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drconstellation · 7 months

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More Half-and-Half-A-Miracle Thoughts

Part 3: The Third Archangel

Updated 10 Nov 2023

Part 1: Miracle Power Ranking is here Part 2: The Dark side of Aziraphale is here.

Before I try to put the full picture of the mighty miracle together, there is one other Archangel I want to talk about first, because yeah, if the "little" miracle had an Archangel x an Archangel x (ex-)Archangel in the equation, all working in synergy, that's some pretty serious potential power right there.

S2 has given us much to discuss about Crowley and his past. We know he is different in that he has an imagination. We know he is the only ethereal entity, angelic or demonic, who can stop time, which is no mean feat. I have a list of at least nine, possibly thirteen clues (it keeps growing! 21 clues And yes, I'm counting,) that he was once a

senior Archangel, one of the seraphim, before his Fall (but not which one in particular, for sure, alas. We can debate that later, its not important here. Really. Don't @ me about it, I'm not going to engage in this post.) They (updated link to a new discussion: the idea of Crowley previously being a very powerful angel) have all been mentioned already, none of them are new. This implies there is a huge amount of potential power that Crowley could pull upon to put into the miracle performed on Gabriel. So he is our obvious ex-Archangel in the equation.

And we already have Gabriel, in the middle.

Which just leaves us with Aziraphale, and his green-paneled waistcoat...

I've led you all on thinking he's somehow connected to Hell? Or been associating too long with Crowley? No. (Or maybe, yes? To hanging around a demon, I mean.) On one hand it does show us he is not like the other angels. On the other, it tells us something else altogether.

For all that I've been recently rabbiting on about dark horses pointing mainly to Crowley and Saraqael, we have perhaps been deftly misdirected from the biggest dark horse of all: Aziraphale as our 'missing" seraphim, Archangel Raphael, incognito.

Now, I'm certainly not the first person to suggest this at all. There have been multiple metas about it, even way back from S1. I agree with them, fwiw.

Why am I saying this now? I think this recent post about Aziraphale being present at Sodom and Gomorrah sealed it for me, especially since I had made a recent note about Raphael being the one to be assigned to escort Lot from Gomorrah. And for all that I've just discussed how dark Aziraphale can be, he is still clearly affected by what he witnessed that night, so long, long ago.

"Oh Lord, heal this bike."

Green is also the color primarily associated with Raphael, the healer. I've seen a few other colors mentioned as well (in fact, the more you search, the more confusing it gets) but mostly the color you'll see mentioned is green. And its the color Aziraphale conceals on the back side of his waistcoat. Plus he did heal Anathema (and her velocipede) back in S1 after they collided with the Bentley.

Finally, in the Islamic tradition, Raphael is known as Israfil, and he is essential to announcing the Day of Judgement, with a trumpet constantly poised at his lips, ready to blown when God so orders.

Guess who just got taken back to Heaven to start the Second Coming?

Edit: Since I first posted this, some additional information has come along to add to this. I finally bumped into a post about the wonderful golden collars in the Job minisode (It's so, so important to put at least one or two relevant tags for meta-writers like me to help find your posts readers! Then you can shit-talk in the tags all you like.) and that lead me to a webpage on basic angel symbology and the major angels, which helped to firm up a few things I'd been wondering about. One observation is angels usually go about bare-footed, but Raphael wears sandals when on Earth, as he is chief of the guarding angels, and is the guardian of the young, and watches over pilgrims and travelers. And who was wearing golden sandals during the Job minisode?

Doing some guarding of the young as well...

And Raphael is assigned to the direction of the East.

Now we have three Archangels, three seraphim, no less, side by side.

That's a mighty shitload of potential miracle power, whichever way you want to look at it. No wonder the ol' Metatrash got a bit nervous about what happened and decided to take a personal hand in things.

If your sitting there going "'Hang on, op, hang on just a darned minute - Aziraphale hasn't even been promoted to Supreme Archangel yet and Crowley could just be a Dominion, you don't know, and Gabriel's a drooling idiot, how could he contribute to it - " Just stop. Take a breath. Go back to Part 1 where I discuss the problems with our knowledge about miracle powers and their potential. Their potential. And its frustrating that in the end we just don't have enough knowledge to be certain.

So take this as my personal head-canon. I may not have really answered why the miracle was so strong. But as I said at the start, I don't think we can. Too many factors involved, too many unknowns. Too much hidden.

Bring on S3, I say!

#good omens #good omens 2 #crowley #aziraphale #gabriel #the metatron #raphael #sodom and gomorrah #only the mightiest of archangels #anathema #oh lord heal this bike #the second coming

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greenthena · 3 months

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The Trojan Horse Virus - Fanfic

Just posted the first two chapters of my new fic, The Trojan Horse Virus. Aziracrow. Human AU. Slow burn. Enemies to lovers. Fake relationship. We've got the tropes, kids (species neutral).

“That’s my cake,” Aziraphale said.

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” the man replied with a smirk and a dismissive shake of his head. He turned and began to walk away, his black snakeskin boots sliding a little on the smooth floor.

“I say!” Aziraphale declared, his determination kicking into full gear. He could feel the flush rising to his cheeks, and it had very little to do with the fact that the other man was very stylishly dressed. Or that he had the most captivating shade of ginger hair Aziraphale had ever seen. Or even that he walked with such a sinuous gait, it seemed his hips were only slightly aware of how a human was meant to move. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I was just about to purchase that cake, and you stole it nearly out of my hand.”

“Nnnyeah,” the other man growled, looking down his thin and slightly crooked nose at Aziraphale. “Way I see it, I just got there first.” He shrugged and curled his lips in a mockery of a smile.

“I-I-I insist you hold on a moment,” stuttered Aziraphale. “I have been waiting to purchase precisely that chocolate ganache cake you’re holding for several weeks as part of a celebration. Surely, you can find something else for your purposes, whatever they may be.”

Now both of the other man’s eyebrows crept up above his dark glasses. “My purposes?” he laughed. “Very dark purposes.” He leaned forward conspiratorially and Aziraphale felt himself drawn in with a pull like gravitational force. “Do you want to know what I’m going to do with this cake?” His voice was low now, quiet. Almost a purr.

“Wh-what?” asked Aziraphale, finding himself fascinated despite this man’s terrible rudeness.

“I’m going to eat it,” he whispered and a wolfish grin spread across his face.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #ao3 #fanfic #aziraphale is in love #crowley is in love #fake relationship #enemies to lovers #trojan horse #tropes get your tropes #fanfic friday

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penig · 9 months

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Nobly, heroically, and willingly, shall I die for my fandom upon this hill:

When they're both thinking straight, Crowley and Aziraphale communicate flawlessly.

In Season 1, except when Aziraphale was deliberately withholding information at the bandstand, or panicking about the holy water, they understood each other very well. No cross-purpose winks, all their exactlies in line, Aziraphale’s lies and accusations of demonic Evil more ritual than anything else. They didn't disagree very often, though they pretended to, and except in two crucial scenes, when they disagreed, they did not misunderstand.

They were talking in code - an allusion code - Old Friend Code, Married People Code. Pointy Eared Hobgoblin Code!

The flashback sequence of "Hard Times" gave us the key to that code. Once you realize that "Let's do the Ritz" = "If we're doing it we have to do it now, time is running out" everything they say to each other sounds different, including Aziraphale's friendship denials. S2 gave us the origins of more codes ("I lied. I'm a demon. That's what I do." Oh, so when Aziraphale said that in response to "Would I lie to you?" he was lightening in the mood! That's a running joke!) and also reinforced the codespeak by showing it hitting a road bump when Nina asks Aziraphale, in front of Crowley, about the naked guy. Aziraphale wants, desperately, to deny friendship with Gabriel, but he can't say "he's not my friend" in front of Crowley. With Crowley in the room, "he's not my friend" means "we go back a looooong way," and a moment later he says that, in the clear, unambiguously, about Crowley - but he is not saying that about Gabriel (to Crowley) and it is very much not true about Jim, who is the darkest of dark horses.

I know the fandom is very much against me and has always taken delight in how bad they are about communicating, etc., but I have textual evidence enough to defy the overwhelming consensus on this point. I think it was there in the book, and it’s there in the first series, and it falls apart in the second series as a deliberate authorial choice. I could be wrong, but I am willing to stand here in my wrongness and be wrong, if I am.

Because their old method of communication was built for spies communicating with each other under surveillance, it doesn’t work for two people on Our Own Side. Aziraphale is willing to let go of it. He wants to let go of it – the direct requests, the physical contact, "our car," "our bookshop," saying the meaning of "we're not friends" in the clear, all the reaching out he does show that. But Crowley won’t, or he can’t. He doesn’t let go of always being the one to come to the rescue, he doesn’t move into the bookshop, he’s not comfortable with direct requests, he doesn’t move forward, he doesn't listen to Aziraphale, and therefore, they lose their ability to communicate. Aziraphale, unable to make honesty work, falls back on manipulation. On transactions: I let you into the bookshop, so you have to let me into the Bentley. On scenario building: it’s a ball, dance with me. Tactic after tactic, try after try, to get Crowley to hear what he's saying. And that, more than anything, sets up the Final Fifteen.

I find myself glomming onto this reading, and there’s no getting around the fact that it’s partly because of a lifetime of being the Only Honest Person in the Room. It is nearly impossible to communicate with people who won't meet you halfway, and I have always had to contend with that, with saying exactly what I mean in plain language only to have people respond to something entirely different. Until and unless I can convince somebody to engage with my actual words, until I can stop withholding truths that I know the other person will throw in my teeth, I can never get what I need out of conversation, can never say the Right Thing. That is exactly the problem Aziraphale is having, and I feel it, nauseatingly, in my bones.

The big question is, why does Crowley not hear him? We don't know can't from won't - all we can see is doesn't. He doesn't tell Aziraphale things Aziraphale needs to know - doesn't trust the person he's always relied on with information - chooses protection over partnership, doesn't listen to him, and we don't know why.

I wish we had seen an explanation for why Crowley isn’t living in the bookshop. I think it’s tolerably obvious that Aziraphale welcomed him there and Crowley refused, or didn’t notice, or tried it and couldn’t take – something; the dust, the clutter, the neighbors wandering in and out, the terrifying sensation of getting what he wanted and having to decide what that actually means, I don’t know, and it’s important.

But we didn’t see that and people accustomed to blaming Aziraphale find it equally obvious that Crowley asked and was told no, or is waiting for an invitation that hasn’t been extended. I think we really need to know this in order to understand where they are in E1 and how they wind up in the total breakdown of communication they have at the Final Fifteen.

#good omens season 2 spoilers #gos2 spoilers #communication #good omens #non sims

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fandom-related-me · 9 months

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I have a theory! Aziraphale was called a dark horse by Nina, Crowley called Jane Austen a dark horse of books, Aziraphale writes diaries, Jane Austen was a spy and organized robberies now I have a few theories based on that, one based on the fact that Aziraphale has a “gun” hidden on a book let’s call it Chekhov’s gun and it might have to do with Aziraphale spying on heaven AND maybe stealing the book of life another gun presented to us this season.

The other one is based also on Aziraphale’s diaries maybe Crowley or Muriel finds a “gun” on Aziraphale’s diaries if it’s Muriel they’ll find Crowley and have a hard time until they show him what it says and he’s like wait what?

#good omens #good omens spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #good omens 2 analysis #good omens analysis #good omens theory #good omens season 2 theory #good omens spec #good omens 2

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edosianorchids901 · 1 year

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The Hassle of Hostilities

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "across a field"

While the battle crawled towards an end, exhausted warriors still feebly swinging swords and stabbing spears at each other, Aziraphale simply collapsed and sat in the grass.

Blood trickled down his right arm and dripped off his gauntlets to the field. In fact, he couldn’t seem to move that arm at all. It hung limply beside him, plate armor bashed in at the shoulder, sharp metal stabbing into him with each ragged breath.

But still. He wasn’t really hurt. This was just a corporation, after all. Nothing on Earth could easily damage his True Form. Well, hardly anything.

And then he felt it, a dark presence approaching. Smoke and venom and the very flames of Hell.

Aziraphale lifted his head and gazed across the field. There, astride a black stallion, came the darkness he’d felt. Crowley was all in black himself, helmet visor down, a sword in his hand. He advanced at a canter, and his horse leapt over a pile of bodies without breaking stride.

Crowley wobbled in the saddle, clutching desperately at the horse’s mane, and then toppled off over its shoulder. “Fuck!”

“Oh!” Aziraphale shifted to rise, then thought better of it as pain lanced through his shoulder. “Are you all right, Crowley?”

“Hrng.” Crowley had landed in a heap, long limbs all tangled. His armor rattled as he struggled to rise, and he wrenched his helmet off with a snarl. Long red hair spilled across his face, and he snarled at that too.

Aziraphale watched with mild interest. Normally—Crowley fell off horses rather a lot—Aziraphale would have rushed to help. But his head had gone awfully swimmy, and he felt a tad ill. Blood loss, perhaps.

“Gah! Stupid… fucking…” Crowley snapped his fingers, and his armor transformed into his usual form-fitting black clothes. He shoved up onto his hands and knees, then crawled over. “Ow. Hi, angel.”

“Hello, Crowley.” Aziraphale managed a faint smile. And then he realized Crowley couldn’t see that smile. “Would you be so good as to help me out of my helmet? I’m afraid I can’t move my right arm.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Crowley seemed to be having some trouble with his own right arm; he hissed in pain and shook it vigorously. But then he helped Aziraphale out of the helmet and studied his face, frowning. “Wow, you look bloody awful.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale managed the smile again, although his vision was getting more than a bit dim. That pesky blood loss, no doubt. “So do you, my dear fellow. That was a very dramatic entrance.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said without any real malice. He dragged himself closer and looked over Aziraphale’s arm, frowning. “Guh. What happened to your armor?”

“Um… A mace? Possibly?” Aziraphale tried to turn to inspect it. Everything went into an awful spin, and he swayed. “Oh, I… Crowley?”

He fell sideways, but something immediately halted his fall. “Easy, angel, I’ve got you. Is it all right if I just miracle you into clothes instead of stripping you out of your armor by hand?”

Aziraphale giggled vaguely. Everything was spinning rather a lot, and things seemed a bit distant. And, in some ways, oddly funny. “Stripping me down would be… naughty.”

That drew a sharp snort from Crowley. “M’ gonna take that as a yes. Hang on, just a second.”

And then nothing was stabbing Aziraphale in the arm anymore. He let out a relieved breath, relaxing against Crowley’s thin shoulder. Locks of red hair tickled his nose. “Oh, that feels better.”

“That was the plan.” Crowley was grinding his teeth now, his slender fingers carefully resting on Aziraphale’s arm. “Oh gosh, this is a really nasty injury. Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“Oh, it’s just… just a body.” Aziraphale almost felt a bit drunk. Perhaps that, too, was the blood loss. “You have very pretty hair, did you know that?”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, tone dripping sarcasm. “Hang on, just a second. Quick miracle, and you’ll be good as new.”

A quick sizzling pain flashed over Aziraphale’s arm, and he yelped at the burn. But then it felt much better, and his head started to clear. “Oh, goodness. Thank you, Crowley.”

“No problem.” Crowley kept one arm around him, stopping him from crumpling to the field. The demon looked really quite worried, which was sweet. “You all right now? Any other injuries?”

“No, no. Afraid I got a bit loopy, there.” Aziraphale gave a sheepish smile. He really ought to sit up, but he couldn’t quite talk himself into moving. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, angel.” Crowley carefully pushed damp curls off Aziraphale’s brow, still frowning deeply. “You’re shaking really bad. Sure you aren’t hurt?”

“No, I’m just…” Goodness, he really was shaking! How silly. “Perhaps a bit… rattled. I-I know that it’s just a corporation, and I wasn’t really hurt, but it was, well…”

Aziraphale trailed off. He knew what he ought to say—that pain was all in the mind, that angels were above it, that he only cared whether he’d done his duty. But it had been rather painful.

“Uh… d’ya want a hug?” Crowley offered, giving a sympathetic pout. “Hugs always seem to help the humans when they’re upset.”

“Oh, I… I don’t know that it would be appropriate.” Aziraphale reached up, wincing at the lingering soreness, and gently stroked red hair out of Crowley’s face. The demon’s eyes widened. “But I suppose… we are off duty now.”

“Yeah. Did our jobs and everything.” Moving slowly, Crowley folded him in an embrace. Skinny arms wrapped tighter around him, holding him close. “Is this okay? We can stop if you don’t like it.”

Aziraphale relaxed into the hug, smiling. “I like it very much.”

He never feared seeing Crowley across a battlefield; the demon had always been kind to him. But still, hugging someone from the opposite side felt special. Even, perhaps, ineffable.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley

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kerryweaverlesbian · 7 months

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for the ask thing->😅🥺🤡😈🛒✨️💌❌️👀🧠🤲✅️ (for the 🧠 i choose cas hehe)

omg thats so many but 👉👈 yk

mwuah <3

I just spent a FULL half hour trying to find the post this was from and I finally found it by remembering I reblogged it from @castielsprostate and getting to August 6th from another post and scrolling down to august 4th from there. Anon if you're out there....my answer is crossing time and space to reach you....also BIG KISS FOR Y9OU AS WELL

😅 What's a story or scene you've created that you're a smidge embarrassed exists?

I'll be honest, I think this one, ineffable husbands observatory date was kinda cowardly haha. In it I pretend like Aziraphale wasn't fully about to shoot a kid. I think I should have let that be a true moment of darkness! These days I wouldn't shy away from it I think.

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

uargh. 'I don't need to be taken care of' 'but I WANT to take care of you'. Kills me dead every time.

🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?

haha almost every fic I write has something that made me laugh!! An undervalued one, from my Jo/Bela heist fic:

She doesn’t get like this. She doesn’t get distracted on the job, she doesn’t get flustered over sly little compliments, she doesn’t want to be seen. Why did it have to be here, now, on her biggest job in years? “You know,” Jo says, unperturbed by the mental anguish she was causing, biting off the end of the thread with her teeth, “since we’re partners, we should get matching balaclavas.” And why was it for someone so stupid? “All balaclavas are matching,” Bela says, and Jo smiles up at her cheekily, proving she only said it to wind her up, “and we’re not partners.” “We’re totally partners! We look out for each other.” “No. You’re not on my level. It’d be like saying Michelangelo and his finger painting niece were partners.” “Fine,” Jo huffs, “accomplices?” “You are an accessory at best.” “Yeah? Do I rate above or below your shoes?” Bela pretends to think about it. “So far my shoes have done more quality work for this shindig than you, so I suppose the jury is still out.”

Actually you know what. Fuck it I'm doing 2. You can't stop me!!!! This is from my Cas timetravels to the episode Faith fic

"What year is it?" Cas asks suddenly. "Uh." Maybe he shouldn't tell him. That's one of those concussion questions, right? He doesn't want to fuck up his examination. "What year do you think it is?" "It is certainly within the AD range," Cas says, deadpan, and he doesn't laugh when Dean does but his frown does lighten. He looks expectant, so Dean caves: "It's 2005. The year of the rooster. Or, as I like to say, the year of -" "Cock. Yes. I've heard it before."

😈 Has there been a point in a story where you did something just to be playfully mean to your readers?

hmmmmm! There is one in one that I'm writing right now in fact! This is Endverse Cas, talking to Dean about Endverse Dean:

"Did you know," Cas says, leaning right into Dean's space, the smell of weed and dank sweat rolling off him, "He trusts me. He needs me. He - what did he say? Oh, yeah. He couldn't do this without me."

A cruel play on the Crypt scene - "I need you". Maybe people won't pick up on it but I have the intention of being mean.

🛒 What are some common things you incorporate in your fics? Themes, feels, scenes, imagery, etc.

Themes....you ask me of themes...would you ask mozart of staves...jdsavbhfav I'm kidding about. I love themes my book club and anyone I've beta'd for will tell you!! In my own work, I like animal imageryyyyy. Dean is a dog (and sometimes rabbits), Bela is a rabbit, Jo is a horse, Cas is birds. I like scenes characters talking around things but both understanding what they mean. OR, the inverse, when one of them THINKS they're being perfectly clear and straightforward and the other one is coming to very different conclusions. And grief. And absence highlighted by an intense focus on objects. I think that last one is most clearly done in The Aftermath, Time/Body Problem and Brought to the Flame. I OBVIOUSLY love make-out scenes lol. Scenery used as character! It is the only way I am able to write scenery!!

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it. 😉

I am...good at weaving scenes together. Dialogue and exposition and jokes and deeper character moments. Pacing, I think, would be the word. I heard some advice from the guy who wrote Not Going Out: if you end a scene high, the next "should" (usually) start or become low, and vice versa. We did it! We fucked it up. Things are looking fucking bleak. There's a moment of hope!! Peaks and valleys yknow. See here I am deflecting my compliment to someone else's advice ajkfsjbv. I write good original characters who don't distract from the narrative, how about that!! And titles! You didn't ask but my favourite titleset I've ever done is my [aged up]Bela/Edward kinky series Frames of Mind. The first is called Metacognition because Edward is thinking about Bela thinking about him (and metacognition means thinking about thought) and the second is Projection because Edward is mentally prjecting himself into the threesome Bela is in. And Bela's putting him in there too, in her mind. Also, I do a lot of stupid jokes in these, I was seriously debating a third in that catagory. I suggest that Edward turned one of his pet mice into a vampire, and that Bela's being lusted after by a swamp monster. <3

💌 How do you feel about comments and feedback?

I LOVE THEM. I LOVE I AM IN LOVE. To any person who has ever commented on anything I've ever written (apart from that one bot lol) I kiss you I kiss you I kiss you a thousand times. Knowing that people took the time to read my works and say what they thought, even if they thought "<3" or "nice"...it's so kind. Also every beta reader I've ever had, I keep their joyful comments active so I can reread them over and over <3 shout out to @sonorousangels @eboyeasy @homoangel @sweater-soup and @mrcowboydeanwinchester <3

❌ What's a trope you will never write?

Never, huh....? Hm. I like a lot of things, I think there's a way to make pretty much any trope interesting if you think about it long enough. I think it's unlikely that I'd ever write something with a matchmaker!character, like, get a life? lol. It's often foisted on Sam or ANY nearby female character. BUT I do think you could make that interesting potentially, if that character was the protagonist. Like, why ARE you so obsessed with them, why DON'T you have anything going on in your own life, how can you break out of that and come to see your friends as people again instead of dollies?

btw, complete tangent, one time at [redacted] I met an old lady and told her my name and she said. "You have the same name as my dolly." Not even, the doll has the same name as ME. I have the same name as HER DOLL. Horror movie type interaction.

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

Perhaps I should have preread these questions and mentioned my smoking sequel here lmao. OH WELL. I will talk about another!

I am working on a Cas timetravel fic wherein (late-)s4 Castiel (who is considering rebellion) gets pulled to...s15? ish? And Dean is NOT coping well with having a younger Castiel who doesn't have anything to resent Dean for yet, and Cas is trying to reconcile his jealousy and his resurfaced guilt (this Castiel hasn't done any of the things Cas despises himself for yet, and he's lonely and untethered, but he's also not as much of a Person and Cas can only take so much Angel Mode Bluntness and he misses Jack while Castiel it there). Also. Well the Castiels do make out but I mean. It's my fic. It was sort of inevitable.

🧠 Pick a character, and I'll tell you my favorite headcanon for them. Castiel.

Cas is the tv angel!!!!!! He doesn't read very much, he watches tellyvision! He watches old sit coms at any available moment, and he does NOT get the MAJORITY of the jokes but he adores the laugh track and I love him. And, king of sick burns that he is, he'd pick up some good ones. I think if he was explaining it, perhaps to Dean, he'd say something like that he likes that "Humans have, with every theme and concept available to them, so often chosen to imagine a softer world, where the consequences are limited to a punchline, and there is a constant unity and connection with others. When you laugh at Niles Crane, you laugh with every other being in that room at that time. A snapshot of the past, with its defined limits, to a timeless creature such as myself, it has a remarkable beauty. Also, I enjoy the antics of the little dog."

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

I REALLY should have read ahead haha. This is frommmmm I can't really say what it's about without spoilers. Um. It is a plot fic wherein Cas returns post-empty and Dean is a little TOO happy about it. This is from the opening:

Cas wakes up in a car wreck. He pushes himself up from the smoking bonnet gingerly, and hears the crumple of metal below. He'd made an impact; a whole stack of rusted vehicals have been crushed beneath him, threatening the integrity of the surrounding towers of scrap. He doesn't remember the fall. The last thing he remembers is - Dean, the confession, the debt being paid. There's a pervasive ache in his muscles and his heart is beating at a sickening pace, as if he'd been running for a long time. It's possible that he had been. [...] "Dean?" Cas asks, and gets an answer he didn't expect. There's a tired sigh on the other end of the line, and Sam's voice says: "Who is this helping?" "Sam, it's me. I'm at Bobby's. I need someone to pick me up." A faint, plastic-y creak. Cas imagines Sam pressing his flip phone against his forehead. His voice is distant, mournful, "Can't you guys leave any bodies in the ground?" "Sam?" "It's not going to work. I wish you'd all stop trying." Closer, now, louder, "Just leave him alone, you hear me? You better leave him the hell alone!" The line goes dead. Cas tries calling again, but even with his Grace it doesn't go through...

✅ What's something that appears in your fics over and over and over again, even if you don't mean to?

Haha, Meg. Okay, serious answer...............whenever I do sex it always turns romantic and sweet at some point. Even the "rough sex" in my jo/bela heist, it IS rough sex and then ALSO Jo says "You're really special and I like you". In my kinky vampire rimming fic! When they just reference having other sex offscreen in my struck by lighting blowjob fic! The closest I get to not going crazy romantic is in the pseudo-sex scenes of my grace feeding fic but even then it's echoed in a sweetie darling honeypie way later.

I think I may deep down be a romantic at heart.

Uah the end!! Did you know I have posted 54 fics to Ao3??? That's wild. 39 of them are for the CW's Supernatural. Thank you sooooooo much for asking meeee as you can see I love talking about my own writing. I put a lot of thought into it!

#ask game #cawis creates

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anonymousdandelion · 2 years

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To Be Commended

Back to Good Omens for today’s @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt, “eager for details.”

Inspired by that one mention in the book about the time Crowley got drunk for a week. Yeah, that time.

Crowley hadn’t expected the Spanish Inquisition. Oh, he’d been in Spain, all right, but mostly to scope out the social scenes and the various dining and drinking options in the area. He knew a good vintage when he found one, and some of the bartenders did too.

In the back of his mind, admittedly, he was also cataloging the different cantinas’ offerings… and which among them might be the best locations to bring a guest. After all, it wouldn’t do to be unprepared if his adversary were to end up in town.

In fact, he was cheerfully considering Aziraphale’s favorite wines while heading back to his lodgings, when a horse tethered nearby spoke.

“CROWLEY.”

The voice was loud, and dark, and all too familiar. And none of the humans out and about seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Damn it, Crowley thought uselessly, though of course the speaker was already the damndest of the damned. The horse was tossing its head unhappily. Little as he liked the beast, Crowley couldn’t help but sympathize. He wished they’d stop possessing animals; there had to be a better way to communicate.

“Yes, Lord,” he said aloud, with even more misery than the horse. At least they’d finally started getting his name right. Most of the time. It had only taken them a millennium and a half to come around to it.

“YOUR RECENT PROJECT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION. YOU ARE TO BE COMMENDED.”

This, Crowley thought around the clenching of his stomach, is going to be bad.

“Er,” was what he said. “My recent project. Ngh. Right. Of course. Glad you liked it. I worked hard on it.”

“NO DOUBT YOU DID. YOU WILL PRESENT YOUR DETAILED REPORT AT NEXT MONTH’S MEETING OF THE DARK COUNCIL.”

“Oh. I mean, yes, of course. Detailed report. Sure, no problem. Always an honor to present to the Council.” He hesitated. “That would be, uh… which project, again?”

There was a pause. Crowley fancied he heard tormented souls screaming in the background, though that was probably just his imagination. Or possibly it was his own soul doing the screaming. It certainly felt like it.

“DON’T YOU KNOW, CROWLEY?”

“Of course I do!” He sweated. “It’s just, well, you know how it is, I’m so busy, got so many projects going at the same time, lots of pies and so on, just want to make sure I’m reporting on the right one…”

“AH. I SEE. YOUR DILIGENCE IS ADMIRABLE. THIS COMMENDATION IS FOR YOUR INQUISITION.”

“Inquisition,” Crowley repeated, trying to sound knowledgeable. “Of course. That project.”

“INDEED. IT WAS A VERY CLEVER IDEA, FROM WHAT WE HEAR. AND VERY EFFECTIVELY CARRIED OUT. WE ARE EAGER FOR THE DETAILS, DARLING.”

There was silence, then, and a faint sense of shifting as the possessing entity released its grip. And then there was just a horse, close enough for Crowley to smell its stench, stamping its hooves and neighing in displeasure.

Damn. Crowley swore under his breath in several languages that had gone extinct before the Flood. Then he wiped his forehead, and slowly continued on his way, all cheer gone from his step.

So much for a leisurely vacation and the hope of getting to hang out with Aziraphale. He’d better figure out what this Inquisition thing was about, and take a look so he could write up that report they wanted. Might as well get it over with.

He felt vaguely nauseous, as was usually the case after a conversation with Satan. Still, Crowley thought with a desperate grasp for optimism, it couldn’t be that bad…

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley #spanish inquisition #book omens #flash fiction friday #dandelion fics

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trashboatprince · 3 years

Text

I’m working on a main story for my Reverse Omens au, but for right now, I really wanted to do something with Aziraphale the Demon opening up his shop.

So, here’s a little something while I work on the main story for Sour Blessings. I had to do a bit of research for this, so you’re welcome.

Summery: The opening for A.Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More is on Friday, however, the demon Aziraphale may have to put that opening on hold, indefinitely, due to an unexpected promotion.

Not if the angel Crowley has anything to say about it!

Warning: Reverse Omens, the other demons and angels are not swapped, these two fools are in love but they won’t admit it so it’s getting the ship tag.

Aziraphale (formally Azrafel) is a half-deaf, white cat demon, Crowley (formally Samael) is a rainbow boa angel and the one who tempted Eve (There is a reason for this!).

Rewrite of the infamous Bookshop deleted scene.

On with the fic!

Can’t Have That Now, Can We?

Aziraphale, formally known as the demon Azrafel until he stole back his original name, was more excited than he had been in years.

Finally, after so many hiccups, missions, and simply being absentminded about his goal, he was opening up his shop! Well, not officially, he planned on being open to the public on Friday, but he was allowing for guests today!

So far, the only person invited is his dear angel, Crowley, who he knows will be here promptly at a quarter past eleven, the redhead was also so good with time.

Proudly, Aziraphale looked up at the sign that had just been installed this morning. A. Z. Fell’s Antiquities and More, it read with a shine of silver paint on a dark blue background. It was beautifully fitting for the man-shaped being, fitting his color aesthetics. He practically purred in delight as he stepped through the doors, happily hearing a jingle of a bell above his head.

The demon hummed to himself a song from an opera he had attended a few days ago, carefully lining up some of his collection he had noticed he bumped out of place. His shop was going to house his massive collection of antiques, a term he had adored using for the collection since it was first coined during the 1400’s in references to ancient artifacts.

He finally had a place for all his stuff, things he had hidden all over the world, bought, traded, stolen, made himself, gifts from his favorite snake, all in one place now! Sure, it took him centuries to finally settle down, but 1831 was a good enough time, right?

Well, there had been an attempt a few centuries ago, back in the 1500’s, but it had been a bookshop next to a printing shop that had printed a book he really had wanted, but a mission to China had prevented that. And had also resulted in him not paying rent on the shop and having gotten in trouble with Hell for something stupid, he couldn’t pay the rent and lost the first shop.

Anyway, he happily likes to forget that happened and has instead tried again! Same location too, second time’s the charm!

Aziraphale wasn’t finished setting up though, he still had more stuff in storage that he needed to bring in, but his angel had said he’d help up with bringing that in. He wouldn’t help with the organizing though; Crowley knew from experience that Aziraphale had a way of organizing his clutter in a way that worked for the cat. Especially when it came to certain collections, like his massive library and his collection of rare snuff boxes.

As he carefully aligned a bronze statue of a rather specifically detailed and accurate horse he got as a joke gift from Crowley, he heard the jingle of the bell above his front door. He cupped his hand over his left ear, trying to hear who it was, couldn’t be Crowley, it was too early still.

Then he smelled the scent of festering mold and swamp scum, along with other unpleasant things, and he felt his skin prickle.

With a held back sigh, Aziraphale put a fake smile on his face, turning to face his fellow demons, hoping his beard hid the fact that his mouth twitched. “Hastur, Ligur, to what do I owe the pleasure of two Dukes of Hell in my shop?”

The two demons stood by the open doors, dressed in rather shoddy clothing, meant more for the lower class than the higher, as Aziraphale himself was dressed to blend in with. However, it was good to note that this time they actually wore clothing that would help them blend in, rather than how they dressed the last time they ‘visited’ Aziraphale. He would never forget those sins against nature.

Neither of them smiled, they just stared, before Hastur stepped forward. “We’ve orders from Below for you.” He ground out, making Aziraphale raise an eyebrow.

“Orders? Strange, normally Hell just burns a message in one of my books or screams at me from an envelope nowadays, don’t usually send messengers to tell me what my next job is.

“It’s not really… orders.” Ligur spoke up, waving a hand, completely bored of this already. “’s more like you’re getting somethin’.”

Aziraphale blinked, cupping a hand over his ear again. “Come again?”

Hastur made a face. “Think of it as… bad news, but not really bad news, more like good news, but we can’t say that shit, so it’s bad news, but not that bad-”

“I… I got it.” The cat sighed, holding up a hand. “Is it about the second revolution in France?” He had sent in a wordy letter to Hell about how he had helped kickstarted that event, even though he hadn’t actually done so. He and Crowley had taken a trip to the south of France and got dreadfully wasted and somehow ended up on the Isle of Capri.

“More like a bunch of things you’ve done, Azrafel.” The chameleon demon spoke and ignored the face Aziraphale pulled, hearing his old name. It has been centuries, and no one cared that he stole back his angel name, they just ignored him, thinking he was edgy or something. “Apparently, you’ve done your job to such extremes that Hell is oddly impressed.”

This can’t be good.

“And because of this, you’re going down to Hell, promotin’ you back to Downstairs. Heard you might get a cushy job runnin’ the torture department, lucky bastard.”

Aziraphale blinked, trying to register what this meant. “But… I’m opening this antique shop on Friday. If Master Hatchard can make a go of it, then I think I can really…”

“Hm,” Hastur pondered for a moment, “actually, I think that’s an idea, whoever replaces you up here can use this place as a base of operations.”

This got a look of disgust from the cat demon. “Use my shop?” The nerve! No one was allowed to use his shop; this was for him! And maybe Crowley, because he knows that wily angel will also laze about wherever Aziraphale is staying.

Neither demon seemed to give two shits about what Aziraphale thought of this. “You’re bein’ promoted,” the frog demon shrugged, “you get to go back home.”

“Can’t imagine why anyone who wanna spend more than five minutes on this waste of space.” Ligur commented, look at a bell jar on a shelf, containing a taxidermized scene of insects dancing at a ball. The chameleon on his head licked its lips.

“Azrafel’s been on this shithole for almost six thousand years,” his companion replied, “that’s some impressive patience, I can’t stand doin’ tasks up here that take longer than a day. Just plant bad ideas in a human’s head and let ‘em do all the work. Still, gotta give kudos where kudos is due…”

He dug into the pocket of his grubby coat, pulling out a box, covered in stains that Aziraphale really didn’t want to know the origins of. “Apparently, this is for all your bad work.” He said in a tone that clearly didn’t hide his jealousy and bitterness.

Hastur opened the box and Aziraphale stared at a rather lovely, shiny medal. He had seen this kind before, proudly worn by members of the Dark Council.

When they said he was being promoted… oh, oh bugger, this was a Promotion.

“I don’t want it.” Aziraphale spoke without much thought. He glanced up and nearly screamed, because right behind Hastur and Ligur, was a redheaded angel, giving a cheery wave.

The grandfather clock off to the left happily showed that it was exactly a quarter past eleven in the morning. It was the worst possible time for Crowley to show up.

With a skip in his snake-skinned step, Crowley turned a corner down a street in Soho, a box of the finest chocolates under his arm. He had dolled himself up for today, putting on his finest dark gray suit, his pink shirt clear and ironed, and a new hat sat happily on his head, decorated with a gold-plated apple blossom.

It was over-the-top, but the snake-eyed angel was known for being flashy and showboat-y with his appearance.

He spotted the shop at the corner and picked up the pace, mentally counting down the seconds. He loved being exactly on time, but he also loved putting Aziraphale on edge when he was a few minutes late.

Crowley got right up the steps at exactly 11:15, noticing that not only were the doors opened, but two figures were standing in the doorway, with Aziraphale stared past them. And right at Crowley, with a look the screamed ‘oh bugger’.

The demon licked his lips, stammering as he tried to speak to the two strangers, who Crowley hadn’t quite realized were demons. “B-But only I can properly thwart the good deeds of the angel Cr-Samael!”

Crowley stopped smiling, tilting his head, eyebrow raising over his dark shades. He held up the package, smiling, and mouthed ‘chocolates’ at his best friend.

“I don’t doubt that,” the blond-haired demon spoke, “whoever replaces you will be as bad an enemy to Samael as you are. Baphomet, maybe.”

The angel looked horrified and disgusted. He looked towards Aziraphale and mouthed ‘Baphomet?! Baphomet’s a wanker!’ The gray-haired demon shifted on his feet, trying to ignore Crowley to not draw attention to him.

“Samael’s been here just as long as I have, and he’s wily! And cunning, and brilliant, and oh…” Aziraphale was a bit flushed in the face and Crowley perked up, smiling brightly.

“It almost sounds like you like him.” Hastur spoke in a tone that was clearly not pleased with this.

“I loathe him!” Aziraphale shouted, though his face still burned red. “And, despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent! Which he isn’t because he’s an angel, and I cannot respect a demon. Or like one!” He tacked on quickly.

Hastur actually smirked, crossing his arms. “That’s the attitude that Hell likes to hear. I can see why they’re bringin’ you back.” He stepped forward, pinning the medal to Aziraphale’s dress jacket, the shorter man holding his breath at the bad smell coming off of Hastur. A quick glance over the other’s shoulder let Aziraphale know that Crowley was out of sight, hopefully he knew to stay away until these two were gone.

“So…” Aziraphale started, “we’re going straight back, now? Before the grand opening?”

“Ehh… soon.” Hastur waved a hand. “Got a job to do, then we’ll be back for you.”

The job was a simple corruption on, convince a human in charge of a respectable pub to take in bribes, sell illegal content under the counter, and convert his pub into a drug den in later years, that should do the trick.

And to help with that, they decide to plant things in the backroom of the pub for the owner to find, miracled with a temptation to put the pieces together. Ligur stood outside the backroom’s door while Hastur moved to remove the contents of his pockets in the room.

He pauses, however, hearing voices outside of an open window.

“Are you certain that we are unobserved,” it was the voice of the angel Samael, “of glorious being of God’s divine will?”

There was a strange, echoing voice that followed right after, layered as if multiple voices spoke at once. “No one is listening, oh angel Samael, the Lefthand of God.”

Blinking, Hastur steps onto a crate under the window and, using his true eyes, peeks out the window, only the top of the head of his frog looking into the alley behind the pub. He could see Crowley, standing before a cloaked figure in white, the latter having their back turned to the window. He slipped down a bit to not be seen, but still remained close to hear.

“Curses.” The angel hissed. “If only I could understand why my blessed plans are always so brilliantly thwarted! It’s as if the forces of Hell have a champion here on Earth who contaminates my blessings! Who overlaps their own dark influences on my own good ones! Who thwarts me… thwartingly…”

Unbeknownst to the demon on the other side of the wall, the cloaked figure that Crowley was speaking to was actually just a tailor’s dummy from the tailor shop just next door. Crowley was practically tickle-me-pink with delight of how much fun it was doing this. He absolutely loved when he got to flex his acting skills.

He continued the act, putting on the heavenly voice once more. “Why, Mister Crowley, you must not be downcast. I hear news that will bring joy to you and all the powers of Heaven! They do say as how the demon Azrafel, your nemesis, is being sent back to Hell!”

Crowley knew he was acting slightly to broadly, but it was the style of the time, so it was necessary.

“Can this be true?” He continued in his normal voice. “I was going to throw myself into a pit of Hell Fire in my despair at once more being beaten by the demon Azrafel! But such excellent news! Only Azrafel knows my ways well enough to…”

“Thwart them?”

“Exactly. Now, let us retire to church, and pray to the success of good on this Earth, thanks to Hell’s foolishness!”

Hastur heard the other walking off before he moved out of the room, well, he might have to have a conversation with Aziraphale it seems.

“So, I’m… not going anywhere?” Aziraphale asked, mismatched eyes staring at the two other demons, the pupils growing with possible hope.

“Change of plans.” Hastur grumbled. “We need you here, in this shop, battling good.”

Ligur slapped the Aziraphale on the back a few times, nearly knocking him over. “Carry on battlin’ that pain in the ass angel. I’m sure Hell’ll understand that you’re needed here more than down there.”

“Keep the metal.” Hastur poked at it against Aziraphale’s chest, making him wince at the pressure of the jab.

“But I don’t understand…” The cat demon blinked, suddenly realizing he was all alone in the shop now, the scent of sulfur starting to mellow out. With a snap of his fingers, the shop suddenly smelled of flowers, thanks to the lovely potted plant that just showed up next to him.

With a heavy sigh, he shook his head, moving around a shelf to try and return to his previous task of worryingly set up his collection.

“Well, that was fun.”

Aziraphale yelped, jumping a foot in the air as his hair and beard puffed up from the shock. He turned, finding a certain angel, basking happily in a chair that had been swiped from the King of Spain in the late 1300’s. “Crowley… w-what are you doing here?” He asked, approaching the redhead, who just smiled, holding up the box of chocolates from behind.

Aziraphale chirped in joy, taking the box. “Oh, yes, thank you, darling!”

“’s nothin’, kitty cat. I think you deserve them now than you did before those two idiots showed up.”

“How… much of that did you see?”

Crowley shrugged before getting out of the chair, stretching. “Well, I arrived to see that you were stuck dealin’ with two idiots, and that you needed help. So, I may or may not have helped you out of a bit of trouble, again. Nice medal, the Dark Council kind? Wow, that’s a hell of a promotion, kitty cat.”

Aziraphale frowned and removed the metal from his jacket, tossing it towards Crowley, who caught it with ease. “I’ve done so well at my job that I was promoted to join them! I mean, it’s not the worst promotion I could get, in fact, any demon would give up their whole… well… everything to be part of that group! But I must admit, it would be too much, I’d be allowed to do whatever, but I wouldn’t be able to work and stay on Earth.”

“Sounds like a shit job to take, Aziraphale.” Crowley commented, looking over the metal before dropping it into a clay pot. “But hey, you get to stay here!”

“For some reason…” Cat eyes turned, staring directly at snake ones, hidden behind dark lenses. “What did you do?”

Crowley grinned brightly. “Oh, just pulled off some theatrics.” He wiggled his fingers and Aziraphale groaned. “I told you I was good at this! I should join a theater, get my name out there! I’ll even do those boring, sad Shakespearean plays you like so much!”

“Uhg.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes before looking at Crowley, smiling. “Still, thank you for helping me today, darling. Now, how about the two of us enjoy this delectable box of goodies you got me, I have a lovely red that we can drink alongside them in the back, found it while bringing things in the other day.”

“Sounds delightful, kitty cat.”

END

Well, this was a lot of fun to write!

In case you wanna know what they look like, Aziraphale looks like Martin from Prodigal Son (except well dressed in a light gray and dark blue Regency outfit), and Crowley looks like David’s portrayal of Richard II (in a dark gray and pink Regency outfit).

Hastur and Ligur look like characters from Oliver Twist haha.

In case anyone was wondering why Aziraphale owns an antique shop, it was because as much as I love the bookshop still being part of a Reverse Omens au, I also really loved the idea of going off the little fact that book Aziraphale also collects old snuff boxes and it went from there that he just collects all sorts of things.

Oh, and Hastur left Aziraphale on Earth cause if he's really the only one who can 'stop' the Heavenly might of Samael, the angel with the title of Destroyer, well... yeah, might as well leave him to deal with that mess.

Thanks for reading! As always, drabbles are open!

#good omens #reverse omens #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #hastur #ligur #john's drabbles

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Acceptance (Rated PG13)

Summary:

While waiting for his husband to finish up a job at a local library, Crowley runs into a little girl with a problem he can relate to. (2474 words)

Notes:

I'm a little soft for Crowley interacting with kids. I do not apologize. XD

(AO3)

“Uggggggggh!” Crowley groans, long and obnoxious, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Why did you have to drag me to a library, of all places?”

Aziraphale side-eyes his husband, gasping in offense. “I didn’t! You stopped me as I left and begged me to bring you!”

“But if I’d known you were going to the library …!”

“Those were the first words out of my mouth! I literally said, and I quote - I’m headed to Tooting Library. Be back in an hour!”

“Oh, yeah. Right. That’s where the hiccup came from.”

“What do you mean?”

“I couldn’t get past the name.” Crowley chuckles. “Tooting.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake.” Aziraphale reaches for the door handle but Crowley gets to it first, opening the door for his husband the way he has taken to lately – one of many small habits he developed the moment they said I do.

“Anyway, not my fault,” Crowley declares, following him inside.

“What!?”

“And I’m glad we’ve agreed there was a misunderstanding. But now that we’re here, what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, call me an old silly, but this is a library. A place of higher learning.” Aziraphale leads Crowley through the bookcases to the children’s section, where he’s been commissioned to help sort through the older books in their collection to see if they’re worth anything. “You could read.”

Crowley snorts in objection. “Pass.”

Aziraphale scans the room, looking past the books, books, and more books, searching for anything that might occupy his disruptive demon for a spell. “There’s a computer in the corner.”

“Meh. I have an iPhone.”

“There’s a mini theater. It looks like they’re playing The Adventures of Paddington Bear. That sounds like it might be up your alley.”

“And why’s that? Because he’s cute and cuddly?”

“Because I find him as hard to swallow as a bag of wet chips.”

“Rude.”

Aziraphale sighs. “There are coloring pages and crayons on that table over there.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“You’re the one who used to fraternize with Renaissance painters. All those nudes of Lucifer you inspired. Maybe you could try a hand at being a part of the artistic process with your clothes on for a change.”

Crowley chooses to neither confirm nor deny, overlooking his angel’s spiteful tone in favor of examining the little round table and equally tiny chairs, the assortment of black and white pictures available to color and two brand new boxes of 64 crayons. After a moment of scrutiny, and knowing that his options are limited, Crowley shrugs. “Yeah. All right.”

“Good. Now please remember there will be children about.”

Crowley spins the largest of the small chairs around and straddles it. “Yeah? And?”

“Keep the gore to a minimum.”

“You say that as if children don’t love gore.”

“They don’t!”

“They do! In fact, most kids under the age of twelve can imagine up stuff way scarier than I could ever come up with, I’ll tell you that.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “How do you figure? Cite your source.”

“You obviously didn’t spend the kind of time with Warlock that I did, angel,” Crowley mutters, grabbing a red crayon from the box and starting in on a picture of King William III, remastering it to depict how the monarch looked on his death bed, wasting away from pneumonia after suffering from a broken collarbone, a consequence of falling off his horse.

Aziraphale considers Crowley’s explanation, his eyes bouncing back and forth as he tosses it about in his head. “Fair point. Now sit tight, don’t wander off, and play nice with the other children. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Toodles,” Crowley says, thinking, ‘But there are no other children.’ He grins and grabs another picture, this one of Queen Anne, and eagerly begins another vulgar rendition.

***

Aziraphale’s promised hour passes and Crowley has blown through all the coloring pages. He looks at his stack of dead monarchs and sighs. It was rather inconsiderate of him to color them all, he realizes, but he’s so damned bored. He snaps his fingers, returning the pages to their previous pristine and uncolored conditions when a squeaky voice says, “I like your glasses.”

Crowley looks up and sees a girl sitting across from him. How she managed to sneak up on him in this big, open room, with no one else in it but himself (being ten a.m. on a Tuesday morning when most kids are in school) he has no idea, but nonetheless, there she is, smiling at him, wearing a bright pink frock and a pair of dark sunglasses with cat eye frames.

“I like yours, too,” he says.

“Thanks.” She pinches her lips together, flustered by the compliment. “May I ask you a question?”

“Yes, you may, but only because you’re being so polite.”

“Are you blind?”

Crowley shakes his head. “Nah. I just don’t like people looking at my eyes. It makes them uncomfortable.”

“Same.”

Crowley raises a quizzical brow. “Really?”

“Yeah.” She reaches up and adjusts her frames, pushing them unnecessarily up her nose. “I have this thing. It’s called heterochromia iridis.”

“Wow. Those are some big words for such a little girl.”

“It just means that my eyes have different colors. I’m starting school soon, and my mum thinks it’ll freak the kids out. But I think it’s cool.”

“I’m sure it is. May I see?”

“Um …” Crowley can’t see her eyes. Her lenses are as dark as his. But he can see her eyebrows moving up and down as she deliberates between yes and no. But she shrugs to herself and says, “Okay,” taking off her glasses with her eyes closed. When she opens them, Crowley can see why some mortals might be bothered.

Not because her eyes are grotesque. Actually, the combination of brown, hazel, and blue that her right eye contains in defined segments like a pie chart, her left eye blue-green and much darker than her right, is quite mesmerizing.

But because mortals can be stupid when confronted with something different than themselves.

But because mortals are easily frightened by the slightest things.

“I like them,” Crowley says, giving her a smile.

“Do you really?”

“I do.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a shame you have to hide those eyes. I think they’re incredible.”

“Me, too.” She sits up straighter, her confidence growing. “I think they’re special. And I like being special, but it gets lonely.”

“Why’s that?”

She looks down at her glasses, folding them carefully and setting them in front of her. “I’ve never seen someone else like me. Not in real life. Just in pictures they show at the doctor’s office. What I have is rare, but I know other people have it. It gets easy to forget sometimes. I wish I could see one other person with eyes like mine. Not even like mine, just … different.”

“I see,” Crowley says, chewing his lower lip. He sits up in his chair and takes a quick glance around. Still nobody else there, not as far as he can see anyway. He leans forward, nearly touching her forehead with his own across this thimble of a table. “I might be able to help you with that.”

The girl peeks up at him, catches her reflection in his lenses, and smiles. “Really?”

“A-ha. If I show you something, promise not to freak out?”

She giggles at the reference. “I promise.”

“And don’t. tell. anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“Cross your heart?”

“And hope to die!”

‘Don’t hope that,’ Crowley thinks, taking off his glasses the same way she did, with his eyes closed. When he opens his eyes and fixes them on her, her jaw drops, but her stunned expression gets immediately replaced by the widest smile he’s ever seen on a child.

On anyone, really.

Except his Aziraphale.

“No way those are your real eyes!” she says, grinning with glee. “Those have to be contact lenses!”

“Nope. They’re real. They’re a might bit rarer than yours, but they’re real.”

“I’ll bet!” she says. Suddenly, her whole face lights up. “Wait! I know this!” The girl reaches into her pocket and pulls out a phone. She swipes the screen, goes to Google, and types. When she finds what she’s looking for, she turns the screen to Crowley. “You have this, don’t you?”

Crowley peers at the screen, at the picture she looked up of a pupil deformity called ‘coloboma’. She’s right. For a mortal deformity, it does look kind of like his eyes. He doesn’t think he could get away with not wearing his glasses and claiming this condition. The otherworldly aura of his eyes is unmistakable to most mortals.

Curious that this little girl doesn’t seem to catch it.

“Close enough,” he says. “You sure do know a lot about this stuff.”

The girl sighs deeply like a sage, old witch, and stows her phone in her pocket. “I’ve been dealing with eye doctors for a while now. It’s become an occupational hazard.”

“I can see that.”

“So you and I ... we’re the same, aren’t we?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Crowley smiles, but it’s sadder than the rest. ‘No,’ he thinks. ‘If all goes well, in 80 years, Heaven will have you.’

“Lizzie? Dearest? Where are you?”

“That’s my mum,” Lizzie whispers to Crowley as if it’s a huge secret. “I’m here, Mum!” she calls.

“Come along! We have to go!”

“Coming! It was nice to meet you, mister,” she says, offering Crowley her hand. Crowley doesn’t hesitate to shake it.

“Nice to me you, too. Lizzie.”

Crowley watches Lizzie double check her pockets for her phone, then collect her glasses. She considers them a second but doesn’t put them back on. Instead, she slides them in her pocket, then skips away toward the front door. Crowley doesn’t know if she’s going to put them on outside, or if her mum will make her. But he’d rather believe that she doesn’t, and that she won’t from this day forward.

All because she met a demon at a coloring table in a library called Tooting.

“It seems you made a friend,” Aziraphale says, miracling up an adult-sized chair and sitting down in it.

“I guess so.” Crowley starts fussing with the coloring pages, stacking them in order by dates of reign and setting them neatly to one side. He reaches for his glasses resting on the table, but Aziraphale catches his hand before he can slip them on.

“Is something bothering you, dearest?” he asks, tilting his head to catch his husband’s eyes. “You seem a little upset.”

“That depends ... how much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. I came out of the office right as Lizzie sat down.”

“And you didn’t think to rescue her from me?”

“Ah, you see, that’s self-pity talking. Children are the last people on this planet who need rescuing from you, my dear. Besides, I wanted to see what the two of you would do.”

Crowley shakes his head. He looks from Aziraphale’s eyes down to his glasses, the blacker than black lenses he orders special absorbing the mid-morning sun and reflecting it back as a cast of false midnight. “I could have snapped my fingers and fixed it for her. That would have been a good thing, wouldn’t it? A blessing? No possibility of kids making fun of her, no more helicopter parents forcing her to wear those glasses. But it just … it didn’t feel right.”

“It wouldn’t have been,” Aziraphale says. “Not every problem in the world requires a magical fix. In fact, not every problem is a problem.”

“Now, you see, that’s just ridiculous!” Crowley snaps.

“Why is that?”

“Because a problem is a problem. By its very nature, but its very name. That’s why we call them problems. And what she has is a problem.”

“She did have a problem, but it wasn’t her eyes.”

“What was it then?” Crowley grouses, growing tired of Aziraphale trying to help him find the answer instead of outright telling him what it is. Crowley recognizes that that’s Aziraphale’s job in a nutshell - to inspire humans to solve their problems.

But Crowley’s not human. He needs a bit more help finding the answers.

“She’s lonely. Or she was. She wanted to find someone like her, to feel less alone in the world. And she did. She found you. And you found her, I’d say, whether you knew you needed to or not. It’s a power that humans have that angels – and demons, I imagine – find difficult to comprehend. We’re so used to snapping our fingers and changing things that the steps in between are lost on us.”

“And that power is …?”

“Making a connection. Sometimes the solution to a problem isn’t in the fixing. It’s in finding someone who understands. As immortal beings on this planet, weaving our way in and out of people’s lives, it’s something we tend to overlook. Something we tend to avoid, really.” Aziraphale puts a palm to Crowley’s cheek and turns his demon to face him. “I want you to know how proud I am of you.”

Crowley starts to roll his eyes but stops. He doesn’t want to blow this off. He wants his husband to be proud of him. Aziraphale is an Angel of God who chose to risk everything and marry a demon. He should endeavor to make Aziraphale proud every single day.

“You are?”

“I am. I believe you were being tested. And you passed with flying colors.”

“Ugh,” Crowley groans, grabbing his glasses and putting them on before he does something truly asinine – like become teary eyed. “I guess if you’re going to be tested, a library’s as good a place as any for it. Higher learning and all that.”

“True.” Aziraphale makes to stand but Crowley grabs him by the elbow, pulls him gently back to his seat.

“Have I ever told you that you’re very good at your job?”

Aziraphale chuckles. “Owning a bookshop?”

“Inspiring humanity. To be honest, it’s not something I ever considered. It isn’t something … I was ever charged to do. But angels are angels, right? They do good deeds and get in our way. When something would come up and you took a step back, said you couldn’t interfere with the Divine Plan, I didn’t understand. But I think I’m beginning to.”

Aziraphale smiles. He leans in and gives his demon a kiss. “It’s nice that somebody does. And I’m glad that someone is you. Come along, dear.” He stands, grabs his husband’s arm and helps him out of his tiny chair. “I think you’ve had enough library for today.”

“Aw, really?” Crowley shakes out his long legs, getting them accustomed to standing upright again. “I was hoping we could pop into the mini theater and, you know, not watch the movie.”

Aziraphale laughs. “And you’re back.”

#Good Omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #Good Omens Fanfic #Frankie writes

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shipaholic · 3 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 7

Pivotal chapter no. 1, here we go...

This chapter has drinking. So much drinking. Also, Crowley finally has the Bentley, so this will be the first chapter (of many?) in which he totally invents speeding.

The music in this chapter is V Stands For Victory

And I Could Write a Book (Eddy Duchin, 1941).

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 7

Crowley’s ridiculous contraption bombed down the street at ninety miles per hour. Aziraphale was hardly aware. His eyes were fixed on Crowley’s face as he drove.

This was bad, he thought, dreamily.

Telling himself that made no dent in his emotional state. His mind was wrapped in cotton candy. Cotton candy that was moving very fast… possibly still in the whirly machine they made it in… he shouldn’t try to devise metaphors at a time like this. The point was, despite Crowley being Demonic and Evil and the rest of the standard specs for a minion of Hell, upon realising he loved him, Aziraphale could not make himself feel anything other than Good. Both definitions. This was right. This was what he was made for.

It wasn’t as if Crowley had ever been capital-E Evil, really. In fact, so long as he was being honest with himself (a dreadful prospect, but it turned out love made him brave), he had known this ever since the first time they fused. All those thousands of years ago. That was probably a big part of the reason he had hit the proverbial roof. It was a blow to one’s identity as a font of goodness, to merge minds with your opposite number and learn that he had more in common with you, morally, than most of your allies. Back then, he had refused to accept being humbled and had lashed out at Crowley instead. He’d behaved terribly. Worse than he’d even admitted before now.

But that was in the past, and the present was a carousel, a delicious dreamscape, gliding through the velvet dark with Crowley beside him -

The Bentley screeched to a halt. Aziraphale nearly slammed into the windscreen.

“Home sweet home,” Crowley said, cheerfully.

It was fortunate he didn’t have to love everything about Crowley, because this infernal machine was definitely out.

Crowley peered out of the window. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” he said, approvingly. He opened his door and hopped out. “Coming?”

Aziraphale looked out. They were already at the bookshop. He hadn’t been paying attention.

He collected himself, and his bag of books. He opened the car door with trepidation, as if the handle might explode.

It didn’t. He got from the car and followed Crowley in a daze towards the shop.

Crowley snapped his fingers. A soundproof bubble settled over the shop. Another snap dropped the blinds, and a third clicked the door latch into place.

Aziraphale hovered near the entrance. His familiar space had just become soft and dark and intimate. He wasn’t sure what thresholds would be crossed if he went all the way inside.

It had been years since Crowley had been back here. He revolved, drinking it in.

“Ahh. Place looks good. Very… impenetrable.”

Aziraphale preened. “In its heyday, this place could go six months at a time without selling a single book.”

Crowley gave him a fond smile. Aziraphale was going to spontaneously combust before the night was over.

Crowley clapped his hands together. “So! What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale took a breath and tried for a normal answer. “Alcohol seems just the ticket.”

“No surprise there.” Crowley miracled up some brandy glasses.

“Well, of course. I was just in mortal peril, you know.” Aziraphale followed him to the back room.

“Immortal peril. Barely counts.”

~*~

It was an old, familiar scene.

Crowley took over the whole sofa in increasingly supine, twisty positions the drunker he got. Aziraphale sat in the armchair, head and surroundings merrily spinning. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but he knew it involved vociferously nitpicking something one of them had said half an hour ago.

“Tha’snot true. Totally unfair. I was going to come by.”

“Lies.” Aziraphale poured another brandy and missed.

“I just fell asleep. For a few years. And forgot.”

“Wimped out, more like.”

“Wimped out? Me? What the Hell did you get up to in there?”

“I’ll never tell. Because you didn’t come by.”

Crowley tried to sit up, wrestled with the throw, and sunk back, defeated.

“I knew it wasn’t all games of Old Maid in there,” he said. “You dark horse.”

“We did some of that…” Aziraphale said, dreamily.

“You what?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. “Erm. We did - the Gavotte?”

“...Is that a euphemism?”

“No, it’s a jolly lovely time.”

An unbroken row of them, linking arms and kicking their feet. Aziraphale had been one of the better dancers by the end. It helped to be single-handed - no, minded...

He bolted upright. “Crowley! I should show you.”

“Whassat?”

Aziraphale sprung to his feet, after a couple of false starts. He took a moment to let the brandy inside him slosh back to an even level.

“The Gavotte. Watch me. Watch me, Crowley.”

He stepped over a few piles of books. He needed some room… was his shop always this cluttered? He pushed ineffectually at a small table covered in ornaments, then gave up and snapped his fingers. The furniture in the middle of the room obligingly tidied itself off to the side. V Stands For Victory parped its opening notes from the gramophone.

Crowley watched, mouth slightly agape, from halfway off the sofa. Aziraphale beckoned him with more and more insistence, until Crowley slid all the way off, crawled nearer and pulled himself up against the arm of Aziraphale’s chair.

Satisfied that Crowley could at least see, even if his eyes were unfocused, Aziraphale prepared himself. He bounced from his knees a few times and swung his elbows. He’d have to just imagine the rest of the chaps.

“A one, a two, a three, a four -”

Five energetic minutes passed.

Aziraphale thrust both arms towards Crowley in the universally recognised sign for ‘tah-dah!’ The gramophone tooted to a stop, sounding embarrassed.

Crowley’s mouth hung open.

“It’s better than your magic act, thank Satan,” he said at last.

“Oh, come now.” Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley groped for the nearest drink. “That’s cheered me up about giving the old club a miss.”

“You’re no fun. It’s better with more people.”

Perhaps a one-person Gavotte was too reliant on the imagination of the audience. Aziraphale thought for a moment. He pointed to the gramophone. It cranked reluctantly up again.

“This music is poor even by Heavenly standards,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tripped forward before he could overthink it, and grabbed Crowley’s hand. They swayed, as though reaching for each other on a deck over choppy waters. Crowley’s face was scarlet from alcohol. He blinked at Aziraphale, his eyes a haze of gold.

“Dance with me.” Aziraphale meant to sound authoritative. It came out slightly breathless.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale shuffled backwards. He felt self-conscious hanging onto Crowley’s hand, so tried to pull away unobtrusively. Drunk as they were, their fingers tangled together, and withdrawing his far-too-hot hand ended up being a bit of a nightmare. Crowley’s face was even redder by the time their hands loosened. Still he drifted towards Aziraphale as if the tether was still there.

The music was awfully trumpety, Aziraphale had to admit, as they stood face to face in the bit of floor space that was clear. He stepped up beside Crowley, and slipped his arm through his.

“Now, it’s not so hard. Even I got it in the end. You move like this -”

He took a step. Crowley stepped the other way, and collided with him.

Things did not improve. The gramophone sounded irritated by the third play through, and Aziraphale and Crowley had dissolved into arguing while Aziraphale tried to watch both their feet.

“This is stupid. Whoever invented this dance did not have demons in mind. Or humans. Maybe horses. This is a horse dance.”

“I doubt this dance was intended for horses - no, you do this with your arms. How many elbows do you have?”

“Two, or none, depending. Hmm. Would you say a snake is basically one long elbow?”

“Thinking about that is above my paygrade. Will you stop getting underfoot?”

“You’re stepping on my feet!”

“How am I supposed to avoid that? They’re everywhere.”

“This is why I never bloody turned up.”

“Honestly -”

Aziraphale held Crowley closer, hoping to wrangle him through the steps.

He really was all elbows and knees. And so warm, radiating hell’s heat through that sharp suit. No hat, no glasses, eyes like suns floating in a swamp. Strands of short red hair teased loose over his forehead. His brows had such character. They were scrunched in that bemused, slightly glum way Aziraphale had noted hundreds of times. He hadn’t quite known he was recording it. Crowley’s face, Crowley’s looks. His angelic memory was long, and its catalogue of Crowley was fathomless.

The music had changed. Someone crooned:

‘About the way you walk, and whisper, and look…’

That seemed unnecessarily on-the-nose.

Aziraphale wondered which of them had done that. He didn’t recall making a conscious attempt. Perhaps it had reacted to both of them.

He could no longer pretend what they were doing bore any resemblance to a Gavotte.

He ought to pull away. His eyes fixed on his hand, resting beside Crowley’s lapel. There was no heart beneath it; nothing so human. But something beat anyway. Something in Crowley was in rhythm with him. They pushed and pulled together. Despite a lack of innate ability, they danced.

He looked up, and searched Crowley’s face.

Crowley looked…

Stunned, a little. Fearful. Yearning.

He’d seen this look before. Stifled versions of it. So many times.

Aziraphale’s heart wrenched towards Crowley’s, and it made no difference that neither of them really had one.

~*~

The gramophone concluded that it would make two lovers of friends. The brilliant white glow that had flared into every corner of the room died away like the last light of summer.

Zadkiel twirled to a stop. He had wrapped his arms around himself. He sighed, and opened his eyes.

He was him. Again. Better and fuller and brighter than ever before.

It was like a loose connection in his brain had snapped into place, and lit up an entire circuit he didn’t know was there.

Of course they loved each other. Of course. He’d always known, without being truly allowed to know. Cognitive dissonance, that was the term. Normally, when people had it, it manifested as plain old denial. For Zadkiel, it was what happened when one of your component parts was very much aware they were in love, and the other part was utterly unaware, no matter how apparent it should have been to literally anyone.

No more. Now, their feelings were an open book. He was remade, and everything was different.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

He snapped his fingers at the gramophone. It gratefully fell silent.

Another snap, and Aziraphale’s furniture shuffled back into place. He had to hop about to avoid his shins getting bashed.

Finally, he snapped to unlock the door.

It fell ajar. The smell of night air stirred through the shop, dark as ink, and full of a thousand small noises.

Zadkiel turned in place. He drank in the long-loved sight of the bookshop. What a wonderful friend it had been. A true home, after centuries of wandering. If he could take it with him, he would.

He straightened his tie, banished the lingering alcohol from his bloodstream, and strode to the door.

His final act was to fish his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. He left them on a table. He wouldn’t need them where he was going.

He exited the shop smartly. The door snapped shut behind him.

~*~

The street rolled away into the dark distance.

Zadkiel tilted his head up. The night sky was empty of stars and gods, and it was all waiting for him.

Both pairs of wings spread out behind him. He let them both have a good stretch. They’d need it.

He had loved the Earth. He always would. Still… time for something new.

He wished the world the fondest of farewells, and took off into the night.

---

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #phewww what is crazy fusion boy up to TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT #sometimes you've gotta goofy-dance with your crush and then accidentally turn it into slow-dancing while a Significant Piece of Music plays #and that's the tropiest thing I'm knowingly putting in this fic

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dogboy-willgraham · 4 years

Note

ooh here's a prompt idea if u feel like it: some kind of fairy tale au, like sleeping beauty, red riding hood, etc ( bonus if it at some point includes or mentions a duck)

(I AM FINALLY WRITING THIS I APOLOGIZE FOR MY BITCHY ASS TAKING SO LONG I COULDN’T GET INSPIRATION AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW I’M DOING MENTALLY ANYMORE SO FORGIVE ME AND MY SCREAMING)

Sleeping Beauty AU, FOOLS

*The original Disney animated version because I am not doing the OG version with the 100 years sleep and the rape (Look it up, or don’t), or the Maleficent storyline because that’s not the point here, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk*

Once upon a certain place in time, there was a Queen, no one ever really knew Her name. She had a son, and while there was rumors of a horrid affair, for She ruled alone, none of them where true. She in fact did have a son by her husband, Lucifer, but when She found him sleeping with Her brother from a neighboring kingdom, She took a few shoots of water hemlock from Her own garden, and mixed him a wonderful drink the next morning. A week later She found Herself carrying a child.

No one ever did find out the king had died.

Anyhow, when Her son was born, She held a ceremony and invited three angels. Michael, Uriel, and Ananiel. They each bestowed a blessing on the child.

Beauty.

Kindness.

And when Ananiel began faer blessing of safety, and draft flooded into the hall. And a wicked baritone laugh erupted.

“Such a grand party, my queen, and yet I receive no invitation?” A man shaped being with dark violet eyes emerged from the crowd, a pure white duck waddling beside him.

“Gabriel,” She hissed. “You are not welcome here,”

“Oh, but why not my queen? I’m no different from them,” Gabriel turned his gaze upon the three angels guarding the cradle where the prince slept. “I’m an angel, and just like them, I’ve come to give my blessing upon the young one,”

“You are no more angel than a demon,” She hissed.

“Leave, Gabriel,” Ananiel warned. “You are not to touch him while I watch over him, you’re ‘blessing’ is not welcome,”

Gabriel chuckled darkly and waved his hand, sending the three across the room.

The queen stood, arm poised just behind Her throne where her longsword sat.

Gabriel looked over and with another flick of his wrist She was forced into her seat.

Finally, he walked to the cradle, and looked down at the golden haired boy. The boy roused from his sleep, due to Gabriel’s presence and began to fuss.

Gabriel laughed lowly, and placed a hand over the boys chest, making the prince fuss more.

“Oh, darling prince of Her majesty,” Gabriel began. “Do not fuss, I have come to bring you a blessing,” He took a deep breath and smirked deeply as he began speaking once more. “For your mother’s offenses, you will pay,” Gabriel began to address his entire audience. “The prince will live for sixteen years, happily and beautifully, as my dear friends have blessed, but on his sixteenth birthday, no sooner will the sun set as the prince will be pricked by the thorn of a rose, and fall into a sleep-like death, never to wake,” He finished and a bolt of thunder cracked outside, then it fell silent.

Gabriel walked away from the cradle and down to the edge of the crowd. “That, is my blessing, my lord,” He smiled wickedly and began walking again.

“That is no blessing Gabriel!” Michael shouted. “That is a curse!”

“Oh, it’s no such thing, dear sister, it is a blessing, the prince will not be hurt when he falls into slumber,” Gabriel disappeared into the crowd after that.

Uriel quickly began removing the crowd when they could move again, while Ananiel ran to the cradle and brought faer wings to cover the boy from any danger. Michael approached the queen, head hung low.

“My lord, forgive me-”

She cut off Michael. “Don’t,” She looked to Her son, guarded by sleek brown wings. “It isn’t your fault,”

“I could’ve-”

“I could’ve done many things too,” She interrupted. “But ‘what-ifs’ will not help us now, we must do what we can,”

When the crowds were gone Uriel returned to Ananiel and began speaking in a hushed voice to fae.

“Is there anything we can do about the curse?” She asked Michael, not yet noticing the conversation happening by the cradle.

“No, if one of us casted it, or someone like us, we could do something but, Gabriel’s magic is not the same as ours anymore,” Michael looked down sadly. “It’s impossible to even try,”

“Not impossible, my lord,” Ananiel cut in. “Well, at least it is to break it, but we can change it, at least a little,”

“Go on,” She said.

“Well, Gabriel didn’t say how it could be broken, so we can fill it in ourselves, or Michael can,” Uriel finished.

“Is this true?” She asked Michael.

“Yes,” Michael answered.

“Then do it,”

Michael approached the cradle and Ananiel hesitantly folded faer wings back.

Michael set a hand on the child’s chest, calming him.

“The curse can be broken, but only if the fair prince receives a kiss, from his true love,” Michael finished, and another crack of lighting rang out.

“Really, Michael? True love?” Uriel hissed.

“I’m stressed,” Michael deadpanned. “And it’s not impossible,”

“It will be fine,” She said. “But I don’t want him near here, roses grow like wildfires in my kingdom, I want a failsafe in case Michael’s change doesn’t work,”

“Where can he go?” Ananiel asked.

“I want you to take him deep into the forest, on the other side of the river, he will be safe from the roses,” She said. “And, if you can, if you will, raise him, I cannot abdicate my throne, he will have nothing to come back to if I do,”

Michael looked to Uriel and Ananiel, and all exchanged nods.

“We’ll do it,” Michael said.

“Thank you,” She stood and walked to Her son. “I love you, and while it’s hurts, I must say farewell my dear Aziraphale,”

The trio of angels took Aziraphale into the forest that night, finding a small cottage miraculously abandoned. And, as the queen asked, they raised him.

Well, Michael and Ananiel raised him, mostly. Uriel had the least maternal personality out of the three, and besides that, Uriel was less than interested in getting involved with whatever was happening between her their sister and their friend. Uriel was more than happy though to take care of the materiel aspects of Aziraphale’s life.

And for sixteen years, minus one day, Aziraphale grew up happy and beautiful. Unburdened by the existence of his biological mother, or the curse that loomed over

The day he was suddenly burdened by his life outside of the cocoon of the forest, was his birthday. But, of course, he didn’t just wake up when all Hell broke loose, but, the beginning of the day is a fine place to start.

“We have to tell him,” Uriel said, out of the blue.

“Not yet,” Ananiel returned. “ And anyway, we already agreed that we were going to tell him after his birthday,”

“No, we didn’t,” Uriel set the shirt they were repairing down. “We need to tell him, he needs to time to understand, we’re going to be taking him to Her as soon as the sun finishes setting, and what do you think he’s going to feel like if we just toss that on him and then throw him back at Her?”

“After, Uriel,” Ananiel insisted.

“Michael, be the voice of reason, we need to tell him,” Uriel all but pleaded.

Michael set her book down. “We’re not throwing him back at Her, and we need to make sure this works, we'll tell him after,”

“Oh, for someone’s sake you two!” Uriel groaned. “You’re acting like this is all going to go smoothly! It isn’t!”

“We are aware it’s not going to go smoothly,” Michael gently retorted.

“Really? Then why are you waiting?”

Michael and Ananiel exchanged a glance, both knowing why they were stalling, but neither willing to admit.

“I need some air,” Uriel grumbled and walked out, past Aziraphale who had just arrived at the door.

“Is Uriel okay?” Aziraphale asked timidly, stepping in.

“Uriel’s okay, love, just needed to stretch their legs,” Ananiel smiled, and opened faer arms, which Aziraphale let wrap around him happily.

“They seemed upset,” Aziraphale whispered into the crook of Ananiel’s neck.

“They were just excited, it’s your birthday after all,” Ananiel felt faer throat tighten with the lie. Fae exchanged a sad glance with Michael.

“Hey, Azzie,” Michael began smiling. “Could you go get some of those water lilies you love? We need them for tonight,”

“I was just outside?” Aziraphale asked in a small voice.

“I know, dear, but I forgot, and I promise there’ll be cake in it for you,” Michael smiled.

“Okay,” Aziraphale grinned and removed himself from Ananiel.

“Be home before sundown,” Michael said seriously.

“Alright, mum,” Aziraphale hugs Michael before going back outside.

Ananiel and Michael share a look, understanding, and hesitation to have their perfect illusion of life shatter.

Aziraphale hummed happily as he collected the pale pink flowers off their green beds, daydreaming as usual. It was hard not to, he’d never been outside the forest, and never met anyone else either. But he had his books, and he could imagine as best he could meeting a tall dark stranger, or a kind friend.

But the dark stranger was preferred most times.

As he plucked another flower he heard a thud from a nearby clearing, and muffled grunts.

Aziraphale stood up and cautiously walked towards it, leaving his flowers in a pile.

When he pulled back the thick of bushes he had to bite his tongue to keep from bursting into giggles.

A young red-haired man, no older than Aziraphale it seemed, was sprawled out on the forest floor as if he had fallen off his horse, who was now sitting on top of him.

“For somebody’s bloody sake Bentley! Get off!” The strangely dressed person pushed at the black horse, who just huffed and shifted farther onto it’s rider.

Aziraphale let out a small snort, still mesmerized by the newcomer.

The redhead looked over to Aziraphale and sighed in relief.

“Oi, blondie, mind helping me out?” The redhead asked.

Aziraphale nodded and went over to try and gentle the horse off the ginger, which was successful.

“Thank you,” The ginger smiled, getting up and brushing the dirt off his pitch-black clothes. “I would’ve been there for hours if you hadn’t come along,”

“No need,” Aziraphale smiled as well, a little blush creeping up his neck. Now that he was able to see the redhead better, he found him incredibly handsome. His very own tall dark stranger.

The redhead, Crowley was his name, blushed too as he gazed at the cherubic blonde in front of him. He shook his head though, as if it would help clear his head. “What's your name, kind angel?”

Aziraphale flushed fully, quite surprised by the name, but not unwelcoming of it.

“A-Aziraphale,” Aziraphale coughed out, his throat felt dry. “My name is Aziraphale,”

“Crowley,” Crowley smiled, brushing a bit more dust off his gold accented jacket. “Aziraphale, you really are an angel,”

Aziraphale wanted to both get away from Crowley and his wonderful words to collect himself and more of those words.

“Are you from around here?” Crowley asked, interrupting Aziraphale’s frenzied thoughts.

“Yes, from the clearing Eastward from here,” Aziraphale answered.

“Ah, well, why don’t I give you a lift back? Repay you for saving my arse?”

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “You don’t have to,”

“Rubbish, hop on. Make sure to hold on though, Bentley is not peaceful,”

Aziraphale forgot about his flowers as he clutched Crowley’s chest while the horse sped off.

Crowley smelled very nice, a faint fiery smell with cinnamon, and Aziraphale couldn’t get enough.

They arrived at Aziraphale’s home just before the sun had set. Crowley helped him off the horse and knelt to kiss his knuckles lightly.

“Thank you for the company, angel,” Crowley smiled.

Aziraphale blushed and looked away.

”I hate that I must part ways with you now, but I will return as soon as I can,” Crowley frowned slightly, before digging into his leather bag and pulling out a white rose.

“For you,” Crowley tucked the flower into Aziraphale’s hair, a stray thorn nicking Aziraphale’s skin.

And as soon as Crowley was watching a blushing cherub he had an armful of sleeping cherub.

Three women emerged from the house suddenly as well, and took a moment to take in the scene.

“You have no idea the shit you’ve just started,” The red-haired one growled.

To sum up the end, Crowley fought a giant duck, and then kissed Aziraphale, and they somehow fell in love, there was also a whole ordeal with Aziraphale’s birthmother, but he chose his family in the end.

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ourownsideimagines · 5 years

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Twisted Turn of Events (Crowley x Reader Tangled!Au)

Characters: Human!Eugene!Crowley, Horse!Maximus!Aziraphale, Rapunzel!Reader, Human!Gothel!Gabriel

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Star Anon

Point of View: Second Person

Warnings: Violence, stabbing, blood, character death (temporary and permanent). Absolutely no editing whatsoever

Words: 2854

A/N: I hope you don’t mind I took this as an actual Tangled AU with the same premise because I absolutely love Tangled.

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You had long, magical, blond hair. It got in the way of everything you did, and it trailed everywhere behind you. It was a hassle, to say the least, but your father loved it.

Your father, Gabriel, was kind. Or, at least you thought he was kind. He kept you safe, up in your tower, for many years. He told you it was to keep you safe from those who would wish to use your hair to their advantage. He’d even refused to let you leave to see the floating lights that appeared every year on your birthday.

Your father had taught you a song at a young age - the song was what activated the magic in your hair, and you used it to heal your father whenever he felt weak or hurt. You would do anything to make him happy.

Almost anything, that was,

The only ones allowed in your tower were Gabriel, and sometimes Michael and Uriel to check on your health. Or, though you didn’t know it yet, to make sure you hadn’t tried to leave. They, too, used you for your hair.

No one else had ever entered the tower, as far as you knew.

That was, until he came.

It was the day before your birthday, and Gabriel had left hours prior at your request for some new paints. You were expecting Uriel or Michael (or even both) to show up any minute, which is why you didn’t panic at first when you heard someone clambering through the window. It was weird, yes, they usually called out for you to throw down your hair, but you didn’t doubt that they had other means of getting up. You’d exited your bedroom, about to greet them when you realized, no, it was no in fact one of your fathers friend, but a total stranger. He was dressed in dark clothing, his eyes covered by glasses tinted almost black

Your father had warned you many times about other men. Savages with sharp teeth who would only see you for your hair.

At the time you were terrified. It’d taken everything in you not to scream. He’d just opened his bag when you finally managed to thwack him over the head with frying pan your father had gotten for you last year. After checking his teeth and seeing that they weren’t actually sharp like your father had described, you’d stuffed him into your wardrobe, keeping it closed with one of your brooms.

It all seemed to silly now. Crowley, as you’d come to know him, was an absolute sweetheart despite his attempts to hide it. You’d convinced him to lead you from the tower to see the floating lights, which he told you were “lanterns for the lost princess”.

Sure, along the way he’d taken you to the Snuggly Duckling, a hang out for a group called “The Demons”, but they had been kind to you, much to your surprise, and despite the fact that they wanted to give Crowley up to the royal guard. But Crowley saved you when the guards attacked, and after quite a bit of consideration you found that you were rather fond of him. You might even say you were in love with him.

There had been an incident in the forest the night prior to your birthday, when Crowley went to look for firewood, and you were surprisingly approached by your father. He had been calm at first, attempting to coax you back to the tower.

When that didn't work, he’d gotten angry. Angrier than you’d ever seen him. He yelled at you, something he rarely ever did, and then revealed the bag you’d found Crowley with.

“If you think he really cares about you, give him this!” He threw the bag at your feet, and you’d quickly scooped it up, eyes wide. “Trust me, he’ll leave you the moment he lays eyes on it!”

After that, he disappeared and you were left alone, waiting for Crowley to get back.

These events were pushed almost to the back of your mind by morning, as when you woke Crowley was wrestling with a large, white horse you would come to know as Aziraphale. He was a part of the guard, Crowley told you, the one that was trying to arrest him. You’d convinced Aziraphale to calm down and not arrest Crowley until at least tomorrow, since today was your big day.

That was one of the stranger encounters of your trip.

You, of course, had to waste the day away so that you could see the lanterns at night fall. Crowley treated you to cupcakes, and surprised you with a small purple flag. He was the perfect gentlemen, albeit it a bit clumsy and idiotic. There were guard to avoid, but otherwise no trouble was found. You even had a bit of fun dancing around the square. A group of young girls even braided your hair so no one would walk on it, decorating it with vibrant flowers.

A part of you wanted the sun to never set, so you could stay there forever with Crowley. But as the sun slowly began its descent, Crowley led you out to the pier, where the two of you clambered aboard a row boat, leaving Aziraphale waiting at the dock.

“I figured I should give you the best seat possible,” Crowley hummed gently as he rowed. “It is your birthday after all.”

“Thank you, Crowley.” You smiled at him, and he smiled back. You wanted to give him the bag, but your father’s words hung in the back of you mind. You decided to wait.

By the time Crowley stopped rowing, the sun had almost set. All you had to do was wait. You and Crowley took some flowers from your hair and you began placing them in the water, watching the float away. It wasn’t long before the first light hit the water. Your head shot up, eyes widening in surprise.

It was starting. You scrambled to the other end of the boat, causing Crowley to momentarily lose balance. Lanterns began to float up, above the houses, and above the castle. Almost as if it knew you were there, breeze carried them in your direction. People on board the nearby ships began letting them loose as well, and your tiny boat was surrounded by floating lanterns.

You turned to Crowley, excited, but stopped when you noticed the lanterns he had in his hands.

He’d taken off his sunglasses, revealing his beautiful golden eyes. You’d asked him why he wore them, but he’d never given you a straight answer. You assumed it to be because they were his most defining feature, something anyone would spot from a mile away. His eyes, despite their beauty, would most likely get him caught on sight.

You made your decision then - you were most definitely in love with this man.

You just hoped he felt the same. You took your seat in front of him, and smiled wide.

“I, uh. I’ve got something for you, too.” You reached beneath the seat, where you’d stashed his bag when he was saying goodbye to Aziraphale. When you pulled it out, Crowley’s eyes went a bit wide in surprise. “I’d thought about giving it to you earlier but… I was just scared. But now, I’m… I’m not scared anymore. You know what I mean?”

Crowley, using one arm to hold the lanterns down, used the other to gently push away the bag. The shock on your face must have been evident.

“I think I do, angel.” He smiled. You couldn’t help but smile back. You set the bag aside, and together you released the lanterns into the air. After a few moments, Crowley gently took your hands. “Happy birthday.” He said.

“Thank you,” Your mind had turned from the lanterns. They were beautiful, yes, but so was the man sitting in front of you. “This has been the best day of my entire life.”

“Mine too.” Crowley used his thumb rubbed slow circles on the back of your hand. “I’d say you’ve really shown me a lot in the past couple of days.”

“You’ve shown me more in two days than I’ve seen in all my years.” You give his hands a gentle squeeze. “I… I like you, Crowley.”

“I like you too, Angel.” He replied without hesitation. “More than you could ever know.”

“I’d like to know.” You murmured. There was silence, but no words were needed. The both of you slowly began to lean in, but just when he thought he might kiss you, he stopped. “Crowley?” You noticed he was looking behind you, but when you turned, there was nothing there. “Are you okay?”

“What?” He said suddenly. “Oh, yeah, everything’s… fine.”

It turns out, everything was not alright. Everything was very far from alright. Not only were you attacked by two goons, but you watched as Crowley sailed back over the river toward the town with the content of his bag, a tiara, in hand. You were lucky to be saved by your father.

But even that went wrong.

Once back in the ‘safety’ of your tower, and once your father had finished removing the braid and the flowers from your hair, you came to a realization. You’d painted all over the walls - you’d even painted over older, more childish drawings. Painting was your life inside the tower - and in almost every painting was the same symbol. The sun. The same sun on the scarf Crowley had bought you, and the same sun that was on the lanterns, and the same sun that was on the mural of the royal family.

Your heart ached. It couldn’t be true, could it? Anger overcame you. You exited your room, looking down at your father who was on the floor below.

“Are you alright,” He asked, but his voice was cold. You knew he didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. You were so angry. You should have known better. You should have figured it out sooner, you should have…

“I’m the lost princess.” You breathed out in a huff of anger.

“I’m sorry?”

“I am the lost princess.” It wasn’t a question.

“My dear-”

“No!” You snapped. You began your descent down the stairs. “You lied to me. All these years you said you were keeping me up here so that I’d be safe! But I’m not safe. Not while I’m with you.” Gabriel scowled.

From there, things only got worse. Gabriel didn’t yell. He didn’t even speak before he grabbed you, tossing you to the side. Your head connected with your standing mirror, shattering it. You cried out in pain as you fell to the floor. You could feel blood trickling into your hair, but Gabriel sang the song solemnly beneath his breath, healing it for you. He’d gotten chains from god knows where, and while you were disoriented bound your hands, and stuffed cloth in your mouth to keep you quiet.

He muttered something about leaving, and taking you to a safer place, but stopped suddenly. From outside you heard a voice - a familiar voice.

Crowley.

You wanted to yell to him, to tell him to leave. You felt so helpless, and felt even more so when Gabriel brandished a dagger from one of his desk drawers.

“Angel!” Crowley called up to you. “Throw down your hair!” Grabriel approached you, leaning in with a sneer.

“Remember, this is your doing.” He told you, before gathering up your hair and tossing it out the window. You felt the familiar tug of someone climbing up, and had to watch in horror as Gabriel hid in the shadows, watching Crowley enter through the open window.

“Oh, Angel, I thought I’d never see you again.” Crowley stopped when his eyes finally landed on you, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to gasp out in utter pain when Gabriel stabbed him in the stomach from behind.

As Gabriel removed the blood stained blade, Crowley fell to the ground in pain and shock.

“Now look at this, (name),” Gabriel tisked. “Look what you’ve done.” Gabriel stepped over Crowley, using the scarf you’d gotten to wipe the blade clean before discarding it carelessly. “Don’t worry, though, my flower. Our secret dies with him.” He approached you, taking the end of the chain that he’d connected to one of the banisters and jerking you towards a trap door he’d revealed beneath the carpet. “And I’ll be taking you where no one will ever find you again. Not even Michael and Uriel.”

You resisted, tugging against your restraints with almost no avail.

“This isn’t a game, (name),” Gabriel growled as you approached the door. “Stop fighting me.”

You yanked yourself away, falling to the ground, and finally managed to spit out the mock-gag.

“No,” You snapped. “Never. I will never stop fighting, I will never stop trying to escape you! For every second of the rest of my life.” You stopped suddenly, looking back at Crowley, who was bleeding out. Your met his eyes, those wonderful golden eyes that were full of such pain, and you knew what you had to do. “But, if you let me heal him… I’ll go with you.”

“Angel, no.” Crowley hissed out, but you ignored him.

“I will do whatever you want. I will never try to run. I’ll stop fighting. Everything will be just the way you want it to be.” You turned back to Gabriel. “I promise.”

“Just the way I want it.” Gabriel muttered to himself. He quickly removed your restraints, and you didn’t dare try to run. You watched as he bound Crowley to a banister, ignoring all of his winces of pain. “In case you have any ideas about following us.” He then turned to you. “Make it quick.”

You rushed to Crowley, who could barely keep his eyes open, and felt tears running down you cheeks.

“Crowley, I am so sorry.” You whispered, moving his vest so you could see the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll fix this, everything’s going to be okay.” You began to gather up your hair.

“Angel,” He murmured. “No.” He weakly attempted to push your hands away, but you managed to get your hair next to his wound.

“If I don’t do this, you’re going to die. I can’t let you die, Crowley.” You caressed his cheek gently, and he leaned into your touch.

“Then you’ll die.” He groaned. You shook your head gently, using your hand to wipe away a tear.

“I’ll be just fine.” You promised, though even you knew it was a lie. You opened your mouth to begin the song, but Crowley stopped you.

“Wait.” He listed a hand, you assumed to push back your hair. Before you could even more, Crowley had gathered your hair up in one hand, using his other to slice though it using a larger shard of glass from the nearby broken mirror. You let out a gasp, watching your hair call to the floor. It rapidly began turning (hair color).

“No!” Gabriel screamed. “What have you done!” You dove for your hair, gathering it up but letting out a strangled shout as it continued to turn (hair color). You watched in horror as he began aging rapidly. He moved towards the mirror to look at himself, only to trip over some of the hair and hit the windowsill, which sent him tumbling head first out of the tower. Part of you wanted to scream, but the other part couldn’t have cared less. You quickly turned back to Crowley, the realisation of what he’d done finally setting in.

“You idiot.” You whimpered. “You absolute idiot.” He smiled weakly at you.

“Your idiot.” He coughed.

“Please don’t leave me.” You begged him. “Please.”

“You were my new dream,” He mumured. You choked on a sob.

“And you were mine.”

You were absolutely broken as the man you’d fallen in love with died in your arms. You held him there for what seemed like hours, but was only moments, and cried. You began murmuring the lyrics of the song you could have used to save him, praying that somehow it would work.

“Make the clock reverse,” You gently caressed his cheek. “Bring back what once was mine…” You cracked, breathing out the final words; “What once was mine.”

Your tears fell from your cheek onto his, and to your amazement, sunk into his skin. You watched in hope and wonder as a light slowly began traveling beneath his skin - the same golden light that had overtaken your hair - to his wound. Your eyes widened as it spilled out into the room, creating intricate symbols in the air before dissipating.

Your eyes snapped to Crowley as he began to cough again, taking in as much air as his lungs would allow them. You let out a cry of joy and flung yourself into his arms.

“You’re alive, oh my god, you’re alive.” Crowley held you tightly, burying his face in your now short hair.

Maybe you were going to get your happily ever after after all.

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