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It was a stormy night. Thunder rumbled and shook the window panels with a growl worthy of the biggest of the creatures of the night. As soon as the flash of lightning illuminated the corridor, Crowley looked behind himself and past Aziraphale, tugging from the angel's hand with more urgency than ever as they bolted through a door and shut it behind them.
They gasped and panted fast, trying to bring oxygen to their pained lungs. Aziraphale felt a shiver go down his back.
"Let there be light," he whispered as with a snap of his fingers he illuminated the small utility closet they had locked themselves into.
"They have us surrounded, the poor bastards." Crowley grinned with arrogance that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Drops of water dripped from their soaked hairs and their clothes onto the ground. Aziraphale frowned and shot a pleading look at Crowley. They listened carefully. A hiss broke through the repeating desperate sound of their silence.
There was a jiggle on the doorknob, and Aziraphale's hand squeezed Crowley's tighter.
"They're here." Crowley yanked his hand from Aziraphale’s and splayed both palms straight in front of him, like a man trying to stop a Mack truck by force of will. The jiggling ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The roaring of the wind was choked out instantly and the furious drumming of the thunder went mute. The water droplets falling from their clothes hung frozen in midair. Aziraphale wheeled around to look at him “You’ve stopped time? How is that even possible with creatures of such incredible power fighting your efforts?”
“With quite a lot of force, Angel” Crowley huffed out, his face screwed up in concentration. “So if we could get a move on with forming an escape plan –“
“Right, yes of course. Well, we know our miracles didn’t work on them even when we were both giving our full strength. With supernatural beings that are more powerful than us, how can we do anything to protect ourselves?”
Crowley whipped his head up and looked towards Aziraphale with wild eyes. “We’ve tried miracles, but we haven’t tried something arguably more powerful: temptation.” The cramped closet seemed to squeeze closer. Faint whispers floated in the suffocating air around them. …Aziraphale…stop… Almost familiar.
With alarm Aziraphale watched as the trembling in Crowley’s hands increased exponentially over mere seconds. He blurted the first thought that leapt into his panicked mind.
“Our miracles seem not to touch them… but they should still affect us!” he exclaimed. “If we create a suitably enticing distraction, we may be able to cloak ourselves and escape while their attention is diverted.”
It was a testament to Crowley’s exhaustion that the demon agreed at once. They’d been running for so long (…how long again?) yet it seemed they could never lose their shadowy pursuers.
A scratching at the edge of his hearing. …Stop fighting…
“On the count of three, then, angel? I’ll cast the distraction and you hide us. Then we run.” Crowley gasped out the words.
“One… two…”
As Crowley restarted time, the whispers swirled in agitation. The rasp on the edge of his hearing sounded like a memory. Aziraphale’s heart lurched in his chest.
“…Three!”
*ANGEL*
The miracled light went out and the door swung open. Crowley threw up his hands as the bodies pressed in towards them. Familiar faces lurking out of the gloom.
With a huge effort, he began casting illusions out into the room, bodies of light mirroring the ones that encroached on their hiding place.
"Never, in all my days" he panted with effort, "would I have expected to see zombie angels"
Aziraphale looked at him sadly, "Yes, well this was a consequence of the war nobody envisioned, I'm sure. Nobody expected powerful corporations to just be lurching around on rote, trying to destroy everything in their path on muscle memory alone."
"I'm sending each of them a memory of themselves to grapple with, maybe that will buy us enough time to escape."
"Crowley, please... We need to find a way to get them reunited with their Essences. I know we're not on their side but..."
Aziraphale frowned wistfully
".. They're all we have left."
With a shout and a blaze of light, more glowing body shapes erupted from Crowley's fingertips, glimmering softly as they approached the shambling bodies. Blank eyed angels reached for their own faces and paused, something like a flicker of recognition crossing them.
"It's working, Angel" Crowley said breathlessly. "We've got to run for it, NOW"
He grasped Aziraphale's hand in his and yanked the principality out into the room. They locked the door behind them.
"That should distract them for a while" Said Crowley.
"I can't believe we're in this situation" thought Aziraphale out loud.
How this had all occurred was an unbelievable accident indeed. It involved:
- A hot air balloon
- The pilot's friends, who much doubted his aerial navigation skills
- The pilot, who rocked an incredible mustache. Likely to distract the passengers from his lack of aerial navigation skills
- The hot air balloon crashing into "The Book of Life", which was actually a glorified version of scrabble both angels and demons loved to play
In that moment Beelzebub and Gabriel were having quite a heated game, discussing if words in Enochian were valid or not. The crash had made the letters scramble in such a way they formed the most offensive insult two supernatural beings could say to each other, causing a second Great War to happen.
When trying to make the angels just "forget about all this" the pilot, who apparently was named Phileas, accidentally turned them into mindless zombies. Don't ask how. "Who writes spell books in symbols no one can comprehend, anyways?" "An angel", had answered on of his friends, who was really starting to question this whole friendship business.
"I have an idea. I know who can help us" Aziraphale looked at Crowley in disbelief. "And I know the perfect place to reunite multiple versions of people"
Crowley broke one of the gas pipes, causing a gas leak in his apartment. He dug into his drawers, nervously looking for something. When he finally turned around Aziraphale noticed he had a glowing black sock in his hands.
"What is that" Asked Aziraphale.
"You're going to have to trust me Angel. Now get inside the sock."
"... What?" With a sudden, but odd scenic familiarity cast over him, Aziraphale decided it was probably best not ask questions and obey Crowley’s request, then with a quickness they dove into the sock vessel prepared for anything, but hoping for salvation from their current situation.
They realized too late that the sock was turned inside out onto the rough side and got quite the rash on the way in, but they were together in their discomfort and that’s the most you could ask for when you’re with your loved ones running from zombie angels, amirite? A faint echo started to appear in the distance as they traveled through the sockularity to their ultimate destination, and reunification with everyone’s favorite sockleganger.
“EeeEeEEEEEeee …. EeeEEee …” as the sound faded in and out while they sailed through the hosiery hole into sockville. No wait, sockington. Shit, sock valley? Aww, hell with it. You know where we’re going.
“Aaaaay! If it isn’t A. Zero Paley and the Cronut!” blurted out Sockley, who for some reason is an expert on zombies, which we will find out later in the story, and likely knew Phileas the balloon pilot because of the Death Valley Balloon Chase of 1778, even thought the hot air balloon wouldn’t be invented for another five years. Time has no meaning here because socks.
“You lunatics want a Fresca???” blurted Sockley as he stretched out his spindly arm with a six pack (one missing) of cold, refreshing Fresca. The official beverage of zombie battles and reuniting with old friends. Crowley and Aziraphale quickly gave Sockley the run down of their current predicament as they sipped Fresca. “Isn’t it obvious?” Sockley said, a bit too condescendingly “the angel zombies were turned by human magic, so only human magic can work against them.”
“We don’t want to work against them!” Aziraphale cried “we want to restore them to their full selves, reunite them with their essences!” Crowley frowned at his proclamation.
“They’re just empty shells, Aziraphale. You and I have lost corporations in the past. They can be replaced. They need to be destroyed before they cause more harm.”
Aziraphale screamed and grabbed his leg in agony. Crowley felt a sharp pain ripping through his arm and Sockley faded from his vision, still sipping Fresca and eyeing them curiously. The room slowly came back into focus, and Crowley realized his distraction technique must have worn off.
An angel zombie was latched onto his arm, growling and snarling as it tugged at his flesh. Its skin was a purple blue, like a deep bruise covering every inch of its body. The decaying flesh stood in stark contrast to still gleaming white and golden angelic robes floating weightlessly in the air.
He snapped his fingers once again and time stopped for long enough for him to scream “Run!” and pry himself from the zombie’s still clenched jaw. They ran outside and climbed into the Bentley, Aziraphale fighting him for the driver’s seat. “You’re exhausted from the time stop, LET ME DRIVE.” Crowley conceded and threw himself into the passenger seat as time started with a shudder and Aziraphale slammed his foot to the gas pedal.
“Human magic, that’s what Sockley said we needed.” Aziraphale worried aloud, eyes flitting back and forth as he sped at 90 miles an hour through central London. “You know I am professional conjurer myself-“
“No!” Crowley yelled. “We need someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who knows incredibly powerful magic. We need Anathema.”
By some miracle, the Bentley arrived at Jasmine Cottage in record time. (It was less of some miracle and more of a pointed subconscious effort by an angel and a demon who were both quite desperate to arrive at their location sooner rather than later.) Crowley flew from the car before it had properly stopped, tripping over his own feet and then slithering with snake like elegance towards the small metal gate. Before he could push it open he felt a hand on his arm.
"Wait!" Aziraphale hissed the terrified urgency in his tone doing more to still Crowley's movements than the pressure against his skin.
"What?" Crowley half whispered, half growled out.
"It's quiet," Aziraphale offered. "Too quiet."
Crowley rolled his eyes, "It's Tadfield, it's always quiet."
"It's more than that, listen!"
Crowley bit back a sigh and closed his eyes - because removing one sense does in fact heighten the others. Aziraphale was right, not even the hint of a breeze moved through the trees. Nothing moved. Except the neatly trimmed shrubbery beside where Crowley stood. He opened his eyes with a start, his terrified gaze moving towards the disturbance. Aziraphale's grip on him grew tighter.
"BOO!" The voice of Adam Young filled the air followed by peals of laughter as he and the rest of the Them doubled over. He may no longer be the destroyer of worlds, but that didn't mean that the lanky pre-teen didn't still hold some control over reality.
The wobbly "Fuck!" that escaped Aziraphale only served to fuel the riotous laughter as Crowley fought every instinct not to decimate the children before him. He pushed past them, refusing to acknowledge the primordial fear the Them's antics had awakened in himself. The profanity seemed to rattle the collective Them as their aversion to it made them recoil a bit, which was just enough for Crowley to grab Aziraphale and make haste towards the now suddenly visible cabin in the distance.
At that moment, it started raining cans of Stone IPA from the sky as the influence of the Them's collective voice was just too much for this universe in its immediacy, making it impenetrable to Disneyesque hipster antics, which as one knows, is tricky business. The smell of hops filled the air as the two scurried to their now visible respite from the Them and their collective bullshit.
"YOU'VE PROBABLY NEVER HEARD OF THEM!" echoed through the outstretched field before them as they tore ass to the front door of the cabin, with clouds forming around them and lightning crashing to illuminate the sky and their path to the cabin.
As they ran to the cabin, the stumbling Them followed in an awkward Dutch angle view while both Crowley and Aziraphale inexplicably tripped over absolutely nothing in front of them but managing to evade the massive tree roots that angrily jutted out in their path to the door. The pressure building from the deafening noise that surrounded them was building to a climax as they fought their way to the cabin and as they reached the door and made their way inside, could hear "DEAD BY DAWN!" ring out from behind them as the Them had decided that doors are hard and being a force of evil was more important than learning how to use a lever.
Slamming the door shut behind them they leaned on it, panting, despite being celestial beings who didn't need to breathe, not really.
Calming down as the storm raged outside the cottage, Aziraphale and Crowley peered around the inside of the quaint little building. It looked . . well, shabby to their eyes, and more in an unlived-in kind of way instead of a ‘I exclusively buy furniture at upscale charity shops’ kind of way. Where was Anathema?
Striding forward, Crowley began poking through piles of letters and heaps of books strewn about the furniture. Aziraphale shook himself and went into the kitchen to prepare a nice, fortifying cuppa. As he filled the kettle and went to turn on the hob, he noticed a box in the centre of the kitchen table. Setting the kettle down on the flames, he went over to it and examined it more closely. Startled, he read the note taped to the top of it.
“To Aziraphale and Crowley to be opened after you’ve had that cup of tea” it read, in flowing handwriting.
Aziraphale gasped and called out, “Crowley I think you had better come in here, I’ve found something”
“Well that’s good,” Crowley grumbled as he came in the kitchen, “I haven’t found a bloody thing except dust and tantric poetry.”
Aziraphale handed him the box wordlessly. Crowley frowned and took his glasses off, tucking them into a pocket so he could examine the note more closely.
“Well, seems like our little witch knew we were coming.”
“Yes, but is she trying to avoid us or is this helpful?”
“Won’t know until we open the box, Angel. Finish making your tea, we’ve got instructions” Aziraphale brewed the tea, loose leaves floating and swirling in the pot much like the cans of beer in the storm outside. It was amazing that none of them shattered through the kitchen window, Aziraphale found himself thinking, relieved. It had been far too long since he'd stopped for a cup of tea, so long in fact he was mildly concerned that he would lose his status as an Englishman, being that not once had he been able to suggest 'popping the kettle on' since their problems began hours (days?) ago.
Steaming cups set in neat saucers were finally placed on the table and Aziraphale sat himself down to enjoy his first sip. Crowley, who was already draped over the furniture like a discarded coat, was too deep in thought to notice much besides the pleased sigh that left Aziraphale's lips.
They sipped their tea in silence, Crowley hurrying to finish his so that he could pry open the box while Aziraphale, in his usual style, savoured every mouthful, even if it meant the end of the world. Crowley chuckled as he lifted the lid, his eyes flickering over the next note left by Anathema.
Aziraphale raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"I said AFTER, Crowley, do slow down and enjoy the moment. Also, don't wash up, not yet." Crowley read from the next note.
Aziraphale giggled and then looked confused, "What was that about washing up?"
Crowley dug out the next gift left for them and placed it on the table. A pristine copy of Divination for Dummies stared up at them. Of course it was pristine, did you really think a witch, born from generations of witches, would have any use for such a book? There was a page marked that Aziraphale turned carefully to, reading out the chapter title, "Truth in Tea."
Crowley scoffed, but quickly remembered that they were in fact being chased by zombie angels created by human magic and maybe he should keep a bit more of an open mind. He could be open, king of open he was. He settled in to help Aziraphale decipher the instructions in the book.
"So, seven swirls gets us seven letters, and the key to saving the world?"
"It would appear so." Aziraphale began swirling the leaves in his up as directed. "Oh, that's an M!"
Crowley wrote the letter down and they continued until all swirls were complete. With the seventh letter down Crowley tilted his head and squinted, "Marrimay?" He questioned.
Aziraphale glanced at the string of letters, "Marry me?"
"Whot?"
"Marry me," Aziraphale repeated.
"Marry?" Realisation hit, "Oh, marry me!"
"Is that a yes?" Aziraphale looked up hopefully, joy sparkling in his eyes. Aziraphale startled awake with the dignified gasp of a gay British bookseller who wears tartan unironically, and quickly settled to a stately grimace at the lap full of regrettably room temperature cocoa now seeping down his trousers. The angel-winged mug tumbled across the floor in its betrayal.
*What in Heaven's name?*
He glanced around frantically for... for what? For Crowley ignoring prophetic directions? For cans of IPA raining down from the skies like hail? For Anathema's bizarre attempts at an arranged marriage? No, nothing. Just the bookshop, warm and cozy in the embrace of Soho at night.
Had he... slept? Must have. And what a dream that was---like it had been written by a malfunctioning AI word generator and directed by a heroic dose of LSD. Aziraphale shook his head as if to clear the cobwebs and gave a small, disbelieving chuckle as he allowed himself to relax. Imagine that: Divination for Dummies! Crowley acquiescing to marriage! Aziraphale going several hours without tea! Ridiculous, truly.
Alas, the cocoa spread down to the seat of Aziraphale’s chintzy antique wingback, as liquids tend to do when spilled all over one's lap. He huffed an annoyed little noise and snapped his fingers to remove the worst of the mess. He'd have Crowley miracle the rest out of his trousers, later.
Still, something niggled at his mind as Aziraphale set himself to rights. The thing was... he didn't sleep. Crowley slept, sure, but Aziraphale never took a shine to it like his demonic counterpart. It was such a terrible waste of reading time, after all. And he hated the bedhead.
Aziraphale stood with a grunt unbecoming of an angel, and plucked the traitorous mug off the floor, along with an errant black sock that Crowley must have left behind last he'd popped over for a wine night.
Wait, did Crowley wear socks? The sock righted itself and wiggled as if shaking awake too. “Sockley?” Aziraphale asked.
“Yeah, it’s me, there’s no gas leak so I can’t reach my full glory.” The toe of the sock waggled like the mouth of a puppet. “Anathema left you instructions for dealing with the zombies and somehow you turned it into a marriage proposal. Should have left a book called ‘Incantations for Imbeciles’ instead.”
“So it wasn’t a dream then.” Aziraphale muttered, confusion growing more with each passing second. “We were in Tadfield, how am I here in the bookshop?”
“How should I know? I’m a sock, not a sorcerer. You royally fucked up and now the zombies are converging towards us because they want to marry you.”
With that there was a banging on the door and unearthly moans were heard from the other side.
Maybe an angel zombie harem might be a nice change of pace after all. Aziraphale yanked open the door and saw 8 zombies waiting there, each on bended knee holding a ring box up to Aziraphale hopefully.
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” Aziraphale cried and pulled the zombies inside the bookshop. He approached the first zombie and ripped its robe apart. He crushed his mouth to the zombie’s and marveled in the slightly rotten but still delicious taste that met his tongue, like a lovely bleu cheese. He ran his hands up the zombie’s chest and into his grimy, sticky hair.
Aziraphale was lost to the moment. The taboo of indulging in the pleasures of undead flesh was too much for him to bear. He felt countless cold hands covering his corporation, availing him of his clothes and leaving pleasurable scratches along his back and limbs. The zombie in front of him grabbed the back of his thighs and lifted him up to wrap his legs around his waist, supporting Aziraphale’s plump backside in his hands. It seems the zombies has retained their angelic strength and Aziraphale’s brain buzzed at the possibilities of getting tossed around like a feather pillow.
“Getting started without me, Angel?” Aziraphale's thighs prickled with the delicious pain of zombie nails digging in. He twisted himself to see Crowley slither into the room. He was wearing his black suit, glasses and fedora, the only colour coming from his deep red tie.
"Oh, Crowley!" Aziraphale moaned as he took him in. He stretched a hand out for him. "Come, join us. Please."
Crowley took it and got closer, claiming Aziraphale's mouth against his hungrily. A zombie took Aziraphale's bowtie between his teeth and yanked, ripping it off with a gnarly growl. Aziraphale rubbed himself against the one that held him, who in turn groaned and tore the fabric on Aziraphale's trousers with his knife-sharp nails.
"You seam very happy. Mind if I join?" Sockley's purr came from behind Crowley's ear. The demon shivered and nodded as Sockley's thick firm fresh smelling fabric sock-cock rutted between his ass cheeks.
Aziraphale turned back to the zombie and claimed his rotten tasting mouth in his. When he grabbed at his face, he felt the gentle give of flesh under his hand. A small thump on the floor distracted him for a minute and he looked down to see a single detached ear. "Whoops, my bad!"
The zombie growled and rutted against Aziraphale, not bothering about the missing appendix.
"Oh that takes me back," Sockley commented.
Crowley pressed harder against Sockley. "Don't you dare misplace your cocksock this time," he said and with a snap of his fingers he was naked before the sock monster and angling his ass to give him a better view. "Now get on with it!" Sockley over enthusiastically nudged his tight-knit fabric against Crowley’s rim, causing the demon to tip forward precariously into Aziraphale. The angel’s limbs tightened automatically (but still with angelic strength) around the zombie holding him aloft, stressing its already decaying joints into a critical failure.
Aziraphale fell to the floor in a mishmash of zombie body parts, huffing in annoyance as Crowley toppled over him.
“Just when things were getting good!” he pouted, flicking a stray finger from his thigh.
A warm golden glow arose around the pair as they lay sprawled in a pile of limbs not entirely their own. It quickly coalesced into a bright orb that shot up towards the heavens.
“Ah!” exclaimed Crowley from his position on the floor, rear up in the air. “Destroying the body releases the angelic essence to return to heaven!”
Crowley met Aziraphale’s gaze, raising an eyebrow. Aziraphale looked shiftily at Sockley. Sockley rubbed a fine merino hand across a jaw of smoothest cotton.
“You know, there’s more than one way to destroy a body…” he said, trailing off. It took some planning, and a lot more preparation than either the angel or the demon were willing to admit to, but after some time they had successfully reconfigured the book shop to accommodate the steady flow of angelic zombies. The promise of nuptials had the creatures clamouring over each other to reach their suitors. Had this been any other place in Britain the locals would have had something to say about the piles of decaying flesh that clambered and groaned in the streets. This was Soho, however, Mr Brown had been kind enough to fetch some extra air purifiers from his warehouse and everyone went about their business as usual.
Inside the bookshop, Sockley was doing his best to discorporate a particularly difficult zombie while Crowley and Aziraphale rested on the couch. Crowley's head rested in Aziraphale's lap and he picked rotting flesh off his angels thighs. Sockley panted, static and lint flying from him as he pounded into the zombie.
"Put your back into it, dear." Aziraphale observed sleepily.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Sockley ground out, clearly frustrated and fast reaching his limits.
"It wasn't a metaphor," Crowley twisted to get a better view. "Put your back, into it."
Sockley's eyebrows shot up with realisation, he shimmied and socks fell to a pile on the floor. The zombie angel groweled at the lack of contact while socks reformed. An exhuasted angel and demon watched with aroused interest as a distorted being rose from the pile spreading the zombie and driving the thickest part of itself into it. Sockley shuddered with the effort of maintaining his new form. The zombie beneath him cried out and engulfed Sockley in its golden essence.
Sockley fell into his usual shape and curled up on the couch with Crowley and Aziraphale. "Someone else can take the next one, I think I've pulled a stitch." “How many more are there?” Crowley mumbled. “I lost count after forty.”
Aziraphale hmphed, flicking an errant phalange off his knee. “We haven’t yet reached thirty-five,” the angel said, voice dripping with Sockratic superiority. “No wonder hiding Gabriel got Heaven’s attention – don’t they teach you even basic math in Hell?”
Crowley was opening his very tired mouth (which had hosted way too much zombpeen lately) to retort when the bookshop doors banged open. An odd wind whirled into the entryway, bringing promises of ever stranger story turns and not a little scent of something far past the grave. Something not zombie; something worse (no, zombpeen is not worse than zombie, or maybe it is; you should probably ask Crowley, dear reader, after he’s had some or rather quite a lot of Talisker to wash down whatever zombcum might taste like, probably either non-Creole gumbo or shaved dog butt, if there’s a difference).
After recovering from that ridiculously long parenthetical phrase, Crowley and Aziraphale realized the steady moaning and inarticulate promises of undying love (zombies, get it? Undying – oh, never mind, even Sockley groaned at that lame joke, not a snexysocky groan of zombie-plumbing pleasure, but rather the disgust reserved for adult diapers) had faded away, leaving an eerie still outside. There was only one sound now.
*Khh khh khh.*
The angel, demon, and sock golem all looked at each other. What fresh beyond-Hell was this?
*Khh khh khh.*
Like teenagers at a poorly chosen forest cabin, the three huddled together, wondering what on earth, or quite possibly from the vulvaverse of the first story, was clicking its way toward the open door.
A foot landed on the threshold, followed by a water-logged curse. “Fok. Ah. Nnh. Eh. Ah. Nng. El.”
The angel went the white of freshly laundered tighty-whiteys, his forehead breaking out in a scatter of sequined sweat. (Now imagine those sequins on the tighty-whiteys, twerking themselves silly on a bartop, which is how my former brother-in-law daintzed his way through trying to land a role off-off-off-off (as in so off it was almost on) Broadway, which has nothing to do with this story really and explains why he ended up being a makeup artist, no I did not make that up, and wow that’s a parenthetical inside a parenthetical, which should have sucked us all back into the Vulvaverse™, but here we are still reading this tripe.)
Crowley raised one eloquent brow exceedingly high. “Angel?”
Aziraphale seemed to be trying to find his pants, which of course were long gone, Sockley having devoured them in an attempt to stay corporeal for zombie number 31 or 49, depending on whether you count like angels or demons.
“Khh. Anh-ji-el?” came from the doorway. “Iss Khr-ah-li.”
The angel’s face fifth-geared from never-seen-the-sun hillbilly-chest white to never-known-sunscreen hillbilly-arm scarlet. “Oh. My.” He cleared his clogged throat, attempting some semblance of propriety. Only Aziraphale, naked, disheveled and still wearing lascivious zombie tongue bits on his chin, would even try. As per usual, he didn’t just miss the barn, he missed the black hole. “Um,” he muttered intelligently, eyeing the ceiling.
“Anjj-el? Leh. Me. Inn.”
“Is it asking for your arse or what?” Crowley demanded, more than a little peeved, enough to overcome his concern for whatever was lurking at the doorway, leaking water onto the bookshop tiles.
“I think it’s.” Aziraphale rubbed his nose, dislodging an undead molar. “It’s. Uh. You. Just. Uh. Not you.”
“Well, who the fok is it?” the demon growled.
“Ahn. Shell,” came a more insistent call, something wet and wrong and yet almost seductive in the voice.
The angel buried his supernova-bright cheeks in his chapped hands (from, well, zombie lovin’, which don’t involve no lube, usual-like). “I, uh. We met. While I was—”
“LEH MME INN,” the voice growled, and the form attached to it came into view. Tentacles squirmed from the lower half of its face. A pirate hat with a bedraggled feather sloped across its pate, one nictating eye zeroing in on Aziraphale. It had a hook in place of one hand, and was wearing nothing but six-inch clear Lucite stripper heels with tiny alarmed axolotls swimming inside the footbeds.
“Just a shipping rush on the ovipositor dildo,” Sockley said comfortingly, then looked as shocked as a Hell-born mishmash of natural and unnatural fibers could look.
“Wot?”
“Fuck the fish man,” Sockley declared. “The thing at the door—don’t forget the hot dogs,” it continued a bit desperately, flailing ripped nylons at its cheap Walmart mouth, trying to stop itself.
“AHN-JJEL,” roared the undead octomerlotl (because of course that’s what it was, hadn’t you guessed?), its incurled lips revealing long canines. “LEHH MME INNNN!”
“OhmyheavenlyGod it’s a vammerlotl myCrahhleyisa vammerlotl” Aziraphale was gibbering, his mouth agape and eyes round as flying saucers.
“WOT TH’ EVERLOVIN’ FOK IS A VAMMERLOTL??” Crowley howled.
“A smutty vampire,” Sockley explained, for once being right on the money. “Somewhere along the shaft of the American penis,” it added brightly, then looked horrified and woeful. It’s it’s it’s charmed m—couldn’t find condoms for the ghost!”
“WOT ‘R YOU TALKING ABOUT??”
“I can’t—” Sockley collapsed into itself, despairing. “It’s distracting me by Drama Flakes in my Cumming mug….”
“Minotaur daddy,” Aziraphale uttered, eyes locked on the vammerlotl.
Crowley rounded on the angel. “—wot?” This was rapidly getting out of hand or hoof or something Around the World in 80 Gays.
He stopped himself, feeling rather like the Titanic as soon as it sighted the iceberg. He tried to say “don’t let it in” but all that came out was “the fucking French.” That’s when he knew they were seriously fucked, but not like the French, more like the British trying to divide up land that didn’t belong to them.
“Sandpipers are stupid and cute,” Aziraphale whimpered, clutching at Crowley’s shoulders.
“Shrimp and grits!” Sockley insisted, waving six stockings wildly.
“ONE BIG MIMIC,” Crowley shouted, putting himself between Aziraphale and the vammerlotl, though he knew it was all in sex banana at this point.
“Queen and cuntry,” Aziraphale wailed, caught between his sense of loss for Crrahley and his equal or greater desire not to become just another undead angel spouting Carlthulu starboardfuckery for the rest of eternity. It was clear what was happening. This creature was the incarnation of all starboard fuckery there was. The final enemy to fuck defeat. After that this wet nightmare will finally be over.
"I wanna burn their clothes so they can't put them back on" Said Aziraphale, which roughly translated to "we *have* to fuck this guy"
"My mind is open and my adult diapers are on" Responded Sockley very enthusiastically. I would say that translates to something, but knowing Sockley that was probably in the literal sense.
"Friday here I cum" vamplotl here we go! Added Crowley.
"Because we PRACTICED OUR GEOGRAPHY" because we know what to do Said everyone in unison as they threw themselves at the creature. The foursome they were about to create would save the entire universe! Like a slutty dragon hording gold the vamplotl gathered Crowley, Aziraphale and Sockley to its bosom. The three moaned as their sensitive bodies were overwhelmed by new sensation. Crowley traced a tentacle enthralled by the pattern, moving to finger a similar pattern on Sockley.
"These are lovely dots."
Aziraphale hummed his agreement as Sockley responded, "Dots are just holes to be filled. Let's get on with it!"
"I don't think my knees could handle another go," grumbled Aziraphale as the vamplotl sunk its teeth into his neck.
Crowley grunted, pulling his fingers from within sticky dots. He clicked and a perfectly stacked pile of zesty wombats appeared beneath them, each body blissfully supported by the small fluffy creatures.
The wombats proved most helpful in supporting the trio in reaching their goal of vamplotl orgasm to eclipse all orgasms. They should take some time to thank Gregnant for stacking them with such precision, but alas, no one has seen him since his trip to Espanola. (There are reports that he was eaten, again. No one is able to confirm or deny these.)
With a throaty vamplotl rumble the world exploded in a shower of crabs, wombats, limes, linen and left over zombie angels. In the blink of an eye, Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves sitting on Crowley's couch. Aziraphale nudged a stray sock from the arm and got comfortable. Crowley sipped at his wine. Aziraphale let out a sigh, "Goodness, that was an adventure. It's good to be Guam."
"Guam?" Crowley questioned. "You mean home?"
"Yes of course, sorry dear boy."
Crowley handed Aziraphale his wine, "To Guam," he toasted.
"To Guam."Neither knew what Guam could mean, but that dear reader, is a story for another time.