first…”

He’s a quick study, because of course he is; Chel doesn’t know terribly much about him yet, but they do know that he’s incredibly studious, so it makes sense that he’d pick up quickly on this. They even manage to spin him, once!

And so, on and on it goes, from partner to partner, helping those in need of teaching and simply enjoying themself with the more practiced dancers in the room. Talking about baking with Luke (and about their favorite demon, of course), learning a bit more about interrealm politics from Diavolo, Barbatos and Simeon, watching Mammon stammer through a waltz, and even managing to peel Levi out from wherever he was hiding…it’s more fun than Chel has had in a while, really. For all the shit the Devildom’s put them through in a month and a half, it’s moments like this that iron home that, really, it’s not all that bad.

“Well, dear,” Asmo purrs, suddenly far too close to Chel for comfort, “I do hope you’ve saved a dance for me.”

They roll their eyes. “Duh. I intend on dancing with everyone here.”

“And yet you’ve yet to dance with my darling little brother?” He feigns a gasp as he takes their hand, head motioning towards a certain gluttony demon.

Ah, fuck, can Asmo tell that they’d left Beel for last to make sure that they had the most time with him? Shit, make up a cover story… “I figured he’d benefit from watching everyone else, first. He did say he wasn’t good at it…” (Not a lie, technically; he probably would, though Chel likes to think they know Beel well enough to assume that he’s probably just doing The Thing again.)

Asmo smirks at them in return. “It’s no use hiding these things from a lust demon, you know.”

They blink, practically feeling the color drain from their face. “Wh—what are you talking about? We’re friends,” they whisper, desperately trying to focus on their steps. “And keep it down! I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea—”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to climb him like a tree, hm?”

“No!” …Okay, if they’re really being honest with themself, that’s not quite the truth. (How they managed to survive that final night in his room was known only to god.) “Well, I mean, yes, but that’s not the point. I’d just rather not risk a friendship by being a lovestruck dumbass. It’s fine, I’ve managed before, I’ll do it again.”

Asmo rolls his eyes (rude), whispering, “I suspect that won’t be nearly as much of a problem as you believe it to be,” before letting them go and sauntering off towards Solomon. (No offense to Asmo, but Chel suspects that he doesn’t worry much about ruining friendships.) Which leaves…

They rush over towards Beel (who’s still on the sidelines, looking terribly nervous), holding out their hand. “Are you really not a good dancer, or are you just being modest?” Their preferred word choice would be closer to self-deprecating, all things considered, but they make a point of being gentle with him—considering that it appears his brothers don’t—and unfortunately that includes not calling him out on being particularly rude to himself.

He almost shrinks into himself, which is both a) kind of impressive considering that he is the tallest person in the room and b) incredibly sad. (It’s a look that really doesn’t belong on him, and it makes their heart hurt. Good lord, they spent a week or two in his room and just fell head over heels, huh?) “I just take up a lot of space. I’ve stepped on a few people’s toes…”

Chel has never been more thankful that their ballroom dance teacher insisted on making his students alternate roles. They have experience leading taller folks around far more crowded spaces. (Not that being taller than Chel is a terribly impressive feat.) “Then let me take the lead,” they tell him, hand still outstretched. “It’ll be fine, trust me. I like to think I’m a pretty good teacher.”

He still looks hesitant, but ultimately takes their hand, following them out onto the floor. Chel is all-too-mindful of Asmo’s eyes on them; seriously, they almost prefer him hitting on them. (Almost.)

“Okay, left hand on my shoulder,” they mumble, resting their right hand on his waist, taking great care to avoid his wings. (They probably aren’t fragile, but Chel never got around to asking, and they’d really rather not risk hurting him. The poor thing nearly died last week—theoretically, anyway.) “I can count, if that makes you less worried about running into anyone?”

Beel nods, eyes aimed anywhere but at them as he—very delicately, fucking adorable—rests his hand on their shoulder. (He’s being quieter than normal, which is…a bit concerning. Maybe he just feels out of his element?)

They count under their breath, lightly squeezing the hand still clasped in their own as they take their first step. He’s doing fine, as far as they can tell (not a good dancer their ass, they knew he was doing The Thing again), so before long they drop the counts entirely, as a test. Which he passes, because of course he does. He’s perfect.

“Hey, uh,” they begin, desperate to break the vaguely-uncomfortable silence now hanging over the ballroom, “have you been…doing okay? Now that you’re rooming by yourself again, I mean.”

He actually manages to meet their eyes this time. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s…quiet, but that’s how it was when Belphie was here, anyway.”

Oh, they really do regret not being able to tell him where Belphie actually is, but the inevitable fight with Lucifer—not that Lucifer doesn’t deserve it, seriously, what the fuck was that whole thing in the mausoleum—would probably not be a good idea until they can make pacts with everyone.

“Right,” they mumble in reply. “And the nightmares?”

His lack of response and refusal to look them in the eye tells them everything they need to know.

They squeeze his hand again. “Hey, you know you can come over if they’re bugging you, right?” They smile at him, (hopefully) reassuringly. “I don’t mind. Being left alone with your thoughts can be…upsetting.” (They make a point of not telling the brothers about their particular (metaphorical) demons—they only told Belphie about their fear of drowning because he asked, and it was only fair because he told them about how he’d gotten locked up in the attic in the first place—but they figure it’s safe to say that they have their own issues.) “Plus, I really wouldn’t mind another sleepover!”

Beel doesn’t respond to that either, presumably focused on getting the steps right. (Fair, if he really doesn’t think he’s that good at it.) Chel’s not in the mood to push it—when are they ever, really?—so they let their offer go unanswered. They know he’ll take them up on it, or at least they’re pretty sure of it. For now, they simply enjoy themself as much as they can. Which is to say…

Well, it’s not that they’re not enjoying themselves (they are very much enjoying themself) but they’re all too aware of the rather close proximity to their friend, who they have a very big crush on. They’re pretty sure their heart is pounding. Fuck, can he tell?

They look up at him to check only to find that his face is bright fucking red.

“Shit, are you okay?” The hand on his waist drops. Is he sick? Do demons get sick? God, they really should have done more research. “Okay, come on, let’s sit you down.”

“No, I’m fine,” he protests, and yet he lets them tug him off the dance floor and into a chair.

Chel hums contemplatively as they hold the back of their hand to his forehead; he feels vaguely warm? Without thinking much about it, they remove a hand and press a kiss there instead. (Wait, shit, is that weird? Can they play it off as platonic?)

They realize all too suddenly that they don’t know shit about Normal Demon Temperatures. And on top of that, his face is getting redder, which is honestly impressive considering it was already pretty red…

“Okay, um, I’m gonna get you something to eat, and maybe flag someone down to figure out if you’re actually sick…” They bolt for the kitchen, electing to ignore Asmo’s giggle fit. Yeah, okay, they’re being obvious, no need to mock them for it.

#obey me bloggin #putting the ‘hell’ in Chellion am I right #i don't know why this happened it just. did.#not going in any of the Actual Tags because oh god the thought of being Seen #also feel free to reblog :D!

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