September 1st, 2019


Sunday Six - In which Aziraphale and Crowley take part in the Lower Tadfield Pride March.

“You just need to get yourself a real man, sweetheart,” said the supposedly godly bigot. “You’d leave her like that,” he snapped his fingers, “if you’d ever had a real man between your legs.”

“Next time I meet a real man, I’ll consider it,” said the woman with a sneer.

The bigot was close now, within arm’s reach of the woman, but so was Aziraphale. The man began to draw back a fist, and Aziraphale got an angle to poke the bigot with his sign, interrupting his swing. The man rounded on Aziraphale, lips pulled back from his teeth, mouth opening to deliver some further vileness, then froze as his eyes met the no-longer-angel’s.

From a Fallen Aziraphale fic I'm in the middle of. I'm once again channeling my own feelings about religion into Zira's relationship with Heaven. It was supposed to be a simple wingfic about him molting into black feathers, but these things get away from me sometimes. Now it's an extended, slightly oddball slice-of-life thing, using the seven deadly sins as a framework, but with lots of queer feels.

In the following paragraph, Aziraphale puts the evil eye on this particular pleasant individual, of course.

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