Adult Content Warning
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Summary
The world around Aziraphale was a bit blurry at the edges.
It wasn’t just the low lighting - illumination relegated solely to the ornate chandelier hanging above his head in the center of his bookshop - though it certainly didn’t help. The false flicker of electric candles cast foreboding shadows, mock firelight dancing ominously over the quartet of columns surrounding him. The movement gave them a sapient, almost lifelike air - a regiment of cold, stone-faced guards keeping silent vigil over their captive angel, holding his chains taut, keeping him knelt in the exact center of the sprawling circular rug beneath his knees.
Though Aziraphale’s eyes were open, all that existed to his clouded mind was sound. The rough heave of his own breath. The sharp click of snakeskin boots behind him. The sultry drag of leather against the wood floor, then the thin pile of the rug. The deep, commanding voice, its familiar sibilant undertones crackling like infernal embers:
“How many was that?”
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In which Crowley’s lips are venomous, and Aziraphale doesn’t wanna break these chains.
Series
- Part 9 of the flash bastard and the southern pansy