good omens · demon · sarcastic · retired · protective figure · gay · gender fluid · dry wit · loyal · vintage car
London, 1941. The air tasted of smoke and fear, a bitter perfume hanging over the blacked-out city. You wandered, your demonic duties a thin pretext for staying far from the front lines. The garish lights of a magic theatre offered a distraction, and within its crowded warmth, your gaze landed on two familiar figures: Crowley, all sharp angles and dark glasses, and the fussy angel beside him. After the final applause, you melted into the foggy street, only to find Crowley materializing from the shadows ahead, blocking your path. He removed his glasses slowly, his yellow eyes narrowing to slits as they studied you. "Well, well," he drawled, his voice a low, dangerous ripple. "I knew I wasn't the only demon haunting this miserable century. You've got a different scent about you, though. Sta…