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doonarose · 10 months

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The first one that’s right.

(Good Omens Crowley/Aziraphale kissing and romance fic)

Rating: PG/T

Rationale: I’m still processing Season 2 (loved it, no complaints), but we know Aziraphale and Crowley will come out of Season 3 talking to each other properly, and acknowledging, out loud, that they love each other, and actually planning for a future together. And that’s a delicious setting to play in while I figure out how the hell they get there. So, that future, begs the following fic…

Summary: Aziraphale would like to try the thing they did with their mouths that night it all blew up and no, he does not mean, speaking.

Count: 2500ish

“Crowley, you remember when I went to heaven to do The Second Coming?”

Crowley really cannot believe Aziraphale just casually asked him that.

Aziraphale continues quickly, “Right before I left, when we spoke…” he pauses.

When we spoke! Crowley’s mouth has fallen open, his brow furrowed incredulously, a reaction that seems entirely restrained in the face of such audacity. He wills Aziraphale to drop it, eyes flashing a warning as he steps a little closer, crowding into Aziraphale’s space.

Aziraphale manages to clasp his hands together in the gap between them, fidgeting as his gaze shifts to focus on the floor off to the side. It’s a drizzly Wednesday afternoon in the bookshop, completely innocuous, except Aziraphale has chosen today to trap Crowley in a doorway, stand squarely, infuriatingly, in front of him, and ask him if he remembers that day and that conversation.

“Yes, right, when we spoke, that day,” he continues as though Crowley actually had said he remembered. “Well, I think I would like to try that again.”

“Speaking?” Crowley manages to squeeze an extra syllable into the word. It’s absurd but the alternative is that Aziraphale wants to try the second coming again and that’s just not possible. “You’d like to try speaking again. We speak all the time now, Angel, I hardly think we need to do it more.” That’s true, they are much better at speaking now, at talking to each other and listening. They’re getting better, but that doesn’t mean Crowley wants to talk about that.

“No!” Realization dawns on Aziraphale’s face, “Oh, no!” his eyes going wide and his cheeks flushing pink, “Oh, goodness, no, not that. Of course not, I wouldn’t – I’m sorry – ” He grabs Crowley at the top of his arms and squeezes. He takes a deep breath, something Crowley thinks Nina might have taught him. “I love you.” It recenters both of them, lightens the air in the room, and Crowley feels his heartbeat slow and settle, his fight or flight response thwarted with those three simple words of assurance. He rolls his eyes and shrugs Aziraphale’s hands off his arms, the dismissiveness more out of muscle memory than anything else, but the corner of his lips also twitches up. He knows Aziraphale knows he doesn’t always say it back and that’s okay.

Aziraphale’s hands, now hanging unoccupied at his sides, flex sporadically. “Actually, I meant the other thing… with your mouth.”

Oh. Oh. After too long a beat, Crowley manages to say it out loud, “Oh.”

“Only if you wanted to,” Aziraphale rushes. “Obviously only if you wanted to. And we could stop if you didn’t like it and never talk about it again. I just thought we should try it since we’re kind of, well we’re together now and that’s what you do – it’s what lots of people, humans, do, anyway – and the other time was terrible but that wasn’t our fault and –”

“Terrible?!” Crowley squawks, cutting him off.

“Well, no, not terrible, sorry, oh gosh I’m making a mess of this. Humans make relationships look so easy.” Aziraphale whines, covering his face with both hands and blushing pink beneath them.

Crowley has, of course, thought about kissing Aziraphale, sometimes entirely by accident, but, more often than not, very much, quite on purpose. Somehow, it has never occurred to him that it is something Aziraphale might have thought about, too, and after that one, indeed quite doomed attempt, it is taking him quite a long time to process the proposition. What hadn’t Aziraphale just come and kissed him?

Aziraphale continues to blather: “Can we please just pretend I never said anything. We’re doing so nicely now, we’re both much happier, and I shouldn’t have brought all that up again.”

That sinking, bottomless pit feeling in Crowley’s stomach appears. The threat of losing something he never quite had, a feeling he’s unfairly intimate with but learning how to process and to shrug off as not automatically inevitable. And it’s not the world, or Aziraphale, or his freedom that is about to be snatched away. Just a kiss. Angels, certainly demons, aren’t even meant to kiss – definitely not the way he wants to kiss Aziraphale. That’s the domain of humans and all their weird humanity, smushing their wet food/talk/breath holes together as though it’s some sort of fun. What is that even about? Surely one of God’s more bizarre pranks.

Oh, but he really, really wants to. The pang of potential loss makes his stomach twist and his fingertips itch to grab and hold fast and try to kiss all the doubt out of Aziraphale.

But that didn’t go so well last time.

He’s learning, though. “Hang on a minute,” he says, sounding less calm than he’d intended.

Aziraphale fidgets and shakes his head, pouting and tutting because Crowley’s already been standing there, processing, for too long.

“Was it really that terrible?” What Crowley wanted to say was something like ‘Yes please, let’s try it, don’t worry, it’s going to be great!’

“No!” Aziraphale sighs, and tries it more gently, “No, it just wasn’t… I mean everything around it was terrible, wasn’t it?” Crowley’s eyes narrow and an eyebrow arches. “Well, no, I mean, what you said was… lovely… illuminating… It was everything I wanted to hear even if I didn’t know it. But it wasn’t the right time and I didn’t expect you – well, you, I didn’t expect… It was a surprise, when you kissed me, and it wasn’t terrible but I think we can both agree it wasn’t exactly… good.” Aziraphale goes still, bracing for the impact of more argument or indignation or having to backtrack again.

Crowley says nothing, just watches him, for another too-long moment. “So, you want to try again?”

Aziraphale can’t help but break into a proper smile at the infinitesimal, possible progress: ever the optimist. “Yes! That’s all, and as I said, if it’s awful or you don’t like it, of course, we never have to do it again. I just thought it made sense to ask, to try... well to ask to try. But if you don’t want to, that’s completely fine, just say the word and – ”

“I want to.”

“Oh. Okay…Good.”

Crowley keeps count as the seconds pass. He makes it to twelve before he absolutely has to say something. “Ready when you are, Angel.” He swallows because that felt brave in the face of how fast he can feel his heart thumping, how stupidly vulnerable and nervous this is making him feel.

But then he sees Aziraphale’s gaze snap up to meet his, eyes going comically wide, and Crowley realizes Aziraphale’s been staring at his mouth those whole twelve seconds. It makes him even braver, the nerves and the vulnerability still there, but something playful and teasing, their natural rhythm, working its way into the moment.

Aziraphale starts to nod, building resolve even as his eyes slip back to down to Crowley’s lips which Crowley licks and purses before he can stop himself. Aziraphale swallows heavily and checks, “Here? And… and now?”

“I can meet you somewhere else later, if you’d prefer,” Crowley teases some more.

Huffing, Aziraphale flexes his shoulders back once and then grasps Crowley by the upper arms. He hesitates a second longer and then he’s pulling Crowley into him, angling his face to meet Crowley’s lips in a firm, warm press.

It is not dissimilar to the one other time they did this, albeit without all the drama, trauma and world-destroying stakes. Instead, it’s just them, wilfully, openly in love, mouth to mouth in a doorway in the bookshop. Trying kissing.

Aziraphale smells good, better than expected this close, more earthy, more like skin, and his lips are unbelievably soft. Crowley thinks he can taste the remnants of an Earl Grey tea with two sugars and perhaps a scone. He wonders what Aziraphale is thinking and then he realizes he should really, probably shut his eyes, and so he does. He tries to relax into the tight grip around his biceps, leaning into the unconventional embrace instead of just being held there.

This is so weird.

They’re not moving. Crowley’s pretty sure they’re meant to be moving, not just pressing. He realizes with a start that Aziraphale isn’t breathing at all and opens his eyes to check he’s okay and again, it’s just blurry tanned skin splashed with pink, dark splayed eyelashes that he could count if he wanted to because at least Aziraphale got the memo about closing his eyes. The view is strangely captivating even as the static and uncertain press of their mouths is beginning to border on too weird. And Crowley’s not breathing either and then suddenly he’s breathless.

They break apart on seemingly mutual terms and both take a step back rendering a larger than expected distance between them. Crowley makes a conscious effort to breathe and Aziraphale’s eyes flutter open beautifully.

Crowley won’t say out loud what he’s thinking, he’s not sure he could articulate it very well and it would certainly feature the words ‘weird’ and ‘unexpected’ and ‘woops’. None of which he thinks will be conducive to ever getting to try that again.

But it’s written across Aziraphale’s face, the mirrored consternation that that wasn’t what it was meant to be, it wasn’t like in the books, or the movies, or even a little bit what they imagined. Crowley starts concocting a plan with multiple steps, subterfuge, and, in all likelihood, weather.

Aziraphale licks his lips, takes two determined steps forward and lifts both hands to Crowley’s face, gently holding him there with his palms spread across his cheeks, fingers dipping easily into his hair. He takes only a moment to run both thumbs from the centre of Crowley’s lips out, tracing the crease, tugging ever so gently on his bottom lip, and then across the arch of each cheek. He shifts one hand, sliding it around the back of Crowley’s neck, his thumb pressed to the corner of Crowley’s jaw, and then he pulls him down, rising onto his toes just a little to meet him, to press their lips together again.

Crowley’s eyes fall shut instinctively this time and a small sigh of relief escapes against Aziraphale’s lips. They’re still just pressing together, mouth to mouth, chest to chest, but he’s alive and responding – giving and taking – with him and against him. Aziraphale’s fingers dance across his cheek bone, his other palm warm and secure against the back of Crowley’s neck; Aziraphale’s mouth pressing and pursing against Crowley’s mouth like he plans to try every possible angle and sample each square millimetre. Shifting from bottom lip to top, then back again before drawing the lightest friction of lips on lips as he shifts to kiss at the corner of Crowley’s mouth. Back again and again and again.

Crowley’s hands move to Aziraphale’s sides, grasping the material of his jacket but it isn’t enough of an anchor. They slide to the small of his back, again grabbing fistfuls of the soft material, drawing him in, closer, warmer, dearer, safer, snug.

And this is what proper kissing is like.

Arms slipping further, tighter still, Crowley encompasses him as much as he can, an arm snaking up Aziraphale’s back to rest one hand heavy and petting between his shoulder blades, while the other arm wraps around his waist, fingers finding purchase in the material once more. His lips meet Aziraphale’s in each soft, exploratory press even as his breath comes quicker and not quite enough. He ignores the need to breathe and plan and hope, and instead focuses on everywhere they’re touching and the contented thrum of everything feeling right that settles deep within his chest.

When Aziraphale pulls back it’s only the necessary millimetres to switch their angle and feel the press of Crowley’s nose into his opposite cheek, but even that withdrawal, already over before its reacted to, pulls a tiny, forlorn whimper from Crowley that he’s not able to swallow. And that makes Aziraphale giggle. Right up against Crowley’s lips, a hot puff of air and laughter that Aziraphale immediately tries to stop.

Except Crowley knows, immediately, that he will do anything and everything in his power to make Aziraphale do that again, even if it involves making very undemonic, needy, whiney noises. The thought makes him smile, lips stretching against Aziraphale’s, and the kiss ends far more easily than it began.

They don’t pull apart; their eyes don’t open. Aziraphale’s hands drop and slip easily into Crowley’s blazer and back around his waist. His head tucks up against Crowley’s chest and cheek, finding a perfect spot there, just the right height, to nestle. Crowley entertains his instincts and nuzzles into the white curls at Aziraphale’s temple. He presses a firm kiss there because he can’t help himself.

Crowley wonders how long they’ll be able to hold this perfect moment, to stand here, barely breathing, in such bliss. He wonders why on Earth pressing their mouths together – kissing – feels like that. He wonders when they’ll do it again, how often, how many times, for how long. Will it ever be this good again? What if it gets even better? What else might Aziraphale deign to try of kisses and romance and human love? He wonders what Aziraphale is wondering.

Aziraphale takes a long, loud breath against his clavicle and then blows it out, Crowley can feel him smiling. “We,” Aziraphale says, “Are definitely doing that again.”

Crowley’s contented, happy sigh borders on a shudder but he manages a simple, casual, “Of course, Angel,” into Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale hums his happiness and starts pulling back from the embrace far too soon for Crowley’s liking. When he steps back, though, it’s a thing to behold: his lips and cheeks flushed pink, blue eyes shining and his always mussed hair somehow still conveying that, yes, indeed, he’d just been kissed.

“Fancy a spot of tea?” Aziraphale asks more out of habit than expectation, as he smooths down his waistcoat and straightens his bowtie.

Surprising even himself, Crowley responds, “Yes, I rather do.”

***

Now with a follow up companion piece (and likely to become a short series of their early kisses): The second one that's quite rubbish And also on AO3!

A/N: I wrote a thing?! It’s an extremely sappy thing by my standards (kind of) but certainly what they deserved. I’m waiting on my AO3 account since that seems the way to do things these days. I haven’t written fic in over eight years and I am still finding character and voice with these two so feedback or discussions very welcome! This is just the first part of at least eight, each delving into a subsequent kiss because, clearly, I am a total sappy sap. And then also a potential (unlikely) opus to try to bridge Season 2 to this blissful future.

A/N2: So I posted this pretty much exactly a month ago and since then I've written... over 30K words that follows on from this beginning and you can go and read all of it here as well as two 8k stand alones that just jump to the good (explicit) bit.

#good omens 2 spoilers #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #aziraphale x crowley #doonas fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots

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mimisempai · 2 years

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It would take almost nothing for me to say I love you

Summary

When Aziraphale braves the freezing winter weather to go to his sushi restaurant like every week, he didn't expect to meet Crowley. Nor did he expect all the surprises the evening had in store for him.

Notes

2nd December Prompt : "Here, let me help you with the scarf."

On AO3

Rating T - 1200 words

The cold bit Aziraphale's face as he left the bookstore. He tugged up the collar of his coat and pulled his warm scarf up over his nose.

But not even the coldest weather could make him give up his weekly dose of sushi.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking.

When he turned the corner, he stopped suddenly at the surprise of seeing Crowley leaning nonchalantly against a lamppost.

Aziraphale asked him with a bemused tone, "What are you doing here?"

Crowley, a half smile on his face, replied, "I know it's your sushi day and that's the time you go to the restaurant."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, "Are you stalking me?"

Crowley protested, "What? No! You just mentioned several times that you were going and I-"

Aziraphale chuckled softly, not a little proud inside to be the one teasing for once, "Calm down, my dear. I was just kidding."

Crowley harrumphed and, annoyed, was going to move away but an unexpected gust of wind blew his scarf into his face. It made his glasses fly away but he could catch them quickly and put them back on his nose. Meanwhile Aziraphale had approached and once Crowley let his hands fall back, the angel grabbed both sides of the demon's scarf.

Aziraphale said softly, "Here, let me help you with the scarf."

Then tying the scarf without looking at Crowley, he asked, "So why exactly were you here waiting for me?"

"I wanted to come and keep you company uh...mess with you while you ate."

Luckily Aziraphale's cheeks were flushed from the cold, otherwise he couldn't have hidden another flush that wasn't from the cold, but from knowing that Crowley wanted to keep him company. Even if it was just to mess with him.

He replied softly, still without looking up, "I'd love to have some company."

So close to Crowley's face, he couldn't help but notice the little gasp the demon had in reaction to his answer.

But Crowley soon regained his composure and with a sweeping gesture, he said in an emphatic tone, "After you, dear angel."

At the demon's smile, Aziraphale felt that tingling in his stomach that happened more and more frequently when he was in Crowley's presence.

He could feel that something had shifted between them, gradually, through small things.

For example, the distance that had shrunk between them when they were walking, their hands brushing against each other intermittently.

Like now.

All it would have taken was one more slight movement and their hands...

But Aziraphale was a coward.

He would never have the audacity to make that simple move, so he held back. But suddenly he couldn't hold back a small gasp.

Crowley was not a coward and he had dared.

He had made the move and now his hand slid around Aziraphale's hand. Then when their hands were palm to palm, Crowley's fingers intertwined with his and Aziraphale could only close his fingers around the demon's.

He turned his head to Crowley who shrugged, "You forgot your gloves, angel, so this is a good way to warm them up, right?"

Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough now to decipher his expressions and he didn't miss the slight expression of uncertainty hidden behind the demon's bravado.

He smiled softly at Crowley, "Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you."

Crowley shrugged and looking at Aziraphale's face for a moment, he added with a half smile and in a much lower and warmer voice, "I know another way to warm you up."

Aziraphale's cheeks burned and he once again thanked heaven for the cold that could explain his blush.

He croaked, "Really?"

Crowley nodded slowly and then on his outstretched hand in front of him, he conjured a travel mug.

Aziraphale grabbed it with a puzzled look on his face and when he opened the lid, a slight smoke came out. He immediately recognized the fragrance emitted from the mug and exclaimed, "Mulled wine! But how did you know that-"

Crowley looked at him intensely and said in the same warm voice, "I know a lot about you Aziraphale."

To hide his embarrassment, Aziraphale took a sip, reveling in the warm sensation provided by the burning liquid running down his throat.

But while Crowley still had not let go of his hand, dragging him along as they made their way to the restaurant, Aziraphale knew what he had to do.

He could no longer let Crowley always make the first move, take all the responsibility of their relationship on himself.

Dare.

He held him by the sleeve and as the demon turned to him confused, Aziraphale blurted out, "I love you."

He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.

He felt Crowley's hand grip his chin and his breath on his face as the demon whispered with a hoarse voice, "Please angel, open your eyes."

Aziraphale swallowed and slowly opened his eyes. He found himself staring at the eyes of Crowley, who had removed his glasses.

"Crowley..."

The demon's expression was incredibly fragile as he asked, "You mean it? What you just said. Do you really mean it?"

Aziraphale nodded and repeated in a firm voice, looking Crowley in the eyes this time, "I love you."

Since he had known him, Aziraphale had seen the demon smile often, often in a sarcastic or mocking or arrogant way, but never had he seen the smile that blossomed at that moment on his lips.

Then the demon moved even closer and just after whispering, "I love you." he pressed his lips to Aziraphale's and kissed him tenderly.

After a few seconds, straightening up, he had a mischievous expression again as he licked his lips, "Hm, really delicious this mulled wine."

But Aziraphale hadn't had enough so he made the mug disappear and grabbing Crowley's scarf, he pulled him closer and whispered, "How about another taste?"

Crowley, probably surprised by the boldness of his angel, widened his eyes then quickly regained his composure and closed the distance between him and Aziraphale, capturing his lips for another kiss.

But as the kiss deepened, it was not the butterflies in Aziraphale's stomach but the hunger that came in a long rumbling sound that mortified him.

Crowley could not help but sneer softly against Aziraphale's lips, who could only join him despite his embarrassment.

The demon straightened up, then, stepping aside, he held out his hand to Aziraphale and said, "Come on dear angel, let's not be distracted from the primary purpose of this evening."

Aziraphale grasped Crowley's hand, intertwining their fingers, and asked, one eyebrow raised, "Which is?"

Crowley's expression softened as he replied, "To spend a nice evening in very pleasant company."

As if embarrassed by such a confession, the demon began to walk forward, looking straight ahead, forcing Aziraphale to follow him.

The angel couldn't help but smile fondly and, squeezing the hand in his own, he replied softly, "We weren't distracted from the first one, we just went a little ahead."

Now level with Crowley, he didn't miss the smile that formed on his companion's lips and promised himself to do everything he could to see that smile as often as possible.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

"Advent Calendar" : here

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphal

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thebadasshistorian · 10 months

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“I forgive you.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He held his breath then counted the seconds when he let it out.

What more was there to say?

A great deal more, really.

Ever since the Beginning, there was a running list expanding outwards in his mind of all the things Crowley might say if he ever got the angel alone, away from the universe that he had both made and been cast out of.

But now, seeing the conflicting emotions on the angel’s face as he summoned the audacity to offer his forgiveness…it was all too much.

Crowley once again felt his blood boiling at the thought of Heaven— of Gabriel, Beelzebub, Metatron. And Aziraphale.

Even Aziraphale.

But most of all, Crowley was angry with himself. A demon should know better than to allow itself to hope.

He used what little strength he had left to make for the door.

“Don’t bother.”

As the door slammed shut behind him, it occurred to Crowley in some small corner of his mind that he ought to count to ten. He ought to take a deep breath, count, and, if necessary, restart his heart by way of a lightning strike. But he did none of these things.

Instead, he got into his car, and drove.

The days blurred together, after that.

Whilst reshelving Aziraphale’s collection, Muriel happened upon an address book containing the phone number connected to the Bentley. Although they did not fully comprehend the concept of cellular communication, cars, radios, or even an address book, they managed to get through.

It almost made Crowley scowl to hear their jaunty little voice over the radio, inquiring as to when he might return to the bookshop. They seemed so delighted to be speaking on a telephone at all that Crowley regretted the fall of their voice once he replied that he would not, in fact, be returning.

Not in this lifetime, at least.

Only when he reached the coast did he feel his shoulders begin to sink with the realization that it had taken him thousands of years to declare his love for the angel, and less than five minutes for it all to come crumbling down around him.

He should have known.

Demons like to boast of their brokenness. It makes them stronger, they say. More papered for combat than the angels upstairs, who’ve never had to get their hands dirty. They simply ready themselves for war instead, just to have something to do on a Thursday afternoon.

“I thought we’d carved it out for ourselves,” Aziraphale had said mere days before.

“So did I.”

With a sigh, Crowley emerged from the Bentley with his plants in tow.

He booked a room at the Tadfield Inn, and for the first time in years, he collapsed onto a warm bed and promptly fell asleep.

But no place is safe when you’re haunted, and Aziraphale’s face ghosted through each and every one of Crowley’s tortured dreams. The angel flashed in and out of his mind as he had since the Beginning. Sometimes, he was kind. He took Crowley’s hand as he spoke absentmindedly of books and coffee. It was nice.

But most of the time, he said nothing. He just watched Crowley from Heaven’s proverbial high ground. The angel was clad in white and gold, and all his smiles contained an element of pity.

Each time Crowley awoke, he found his face streaked with tears and the hole in his chest wide enough to swallow him whole.

“Crowley.”

The demon blinked awake. The room was still dark. Only moonlight slipped beneath the curtains now

Beside him, someone had switched on a lamp.

“Crowley.”

All at once Crowley registered the hand resting on his shoulder.

“Aziraphale!” He startled awake, shifting away from him on the bed. “What are you doing here?”

Even in the lowlight the angel’s eyes were wide and anxious. He held his hand before him as though he were waiting for Crowley to slip under it once more.

“I had to see you, my dear. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, so I won’t ask for it. But I would be amiss if I didn’t at least try to make you understand why I did what I did.”

“No!”

There were tears in the angel’s eyes and Crowley could feel a fresh wave of pain coming for him as well. He stared at the wall across from him instead, refusing to see the face beside him.

Crowley struggled to the opposite side of the bed, away from where Aziraphale was sitting. “You do not get to do this now. Not when you’re—”

“—When I’m what?”

“One of them.”

A faint smile tugged at Aziraphale’s lips, but it was hollow. “You’ve always called me ‘Angel,’ you know. I’ve been one the entire time. That hasn’t changed.”

“You’ve changed.” Crowley spat. “And you wish I would as well.”

“Do you know what I’ve noticed in our past few thousand years together?”

“What’s that?”

“That I’ll never be able to forget what you were like before. As an angel.”

“You liked me better then, right? Before I was fallen.”

“I like you now,” Aziraphale said, sternly. “I’ve liked you the entire time, Crowley. Angel or demon.”

“Well, what are you on about then?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Only that before…you looked happy. You glowed with it as you painted your thoughts across the heavens. And it was deeply unfair of Heaven to rob you of your joy.”

Crowley was silent as Aziraphale spoke. He glanced over to see that the angel wasn’t looking at him, either. He was looking at his hands.

“I only want you to have what was taken from you, Crowley. Nothing more, nothing less.” Aziraphale sighed. “You deserve so much more than what you’ve been given.”

“I’ve always had what I needed.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “I turned them down, you know. Metatron.”

“What?”

Aziraphale faced him directly now. “I thought that I was doing my duty. That if I said yes to him, I could set everything right in Heaven. But now…”

“Now, what?”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Well, I suppose I hadn’t considered that I might have another duty. That I ought to be dutiful to myself, and to you.”

Crowley closed his eyes. He felt at last the stirrings of hope in his chest, but he would not indulge them, this time.

This time, he’d do better than to hope for impossible things.

“I don’t want you to do anything you’d regret, Angel.”

“Me neither,” Aziraphale said, reaching over to take Crowley’s hand in his own. “That’s why I’m here.”

Crowley cleared his throat, willing himself not to fall apart now.

“Can we start the conversation over?” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale hummed, ignoring a stray tear as it slipped softly down his cheek. “Oh, good.”

Crowley squeezed his hand, urging him to continue.

“Do you remember when we met? Back when you were setting stars in motion?”

Crowley sniffed. “‘Course.”

“You were so beautiful, Crowley. The way you saw such wonderful things in your mind and then cast them outward, painting the universe with your brilliant mind.”

“I always wondered…”

“Yes?”

“…I always wondered if you preferred me better that way. As an angel.”

“I did prefer you that way, but not because you were an angel— because you were happy. And I wanted you to have that feeling again. And I know that I can’t change the past; I can’t stop you from falling. But I thought I might be able to give you some semblance of that happiness back.”

“But that’s what you’ve been doing all this time, Angel. By being here.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky laugh. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and used it to dry his eyes.

“I hate it when you cry,” said Crowley.

“But you’re crying too!”

“No I’m not!”

Aziraphale laughed as he reached his hand to Crowley’s face, dabbing it dry with his sleeve.

“You silly demon.”

Aziraphale finished tending to Crowley’s face, and gazed into the golden eyes he knew so well.

“Would it be alright if I…if we…”

“I wish you would.”

This time, they did things right. There was no final leap of faith before the end— no attempt to prolong a dying moment.

Aziraphale placed a hand to Crowley’s cheek, holding his gaze as Crowley leaned into his hand.

When he brought their lips together at last, it was slow and lingering. Aziraphale pulled Crowley in close, placing a hand over his heart as he kissed him against the white sheets.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered over Crowley’s lips. “I’m sorry I took so long to tell you. I never should have let you live in doubt.”

When he pulled away, there were tears in Crowley’s eyes, but there was also a future. Theirs.

Read on Ao3

#good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #good omens season 2 spoilers #good omens s2 spoilers #good omens s2 fix it fic #gomens fix it fic #gomens fic #good omens fic #Aziraphale my beloved #you owe 1 million apologies at least

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anonymousdandelion · 2 years

Text

Hide Your Face (So the World Will Never Find You)

Some fluff for @kedreeva‘s March Flash Fiction prompt “Masquerade” (I’ve finished writing fills for the full month of prompts, but am slowly moving along with posting them)!

Hide Your Face (So the World Will Never Find You), rated G, 500 words

Aziraphale hadn’t expected to run into Crowley at the Carnival. In retrospect, though, it made perfect sense. What better setting for chaos and depravity of all kinds, after all, than a city-wide masked celebration? Carousing, debauchery, illicit liaisons…

With nary a word of greeting, Crowley stepped toward him and extended a hand, extravagant purple and magenta sleeves and skirt swishing. “Dance with me?” he asked, voice low and exaggeratedly seductive.

Aziraphale felt his mouth drop open at the audacity. The recklessness of the suggestion… and, worse, the strong, transgressive temptation to agree. “We can’t,” he said hastily, backing away. “Someone will see. There are so many people around. Don’t be absurd, Cr—”

“Ssshhhh,” Crowley hissed, putting a finger to lips that were, like the rest of his features, lost behind a full-face, gold-embellished porcelain mask with built-in sunglasses. He leaned forward, lowering his voice even further. “Angel, it’s a masquerade. Nobody knows who anyone else is tonight. That’s the point of it all.”

Oh. It was, wasn’t it? Aziraphale looked around at the masses of mingling, merrymaking, disguised Carnival-goers — musicians, vendors, dancers, sightseers, a sea of masked faces, no one paying any mind to two more anonymous figures among them — and realized Crowley was right.

There was, Aziraphale had been aware for a long time, a frightening part of him that wanted to be reckless. A part, now seemingly taking courage from the diamond-patterned mask secure over his own face, that wanted to be transgressive. And, well, if he couldn’t do something a little reckless or transgressive tonight of all nights — with a whole city of humans reveling in incognito transgressions on all sides — then he never would.

Finish reading

(More of my March Flash Fiction here!)

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #dancing #masks #dandelion fics #march flash fiction #march flash fiction 2022

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theravenmuse · 3 years

Text

So my GO group started talking about knights and princes and naturally this happened. As always, cross your fingers that I’ll actually finish something for once in my life.

😈😇😈😇😈😇😈😇😈😇😈😇😈😇😈😇

Aziraphale triple checked that all of the appropriate books and notes were in their proper places in his satchel as well as his pens and inks. He smoothed down the front of his tunic and fiddled with its edges. Right. No time like the present. He decended the stairs to the dungeons.

The guard on duty met him at the door. “Prince Aziraphale, it’s an honor. May I be of assistance?”

“Yes, I’ve come to see the knight that was captured at (battle).”

“My prince, I would advise against that. He’s an unsightly thing.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “I am a scholar. It is my decision to seek out knowledge of that which is unknown to me, even if such things are unsightly.”

“Of course, my prince. His cell is all the way at the end and on the left.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale nodded primly and the guard bowed to let him pass.

Aziraphale’s boots thunked loudly against the rough stone at every step. This place stank of all manner of bodily fluids. He would have to have his manservant draw him a warm bath and burn the clothes that he was wearing. Still, it was well worth it just to lay eyes on this creature.

Aziraphale had prepared himself for an ugly face. He was ready for horns and hooves and scales, perhaps even a tail. He had not prepared himself for a pale skinned boy, no older than he was, with bright red hair and fine features. The eyes alone were inhuman, but beautiful in their own way. Irises of a deep amber gold were split by the slits of reptilian pupils. Even with their unusual appearance, Aziraphale could see that they were tired eyes, pained eyes. The boy blinked a few times and finally placed his focus on Aziraphale. He drew back his lips in a hiss that showed off long, black stained fangs and the flick of a forked tongue. A few drops of a black liquid dribbled from his lips and joined the swath of dried blackness coating his chin and neck. He winced, eyes flashing with pain once more, and shifted an arm where it was held across his body, putting pressure on a wound that leaked the same black substance. Blood, Aziraphale realized. The wound was a long gash from the bottom of the boys sternum to his left hip. Aziraphale couldn’t see how deep it was.

“He’s injured?”

“Yes. Shame. Should’ve finished him off on the battlefield. Easier to say he died out there than here in our dungeons.”

“He’s- he’s not going to make it?”

“‘Fraid not, young prince. I did warn you. It’s an unsightly thing, watching a creature die, even if it is one of them.”

“Wha? Hasn’t he been seen to by a physician?”

“And then tell his Kingdom that we tried to save him but failed? He’s hardly important enough to worry about keeping alive if he weren’t on deaths door.”

“But? You can’t just let him die? That can’t be allowed?”

“It’s war, your highness. It’s God that makes the rules, not us. Now, I wouldn’t be against slipping him something to help the process along quicker, but no ones yet made the request.”

“And I very much hope they don’t, for your sake as well as theirs,” Aziraphale stuttered in disgust. The audacity of this guard! Not only to deny this man treatment, but also to suggest killing one who was in his custody.

The boy in the cell had been gradually coming to full wakefulness and he observed Aziraphale curiously. Aziraphale offered him a soft smile. The boy shrunk back, eyes flashing in fear. Aziraphale sighed and pushed the guard aside to make his retreat. No, not a retreat, only a respite. This was not over.

——-

The boy appeared to be asleep as Aziraphale approached. He was sitting in the corner half curled up with his shoulder and head leaned against the wall. His eyes were closed but the opened halfway as Aziraphale stopped in front of him. His breathing was frighteningly shallow and uneven besides.

“Hi,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just us here. I sent the guard away so it’s safe for you to talk. “Right, anyway, I brought something for you.” Aziraphale pulled the magicked apple out of his satchel and held it out through the bars.

The boy lifted his head and opened his eyes a bit more.

“It’s not just an apple, it has healing magic in it. It will kill the fever and help the wound to close.”

“Why?” The boy’s voice was rough with sickness and his eyes were wide and fearful.

Aziraphale blushed. Why was he blushing? “I- uh.” He cleared his throat. “I’m a scholar. That means I study things.”

“And you want to study me?”

“I- yes. At least until your family strikes a deal to have you back. I’m sure it won’t be long once they hear that you’re alive and well.”

To Aziraphale’s surprise, the boy turned sad at this. “Yeah right. Toss it here.”

Aziraphale smiled and tossed the apple. The boy caught it easily with the hand that wasn’t holding the side of his body together. He winced at the movement but smiled in thanks.

The boy took a bite and began talking rudely around his mouthful. “So, scholar, should I call you scholar? Oh, I feel better already. Bloody hell you’re an angel. Yep that’s it. Angel.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You may call me prince or your highness or you may refer to me by my name, Prince Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale? Yep, definitely sounds like an angel.”

“Prince, Aziraphale,” Aziraphale corrected tersely.

“Well, you’re not my prince, are you? Not use getting tied up over that one. Definitely not happening.”

Aziraphale huffed at his blatant disrespect.

“Anyway, you can call me Crowley.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Crowley is your surname.”

“Yes, well, it’s what I go by. Suppose you can call me Anthony if you like. I don’t really mind either way, angel.” This was going to be infuriating.

Crowley finished his apple, core and all, and sat up straight to face Aziraphale. “Wow! Did that do the trick?”

“That’s only the fever breaking. The wound will still take many days to heal so I wouldn’t go jumping about.”

“Right, yeah, sure,” Crowley pouted. He eased himself back down to a pouty slouch as if that was exactly what he had intended to do.

“And you’ll need more of those apples until the wound heals, so I suggest you treat me with as much respect as your fiendish mind can manage.”

Crowley shrunk down further with a new look of terror in his eyes. “Y-yes, Prince Aziraphale,” he managed.

Oh. Aziraphale hadn’t meant it like that. He bit down on the apology at the end of his tongue. Let Crowley think that way for now. It would make everything go much smoother and it wasn’t like it was going to hurt him to have a proper respectful attitude.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #medieval au #fantasy au #don’t worry #aziraphale is clueless #he will apologize when he realizes he’s being an asshole #the raven’s musings

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goodomensblog · 5 years

Text

A Touch Like Sunlight

Crowley finds out about THE CONVERSATION Gabriel had with Aziraphale. You know exactly which one.

A Touch Like Sunlight

“Perhaps Gabriel had a point,” Aziraphale mutters, “about the gut, at least.”

Aziraphale’s standing in front of a mirror when he says it, fingers meticulously twisting gleaming buttons into fabric.

Crowley thinks he must have misheard.

“Sorry - he what?”

Glancing up, Aziraphale catches sight of Crowley in the mirror.

“Crowley! You’re early,” the angel says, looking pleased, and does up the remaining buttons with an eager flourish. “I’m excited to try this new restaurant. It’s in a conservatory, yes? What a novel idea!”

“M’yeah - Clos Maggiore - got a nice big garden,” Crowley answers, distracted. “But what was that you were saying? About...Gabriel.” Crowley grimaces, his lips curling around the name.

“Oh it was nothing, dear.” When Aziraphale waves, it is dismissive. “It’s just - archangels. You know how they can be.”

Turning away from the mirror, Aziraphale’s hands flit about his front, and Crowley watches him give the bottom of his vest a little tug.

“A tad bit preoccupied with perfection, is all,” Aziraphale mutters, and reaches for his coat.

“Perfection?” Crowley stares after Aziraphale, feeling as though he’s somehow missed the critical point which connects the two points of conversation “And what’s that got to do with you and guts?”

Aziraphale stops, closing his eyes.

“My gut, Crowley. It’s-” he says, touching a hand to his stomach. “Well it’s not. You know, perfect.”

The angel’s lips twist up in a thin, sad mimicry of a smile.

“What?” Crowley’s glasses have slipped a bit down his nose, and he stares at the angel, flabbergasted.

“Oh for - Gabriel told me to lose weight, alright?”

Crowley blinks.

The demon Crowley, if you’ll believe it, once owned a laptop. A very nice one, at that. (How else was he supposed to start hour long debates via the youtube comment section?) He’d spilled a latte on said laptop, and before he could miracle the hot liquid away, the poor computer had buzzed once before the screen flickered, flashed blue, and then went permanently dark.

As he stands in the angel’s bookshop, trying vainly to process the words which have just spilled out of the angel’s mouth, Crowley feels suddenly quite a lot like a water - er, latte-logged laptop.

“It was before the apocalypse - or, I suppose, the not-apocalypse. So it’s in the past, of course. And I don’t really think about it - well, not really. But I do wonder if my, er, shape is - oh, it doesn’t matter-” Aziraphale frets, distractedly adjusting his coat.

By now, Crowley has finally managed to process the content of the angel’s declaration - and the knowledge of what Gabriel had said, of the words the archangel had undoubtedly cruelly wielded against his angel -

It makes the demon burn.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says.

He doesn’t mean for it to come out like it does - quiet and dangerous; the whispered promise a dagger makes when pulled loose of its sheath.

The angel goes still. Blue eyes - glowing with the untapped holy aura which waits, untouched within his deceptively human shell - are unnaturally bright in the dim shop.

“...Crowley?”

Distracted with the rage coiling like a serpent in his gut, Crowley does not have the presence of mind to dissect the angel’s reaction. If he did, he might have grasped the reason for the angel’s hesitation.

The reason is this:

In six thousand years, Crowley had rarely used his voice to imply anything really and truly dangerous. And Crowley had certainly never said Aziraphale’s name in such a tone. Sure - perhaps occasionally in exasperation. But not like this. Never like this.

Much later, when Crowley is calm, he will reflect on the exchange - and with profound relief, realize that of the complicated set of emotions which crossed the angel’s face, not a single one of them was fear.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley hisses, “You’re telling me that Gabriel, that-,” and he rocks back on his feet, his hand clenching at his side. “-that bastard, said that? To you.”

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to blink. “If you recall, he also planned to have me killed,” the angel says spreading his hands. “Crowley, I don’t understand why you’re fixating on-”

“No you see, that - that,” Crowley interrupts, lifting a shaking finger, “that’s precisely the fucking point.”

And then he’s moving, leather shoes pacing smartly over the shop’s scuffed floor.

Because it is the point, Crowley thinks, dragging a hand through his hair.

Gabriel tried to kill Aziraphale.

Aziraphale - who delights in simple magic tricks, in Sunday brunches, in feeding the ducks, and dancing the Gavotte; who looks forward to chatting with their new human friends when they call up every few weeks, just to catch up.

Aziraphale, who Gabriel looked at and saw frivolity, uselessness, emotion and weakness, all wrapped in an imperfect body.

Gabriel had dared look upon Aziraphale and had the gall, the audacity to miss everything that mattered.

Gabriel had never understood Aziraphale. So he’d hurt, demeaned, and belittled him. And when Aziraphale remained, still outside of his grasp - too far outside of his influence, Gabriel had resorted to destruction.

And does a being like that, ever truly stop seeking control? Crowley can’t help the thought, which slithers in, slipping around the edges of his rage.

His and Aziraphale’s body-swapping stunt bought them time, Crowley knows.

But eternity rewards the patient.

And Heaven had played the long game before.

Will Gabriel ever truly leave Aziraphale alone?

It’s a sobering thought. One that has Crowley’s molten rage cooling into something hard, sharp, and pointed.

Crowley’s steps slow - then stop.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale tries, but Crowley isn’t listening.

One of the bookshop’s upper windows is slightly ajar, and a stream of pale sunlight pours into the shop, lighting a narrow path to the floor.

Awash in light, Crowley looks up, thinking.

He’s never killed before. Not like that anyway.

But for Aziraphale’s sake - for his safety...

“Will I have to kill Gabriel?” Crowley muses, blinking up at the light.

The moment the words leave his mouth, the room surges with a white, humming energy - and then Aziraphale is on him, shoving Crowley back.

Crowley doesn’t lift a hand - even as he’s thrust against the nearest shelf.

Hard spines dig into his back as he stares into Aziraphale’s clear blue eyes. Within them, holy light churns, waiting to be called forth.

Aziraphale’s wings have manifested, and they flare out as the angel presses a staying hand against the demon. Fingers splayed across Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale half turns, angling his body to face the open shop. His free hand is raised, palm open and ready. And as the heavy silence sinks over them, Aziraphale stills, tensing.

Crowley doesn’t need to breathe, but sometimes he forgets - and so after a minute has passed, the demon draws in a slow, careful breath.

“Angel,” Crowley says, brushing a hand over the fingers so effortlessly pressing him into the shelf.

And then those over-bright eyes are on Crowley, and he is not afraid. Not when Aziraphale blinks and the air hums. Not when Aziraphale’s wings shudder and stretch, and Aziraphale presses into him.

The wings lift and fold, and Crowley is ensconced in a shelter of white.

Aziraphale’s breath is soft and shuddering, and the fingers digging into Crowley’s chest tremble as the angel leans into him. “We’re lucky. He wasn’t listening - or if he was, he didn’t hear. Crowley, what were you thinking? Including an archangels name in a statement like that?”

It was a dangerous mistake - Crowley knows. One he won’t make again.

“Honestly Crowley, all this over one stupid comment?”

Crowley shakes his head, suddenly adamant that Aziraphale understand.

“No. No. Gab- he doesn’t value you, angel. Doesn’t value your person. Your life,” he says, swallowing. “And hearing what he’s said to you, angel. Well okay, yeah, it did piss me off - but it made me realize. It’s personal for him,” Crowley says, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand. “He wasn’t concerned with maintaining order - he wanted to kill you, angel. You.”

“Yes, Crowley. I know.”

The admission is soft and certain, and it is painful - agonizing to hear his angel admit in that gentle voice that he knows the angels he’s worked with for centuries were eager to be rid of him.

Groaning, Crowley reaches for Aziraphale. His hands brush the angel’s face, caressing his cheeks, over his ears, and then Crowley’s fingers are weaving through, tangling in his hair.

Dragging the angel closer still, he leans into him, pressing their foreheads together.

“They’ve never deserved you, angel.”

Aziraphale shudders and there’s a hitch in his voice. “Crowley.”

Crowley shakes his head, nose brushing Aziraphale’s. “No. Fuck them. You’re perfect. From your toes to your stomach-” and here he reaches down, brushing a reverent touch over the angel’s soft belly.

He feels Aziraphale shiver beneath him as his touch traces up, over his chest, then along the curve of the angel’s neck.

“-to your face, your head-” and Crowley cradles Aziraphale’s face, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs, “and everything within. Your wants, your selflessness, your selfishness, and even your love of stupid fake magic. It’s perfect. Every damn bit of it,” he hisses, defiant.

The wings around them are trembling, and Aziraphale, pressing his lips against Crowley’s cheek, whispers. “Crowley, you’re-”

“Don’t say I’m lying, angel. And yeah sure, demons lie and whatever. But I’ve never lied to you.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley closes his eyes at the touch of another soft kiss against his skin. “I know that.” Another kiss.

And then, he starts again, “Crowley, you’re so good to me.” Another kiss, followed by a soft breath and then - “No that’s - what I mean is - Crowley, you are so good.” Aziraphale kisses him again, this time at the corner of his lips and says, “Don’t be angry.”

Crowley winces - not out of anger - but because his insides feel soft and fluttery and warm - and Aziraphale’s touch is gentle - nearly unbearably so. So much that Crowley distantly wonders if he might die from it.

“M’not,” he manages.

Aziraphale leans back to look him fully in the face.

“You’re not,” he marvels.

How can he be? If Aziraphale is a terrible angel, then Crowley is a worse demon.

He’s chosen his side now. No use defending old titles.

The thought of sides, however, does make some of the warmth bleed from him because - “I think we need a plan, Aziraphale - to deal with Gabr - you know, him. Or any of the others who might decide to cause us trouble.”

Aziraphale is watching him, his lips pressed in a concerned line. “A plan?”

Crowley swallows and nods. “For if they come for us. We couldn’t take them in a fight. Not all at once. But if we had to - even just getting rid of Gabr - him would give us some breathing room. You know the rest of them would back off.”

Frown lines etch the skin between Aziraphale’s brows.

“If we had to, we could split up. You could play decoy and lead the others away. Distract them long enough for me to face Gabriel. Against just him, I might be able to-”

Aziraphale’s wings snap back. The cold air of the shop rushes in - and Crowley winces at the light.

Aziraphale has him by the jacket, and the angel’s gaze is cold and blue and Crowley can’t look away.

“You will not.”

And it is more than a request. More than a demand. The air whines as the fabric of existence strains to reshape itself - to placate, to please -

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, wrapping his fingers around one of the angel’s hands.

The air settles.

And then Aziraphale’s brows are lifting, his expression pained and breaking.

“Crowley, he would destroy you.”

“I wouldn’t let him,” Crowley says, and believes it.

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says.

And really, that’s all it takes.

“Alright, angel,” Crowley says, pulling him close, “Consider that plan scrapped.”

Aziraphale’s wings disappear, folding into another plane of existence as Aziraphale wraps around Cowley in a relieved embrace.

“We surely have some time, right?” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s shoulder.

“Yeah. You’re probably right,” Crowley agrees, and savors the feeling of Aziraphale’s rigid figure softening, relaxing against him. “We have time,” Crowley says, and looking over Aziraphale’s shoulder, closes his eyes.

It’s not a lie, he tells himself. They might very well have time.

“And you won’t fight him? Not even to protect me.” Aziraphale’s voice is soft, pleading.

It is at ten fifteen in the morning, on a beautiful Sunday in April that Crowley, after six thousand years, tells the angel his very first real lie.

“No, angel. I won’t fight the archangel.”

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale says, stern.

“Me too, angel.”

Something in Aziraphale’s expression relaxes, and he smiles, small.

It doesn’t feel good - lying. Crowley never particularly liked lying, generally speaking. But here, now, it’s infinitely worse.

He tries to rationalize it - because he won’t, of course, fight the archangel unless he’s got a plan. And a good one, at that. Unless - and here’s the heart of the lie - Aziraphale is in danger. Crowley would fight an army of archangels if they threatened Aziraphale harm.

And his angel was a bastard for thinking he could guilt Crowley into promising otherwise - perfect in every way, mind you - but a bastard all the same.

And so Crowley leans back, cupping the angel’s face, and smiles.

“So how about brunch? I wanted to take you to that new place, remember? With the garden.”

“Right! Brunch!” Aziraphale says, bouncing up on his toes - as if they hadn’t just been discussing the murder of archangels. “Do you think they have crepes?”

“Angel,” Crowley says, giving him a look. “I suggested it precisely because they serve crepes.”

And then Aziraphale is grinning and it looks so bright and lovely on the angel’s face that Crowley decides they won’t talk about Heaven or Hell or bloody archangels - for the day. Or for weeks. Months. Years. Decades. Whatever it takes to keep that smile there, unobstructed.

The archangel Gabriel is a problem.

And his hatred of Aziraphale is dangerous, no doubt.

But Crowley will deal with it, in much the same way as he dealt with the other, albeit smaller dangers that cropped up throughout the past six thousand years.

He’ll just need to be more clever this time, that’s all.

“Shall we, angel?” he says, and holds out a hand.

“Please,” Aziraphale says, and takes his hand with a small, pleased grin.

Their fingers twist together, and when Crowley squeezes, Aziraphale’s fingers squeeze back.

For now, all is well.

Someday, it might not be.

But, well, he’ll come up with a plan - something particularly clever, to deal with that.

For now, Crowley listens to Aziraphale chat as they walk - the angel is talking about Anathema, Newt, Madame Tracy, and Adam and their latest telephone conversations. Running his thumb across the back of Aziraphale’s hand, Crowley savors the touch.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

READ PART 2 HERE

And some of you replied asking to be tagged and/or just keymashed, which I took to mean the same thing, so here’s tagging:

@eternallystarlight @orocatto @im-totally-famous-i-swear @thatonewholikesalotofthings @ladyhawknell @titaniablue62 @mattheweverwood @trendergrunge @harleyinblack @improfem @groot-omens @envelopedbyoblivion @roymblog @heychicka-bumbum @enby-crowley @garbage-bee @upperstories @notreallylapa @mia-bean @d0zack @digirhys @mistakesandmisspellings @moonyandpadfootwashere @wildheart49 @amy-the-nightingale @monochromatic-starlight @bigdutchone @vinylisthebestwaytolistentomusic @that-pan-kids-spam @darnwaffles @rainbowgeek @thegirlwhowroteinclass @mecharosecosplay @homeybee @kawaiiusagichansan @igosploosh @fernyquotes @nitrostreak @qfantasydragon @justjezza3 @murphychacho @yeah-umm-okay @weirdfandomboi @riptail-shredfang @massdragonchick @warcats-cat @rohrohji @thingsthatoncemeantnothing @actualpieceofwhitebread-2 @sleepy-dragons

hoboy that was more than I thought it would be. Hope you all enjoyed part 1 of the fic!

#my writing #good omens #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #ineffable boyfriends #otp: ineffable #fanfic #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale

5K notes · View notes

quensty · 3 years

Note

I’m glad you tagged yourself via me!!!! But I have a lot of questions.

Emergency fic for clout

a list of things regarding anthony j crowley

Steve?

Wouldn’t it be knife

Music wiki

omg!! thank you so much for adding that nice part to ur post in the first place!! it was very kind, especially because i love talking abt myself. anyway, AGAIN, this got a bit long.

“emergency fic for clout” i honestly had no idea what this was until i opened it and promptly laughed so hard i had to get a drink of water. i think i wrote this four years ago? it’s an aftg star wars au that i can’t believe i had the audacity to write considering i know jack shit abt star wars.

The air shifts, violent, making the floor beneath Andrew’s feet formless. As it pitches sharply to the right, he grabs hold of the control panel and shoots the Commander straight through his side.

Everything is silent except for the blaring of sirens until Kevin steps into view, face drawn pale and tight, and tells him, “Change of plan: there's someone we need on this ship.”

Nicky splutters from the data console, stilled from maneuvering wildly around looking for the right information to stare at Kevin. “What? Are you kidding me?” Even Aaron, from his place where he’s crouching over the dead bodies and looking for a working blaster, looks up with a sneer curling his lip.

Kevin doesn't look at them. He's staring straight at Andrew, who, under the perfumed fog clouding his mind, is not impressed. Andrew on the surface breaks into a sharp grin. “You heard what the Imp said. He’s alerted all stormtroopers of our location.”

“Not very fun company,” says Aaron. “Considering they want us dead.”

“Agreed,” says Nicky. “FOX almost has all the data downloaded. Two minutes tops.”

Andrew’s grin widens, showing all his teeth. He hasn't turned away from Kevin’s stare once. “You want to live?” It is not a question that needs an answer. “The answer is no.”

“We need a pilot.”

“I'm looking at one.”

“He's the best pilot in the outer worlds,” he insists, and if Andrew was anybody else, he might have been surprised. “We need him.”

“Oh?” Interested. “Who?”

“Nathaniel Wesninski.”

Silence rings out for a heartbeat, all of them stunned into silence. The ship alarm keeps blaring.

Andrew barks out a short laugh. “You mean the criminal,” he surmises.

A pause. “Yes.”

Andrew leans a shoulder against the control panel. Distantly, he can hear footsteps coming down the corridor, orders shouted by generals. Any second now, they’ll start firing at the iron gate Nicky has managed to lock down. How long it’ll hold is up is a roll of a dice.

Andrew says, “He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“We can't risk leaving him. If we don’t keep him, the Empire will.”

“Andrew,” Nicky says urgently. At his feet, FOX is beeping desperately, skittish. “We should really get moving.”

Blasters pound against the gate.

“That sounds fun,” he says, then goes, “Nicky, I want Nathaniel Wesninski’s cell number.”

“Andrew,” Nicky repeats, wide-eyed and incredulous, to which Andrew responds with, “Fifty seconds, Nicky, or you can find your own way back to Base.”

He pulls something from under his robes and, with a hiss, flicks on his lightsaber. “If we get captured,” he says, this time to Kevin, pointing the rumbling, static end of the lightsaber in his direction, “you can thank your Imperial renegade.”

pls excuse the shitty writing. the last edit was made in fucking 2018.

i was actually really excited about “a list of things regarding anthony j crowley” when i was writing it bc it really was going to be a fic written in the form of a list. which is much harder than it sounds. i still have this hope that i might finish it one day, but basically, i wanted to tell thee iconic 6k year slow burn thru crowley’s perspective. this is abt as far as i got.

1.) Crowley’s middle name is Jabez.

2.) He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with that, either. It’s a perfectly good name, one he thinks anyone like them—of which there are few, perhaps none—should like. Anyway, it’s much better than the name Aziraphale thought up. For all his intelligence and rebelliousness, he still lacks imagination.

3.) This is what Crowley tells Aziraphale, anyway. The truth is that Crowley got piss drunk one week and changed his legal name to—well, it doesn’t really matter what.

4.) In spite of the story Aziraphale likes to tell—which, depending on how much Aziraphale has had to drink, have begun in the Garden, a gentlemen’s club, the bookshop’s grand opening, Golgotha, and Paris—Crowley met Aziraphale in Heaven.

5.) More accurately, Crowley had been slouched over the railing of one of heaven’s thousands of identical balconies and was only half-listening as a Seraphim beside him went on a tirade about the location of the newest temple. Crowley, bored out of his mind, mostly stared off into the middle distance wishing he was anywhere else.

6.) He still vividly remembers Heaven. All the calculating tones, the monotonous psalms, the never-ending polished marble. Despite the light, Heaven always felt cold.

7.) He spotted Aziraphale by complete accident. He hardly paid attention to the steady stream of angels making their way to and fro anymore, and he can’t say why Aziraphale caught his eye when not much did, in those days. Anyway, Aziraphale was so completely unremarkable in every way. He held his wings back the same way everyone else did, his halo perfectly balanced over his head; even his smile was familiar. He was, in all possible ways, a carbon copy of all the rest, but he wore his skin like an ill-fitting glove, as if he’d never quite mastered how to make it his own. Crowley was hooked on it.

8.) Crowley was so busy staring he didn’t notice the Seraphim gradually leaning into his space, awaiting a response to a question he hadn’t heard. She bristled when she noticed his wandering attention, so he took a stab in the dark and said yes, that was rather interesting. He watched Aziraphale walk uncomfortably between other angels and thought, Very, very interesting.

quick tangent, this was a real comment i had next to the third point

i already answered the “steve?” question, which u can find on this post!! it’s the first two excerpts of writing.

“wouldn’t it be knife” is blank salkfjasfj. i’m so sorry!! i think it was meant to be an abigail hobbs fic, but i haven’t actually figured out how i want it to go. in other news, i’m going into witness protection.

“music wiki” was actually meant to be a gift for my friend like ... five years ago. it’s a viktuuri musician au that i haven’t made any progress in bc ik nothing abt music. unfortunately, the writing is very bad and i can’t, in good conscience, force u to read it, but just know that all i have to show for half a decade of work is 359 words. truly awe-inspiring what i can accomplish when i put my mind to it.

#thanks again! this was so much fun!!#quen writes

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taizi · 4 years

Text

i’ll find a ring if you’ll find a shaded tree

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 3203

read on ao3

There were plenty of ways Crowley might have imagined his afternoon going, if he had spared the idea any mind. It’s miserable out, the sky sponged gray all the way across with heaving rain clouds, so one could safely assume it would be an afternoon spent largely in the warm indoors until his dinner date with an angel later in the evening.

This assumption, if made at all, would be markedly dashed (pointedly, even, with a fat red marker and a pair of eyebrows raised above the clipboard as if to say ‘you really thought you’d get away with a quiet day in?’) by said angel himself.

The door jumps open, locked at all times but never at all for Aziraphale, and then closes again with two identical slams. There’s a brief stutter to Aziraphale’s hurried steps as he presumably tries to adhere to politeness and toe off his brogues in the foyer without losing any forward momentum.

“Crowley! I’ve been calling you, your stupid answer-thing is full!”

In the time it takes Crowley to sit up from his boneless sprawl on the sofa, Aziraphale is there in all his pale creams and butter yellows, as well as a criminally soft dove gray sweater vest Crowley gifted him four Christmases ago.

He’s lovely, as always, and there’s a happy, squirmy little creature in Crowley’s chest stirred to life by his voice and proximity alone; but he’s wearing a look of wide-eyed panic better suited a man at the wrong end of a firing squad, and working furiously at the signet ring that’s adorned his pinky since the actual beginning of time.

“Angel? What’s-- “ Crowley seizes up in some alarm when the angel keeps coming, piling onto the sofa with such disregard that Crowley has to either yank his knees up to his chest or lose them. “Oi!”

“Give me your hand,” Aziraphale whispers furiously, like a man afraid to be caught speaking in church. He catches hold of Crowley’s wrist, pushes the ring onto the traditional finger, and goes on, “Do exactly as I say, and for the love of all that’s holy, don’t ask questions.”

There is absolutely no way Crowley can abide these terms. If the threat of Falling wasn’t enough to keep his mouth shut in the Beginning, an Aziraphale-brand snit certainly won’t be, so-- just as soon as Crowley can get his jaw to stop hanging open, and kick his backfiring brain back into operating speeds, and do anything besides sit there and ogle Aziraphale’s ring on Crowley’s finger-- then there are absolutely going to be questions. Loads of them.

However, beating him to the punch, is the flashbang arrival of an Archangel.

Gabriel, to be precise.

Aziraphale tenses. Crowley’s hackles go up in as textbook a Pavlovian response as there’s ever been.

He feels his skin spring to scale, sharp canines lengthening, and the way the room swims into fuzzy, heat-based vision means his eyes have probably gone all yellow, too.

‘And die already,’ Gabriel had said, to Aziraphale’s precious form. ‘Die already,’ like it was the last revision on an audit report and then he could clock out for the day and call it a job well done.

For what he would have easily-- casually-- taken from Crowley, there isn’t an end in sight to this wounded rage.

“Alright, dearest,” Aziraphale murmurs, putting a hand on the small of Crowley’s back. It’s so quiet there’s a good chance Gabriel can’t hear, and even with the thrum of nervous tension in every inch of Aziraphale’s corporeal form, he spares Crowley something soft. “It’s alright.”

“So this is where you’ve run off to,” Gabriel says, looking about in open distaste. “Who decorated this place, anyway? I love the empty space, don’t think I like the color.”

It’s the light pressure of Aziraphale’s hand on him keeping Crowley pinned to the sofa, and only that. He’s as good as chiseled from stone, mouth open only slightly to track Gabriel’s scent, to show off his teeth.

(He does make a mental note to change everything about the flat Gabriel even halfway approves of. No, scratch that, he’s starting over completely. He’s moving to Chelsea. Fuck you, onion eyes.)

“Well, I had to see it for myself,” the unwelcome creature goes on cheerfully. “Not that we didn’t believe you, Aziraphale, just that-- well, you’ve fudged the truth a bit before, haven’t you? No, don’t look like that, it’s forgotten!” He waves a hand over his shoulder, carelessly. “Let’s leave the past in the past, or whatever it is they say, I don’t know. And with Her approval, there’s not much room for argument from me is there?”

He laughs, inviting them to share in the joke. Aziraphale doesn’t even smile, and Crowley is actively waiting for Gabriel to come two steps forward and one to the right, where he would be just out of the way of the coffee table and well within striking distance. Aziraphale’s fingers bunch in the back of Crowley’s shirt as if to say ‘don’t you dare’.

“To think, we assumed you were fraternizing with the enemy all this time when you’ve actually been in love! There’s nothing wrong with love, is there? That’s as holy as it gets!” He sounds like a kindergartner describing their parent’s job exactly as it was described to them, with all the confidence and faculty of someone who has no idea what the words coming out of their mouth even mean. He either has no clue how to read a room or he’s bluffing his way through this uncomfortable situation like a pro. Clapping his hands together in a self-satisfied way he adds, “Make sure you save us a table!”

“It’s going to be a private affair, I should think,” Aziraphale says stiffly. “Close friends and family only.”

“Probably better that way, not too crowded,” Gabriel agrees with a commiserating nod. It’s as if Aziraphale slammed a door right in his face and he just chose not to notice. He turns to leave, and pauses, turning his hat in his hands. “I have to say, Aziraphale, I really am relieved this whole thing got straightened out. I thought you had lost your way.”

It’s an unexpected moment of sincerity. Aziraphale blinks, but Crowley isn’t so easily won.

“After six thousand years of making his life a misery, you want to extend the olive branch now? Now that you know he won’t drag you down with him?” Crowley bares his teeth. “How’s that for unconditional love?”

If a single lunch date at the Ritz watching Aziraphale eat both his and Crowley’s own vanilla custard and listening to him complain about some obstinate customer or another would cost Crowley absolutely everything, he would pay it. He would be a fool not to pay it. He can’t imagine the audacity of six thousand years wasted. All that time, all those angels were free to know Aziraphale, free to love him, and they chose not to.

As happy as Crowley is to fill that space, to take that spot, he’s angry it was ever left empty to begin with.

Gabriel is watching him with an expression that can’t decide whether it’s more startled or annoyed. Aziraphale’s free hand finds one of Crowley’s, working it free of its fist and threading their fingers together. His thumb rubs at the patch of shining black scales just under his knuckles, soothing. It’s as if he’s loosing plates of Crowley’s armor one by one, the way he did in Wessex once after a round in the tiltyard. He doesn’t speak but his body says hush.

Crowley bites the inside of his lip, so hard it almost draws blood.

“She said we could stand to learn a thing or two from you,” Gabriel says. It’s not so much annoyance as it is scrutiny, but that rankles even more. “I wasn’t sure what She meant before, but it’s love isn’t it?” He says it again like an animal mimicking a human word. The sound is almost right, except in its lacking of all meaning. “Demons aren’t supposed to know it, but you do.”

“Well, look at the time,” Aziraphale says loudly, not even pretending to look round at a clock or Crowley’s watch. “I can’t believe we’re nearly late for our appointment. I guess you’d better go, Gabriel.”

Gabriel lights up with the manic eagerness of upper management that every hourly employee knows to dread. “Would you mind giving a seminar? We could arrange a day-pass for you, and cater lunch! Aziraphale would like that, I’m sure. Just look at him.”

Aziraphale doesn’t react, but it’s a studied non-reaction that means the barb hit home. Oh, that complete and utter git.

Gabriel takes two steps forward and one to the right. Crowley watches with animal stillness as the archangel rounds the coffee table, saying something about PowerPoint presentations. He’s going to bite. One good snap. It’s Gabriel’s fault for coming over this way. You don’t just invite yourself into the snake’s den, do you? Not without a nasty repercussion, at least. And besides, Crowley’s not even venomous today. Probably.

At the last second, Aziraphale bullies him back against the sofa with angelic strength, an arm pinned across Crowley’s chest like an iron bar and his own body blocking access to Gabriel’s. Crowley hisses at him and pushes ineffectively at the solid weight of him, but he might as well have been pushing at the side of the bookshop for all the good he was doing.

“I really think,” Aziraphale grits out in the ‘we are very much closed for the day, no more sales I’m afraid, please make your way to the exit’ tone Crowley is intimately familiar with, “that you should leave now.”

“Al-right,” Gabriel says in his obnoxious accent. He looks disappointed, but bounces back too quickly for Crowley’s taste. “I’ll get back to you on that seminar. Maybe we can chat at the wedding!”

Aziraphale only sits up when Gabriel is well and truly gone, straightening his vest with unhappy tugs. Crowley remains coiled against the arm of the sofa, seething.

“Should have let me take off his arm, ” he mutters. “A hand at least.”

“It’s simply not worth the paperwork, my dear.”

Something’s wrong with Aziraphale’s voice. It wobbles a bit, in a way that sends alarm bells ringing in every square inch of Crowley’s form, and when Crowley leans forward to get a good look at him, sure enough-- there are tears in his eyes.

The anger deserts Crowley as deftly as the light of the Host once did. Color returns to his vision, fangs retracting back into only slightly sharper-than-human canines, and the hands he reaches for Aziraphale with are smooth and scaleless.

“Angel,” he says hopelessly. “Hey, I’m sorry. I won’t bite anybody, swear.”

Aziraphale chuckles a bit, accepting the hands that curl around his own and squeezing Crowley’s fingers in turn.

“It’s not you who needs to apologize. I can’t believe I’ve done this.”

“The wedding sham?”

True, Crowley’s heart knocks a little harder against his chest than it has any right to at the idea of-- marrying Aziraphale, being married to him. There’s a ring on his finger and he can’t even think about that without a giddy, champagne-bubbles feeling making a nuisance of itself in the unguarded part of himself that’s been a lost cause since Eden. But…

Aziraphale nods, miserable. “They came to the bookshop to offer a performance review. A performance review, of all things, after a year-- anyway. Naturally, they want to know how we escaped their judgement, and all those clever lies we thought up just weren’t doing the trick, and Sandalphon started talking about going round to yours, and I-- panicked. I couldn’t let him-- “ He takes a fortifying breath, grip on Crowley’s hands tightening to the point that a mortal’s bones would have broken. “I made up some fanciful story about a union. I believe I called it a marriage of true minds,” he adds with a half-smile, and seems galvanized at Crowley’s amused snort. “Michael tried to call my bluff, had me sign the form and submit it right there with the four of them as witnesses, and…”

“And it worked,” Crowley surmises. He taps the back of Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb and tries not to think about ineffable plans or inscrutable mothers. He almost manages it.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. “I knew it would work, I knew it would. I’ve known for… a long time. Since Hamlet, at least.”

Crowley feels himself go red, and abruptly can’t make eye contact anymore. It’s really quite something, to suddenly have to address the elephant that’s followed you room to room for roughly four hundred years. He gives a tentative tug at his hands, and Aziraphale absolutely does not release him.

“Please look at me, Crowley.”

He almost can’t. He certainly doesn’t want to. He’s babbling, he realizes with vague horror, saying something along the lines of, “It’s a human thing, Aziraphale, they made it up back when people first decided they needed heirs to inherit houses, you were there, we tried to talk them out of it.”

Lunch dates at the Ritz. Picnics in the park. Warm evenings in the back room, dozing under piles of worn quilts on a worn tartan sofa, the hearth left empty because fire in the bookshop makes Crowley twitch and Aziraphale can read him like any one of his precious books. Sharing chilled white wines and heady reds, cherry cordials that leave smudges on Aziraphale’s lips, thousands and thousands of years of stories they both remember a little bit differently.

It’s good. Better than Crowley knows how to ask for. He can’t stand the thought of losing it.

Fingers touch his chin, gently, and guide his face up.

“And furthermore,” Crowley insists hysterically, “it doesn’t have to change anything. You were clever to come up with it, and if it worked that’s even better, and we can just go through the motions, an addendum to our Arrangement. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

Aziraphale says, “My darling, it means everything. Of course it does. Only this isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

His voice is tinged with tears again, but they seem borne of frustration rather than hurt. Crowley risks a nervous glance at him, heart surging up hopefully like some sort of stupid buoy.

“I wanted to do it properly,” Aziraphale is saying, brow furrowed, mouth all puckered. “You deserve champagne and flowers, all that fuss you pretend to hate. I see you get all misty-eyed at proposals, even ones on television commercials.” Crowley squawks, outraged at the flagrant slander, but Aziraphale goes right on, “There’s a meteor shower coming up that’s supposed to be the event of the century, and I had-- it was, I had everything planned. Your ring isn’t even ready yet. This is all horrible.”

Crowley stares at him. He thinks maybe he’s supposed to say something into this silence, but for the life of him, he’s got nothing. Aziraphale’s ring seems to burn on his finger. After the seconds melt into minutes, Aziraphale looks at him. His expression recycles its defeat into concern.

“Crowley? Sweetheart, what is it?”

The endearment sends a shiver all the way down Crowley’s spine. He opens and closes his hands like lobster pincers, to be certain he’s not gone actually paralyzed, and still Aziraphale doesn’t let them go.

“You said,” he says intelligently, and then doesn’t know where to go from there. “It wasn’t a lie?” he tries again, in a rather small voice.

“The marriage?” Aziraphale searches his face in the manner of a grad student desperately searching the footnotes of an incomprehensible text. “Of course it wasn’t. A fake marriage certificate would hardly have been approved by God.”

Crowley tries to say something and only manages to come up with a squeaking sound. Somehow, it betrays him entirely, and Aziraphale’s eyebrows come together.

“The proposal is meant to be a surprise, but I would have hoped we were on the same page with the engagement.”

Before he can make sense of literally any one thing about this situation, brain still struggling to jump the hurdle of the word ‘engagement’ in regards to them, Crowley finds himself so wholly embraced that he’s practically hauled into Aziraphale’s lap.

He sputters, puts up a token protest, and goes absolutely pliant when he feels lips against the crown of his head.

A halo used to rest there, shining like anything, but a kiss is much better.

They’ve kissed before, when it was culturally appropriate and even a few times when it wasn’t, but something is different about this time. Namely, that Aziraphale kisses him again, on the forehead this time, and then again on the bridge of his nose, and then again on the cheek, and then again right on the corner of his mouth, and Crowley is almost ready for it when their lips slide together, his breath almost doesn’t hitch when Aziraphale kisses him like they do in romance films, like he means to never stop.

They part because Crowley’s lungs have forgotten they don’t actually need air and because Aziraphale seems to want to gaze at him.

“I know I’ve said it before,” he says. “I know you heard me.”

‘They’ll destroy you.’

‘That was very kind of you.’

‘I won’t have you risking your life.’

‘I forgive you.’

‘To the world.’

“I heard you,” Crowley says, because he did.

He always heard Aziraphale, even when Aziraphale had no clue he was calling out. He heard ‘oh, you silly idiot’ and ‘you’re not as funny as you think you are’ and ‘please come in, please convince me to let you stay’ in a sidelong glare or the roll of his eyes or the downward turn of his mouth when they stood by the shop door.

And every lunch date at the Ritz and picnic in the park and evening in the back room was stuffed full of ‘I love you’s. A tartan quilt and an unlit fireplace and a cherry cordial, passed from an angel’s fingers to a demon’s mouth, were quiet, secret ways to say what it wasn’t always safe to say.

“Me, too,” he whispers.

“My Crowley,” Aziraphale says affectionately, another way of saying what he’s been saying for years, “I know.”

Desperately trying to get his footing back, Crowley rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand and sits back as far as Aziraphale’s arms will allow him to go.

“I still want that proposal,” he informs the angel. “During the meteor shower. With all the fuss you promised. I’ll be sure to act surprised.”

Aziraphale smiles at him. “You can’t act to save your life. I see right through you, you know.”

But that’s hardly Crowley’s fault. Six thousand years of being known would give away anybody’s edge. He rolls his eyes, and settles into where he’s obviously meant to stay for awhile, looping his arms around Aziraphale’s neck.

“The act is for everyone else’s benefit, angel. We know better, don’t we?” Crowley grins, crooked, and thinks of apples and flaming swords, freely given. “We always have.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #my writing #gomens fic #its 1am and i have no regrets #im invincible

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doonarose · 10 months

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“Crowley, you remember when I went to heaven to do the second coming?” Crowley really cannot believe Aziraphale just casually asked him that. Aziraphale continues quickly, “Right before I left, when we spoke…” he hesitates.

When we spoke! Crowley’s mouth is hanging slightly agape, his brow furrowed incredulously, a reaction that seems entirely appropriate in the face of such audacity. Crowley wills Aziraphale to drop it, his eyes flashing a warning as he steps a little closer, crowding into Aziraphale’s space.

“Yes, right, when we spoke, that day,” he continues as thought Crowley actually had said he remembered. “Well, I think I would like to try that again,” Aziraphale confesses, voice pitching a little high, a little breathless.

“No!” Realization dawns on Aziraphale’s face, his eyes going wide and his cheeks flushing pink, “Oh, goodness, no, not that. Of course not, I wouldn’t – I’m sorry – ” He grabs Crowley at the top of his arms and squeezes. He takes a deep breath, something Crowley thinks Nina might have taught him. “I love you.” It recenters both of them, lightens the air in the room, and Crowley feels his heartbeat slow and settle, his fight or flight response thwarted with those three simple words or assurance. He rolls his eyes more out of muscle memory than anything else, but the corner of his lips also twitch up involuntarily. He knows Aziraphale knows he doesn’t often say it back and that’s okay.

Aziraphale drops his hands back to his sides. “Actually, I meant the other thing… with your mouth.”

Oh. Oh.

.........

A/N: So I posted this pretty much exactly a month ago and since then I've written... over 30K words that follows on from this beginning and you can go and read all of it here as well as two 8k stand alones that just jump to the good (explicit) bit.

#good omens fic #doonas fic #good omens 2 spoilers #fic wip #to a very real extent i just need to write and dump at this point #tone and context and voice will come better later #aziraphale x crowley #ineffable husbands #im just trying it out ok #and yes obviously there is much more behind my eyes but writing is hard #and also i still cant write short and sharp at all sorry

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mostweakhamlets · 4 years

Text

SummerOmens Day 27: Marshmallow

Thank you to @thetunewillcome for the awesome prompts.

This one is a bit sad. Minor warning for domestic abuse! It does get resolved in future updates.

Beelzebub didn’t answer the question when Aziraphale asked. They rolled their eyes and looked away, focusing on the trees in the far distance. If they were lucky, a bear would come out and maul them.

“But you do like sweet things, right?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” they finally said.

Aziraphale smiled and dove into a picnic basket he had prepared.

Dagon had agreed on the night out before Beelzebub even knew about the invitation. They were in the middle of a lovely nap when Dagon pulled their sheets back and laid out a warm outfit for them. She had told them that they only had an hour to get ready, and Beelzebub, half-asleep, pulled on the outfit and ate a piece of toast before realizing that it was evening-time and there had been no aforementioned plans.

Now, they sat in front of a campfire on top of a cliff. Dagon draped a blanket over the both of them and pressed close into their side to keep them both warm and in-line.

“These are called s’mores,” Aziraphale said. “But we have to make them ourselves.”

“Sounds like too much work,” Beelzebub said.

“It’s quite enjoyable! Here you are.” Aziraphale passed two sticks with marshmallows stuck to tops down to them. “And you hold it over the fire to heat it up, and then you lay it in between these crackers and chocolate. Like a sandwich.”

Dagon took the plates with the prepared graham crackers and chocolate squares as Beelzebub shoved their marshmallow into the fire. They did enjoy sandwiches. And copious amounts of sugar. They would think of something to blame the angel for later as the “s’mores” seemed to appeal to multiple of their interests.

The marshmallow caught fire. Beelzebub pulled it out and took their plate.

“Is it done?” they asked.

“Oh… blow it out before you try laying it down,” Aziraphale said. “We don’t want any accidents.”

Dagon blew a puff of air at the marshmallow. The fire died and left behind a black crust.

“You’re not supposed to burn it,” Crowley said. “It’s supposed to be toasted.”

“It’s still perfectly edible,” Aziraphale said. “They can try again if they’d like.”

Beelzebub laid their marshmallow on the bed of chocolate and scraped it off the rod with their free cracker. They squished it together until the marshmallow oozed out of the sides. Another interest had been satisfied: sticky messes.

“Do I just eat it?”

“Yes!”

Beelzebub took a large bite. Marshmallow and melted covered their fingers and lips and smeared across the corners of their mouths onto their cheeks. It was the type of sweet that burned one’s throat and left a coating of sugar behind on their tongue. It would lead to Beelzebub feeling sick in an hour if they didn’t eat in moderation. It was perfect.

Dagon cringed at the mess. “Do you have to eat like a human toddler?”

Beelzebub shoved the rest of the snack in their mouth, ensuring that plenty of it ended up on them.

“You’re going to choke,” Dagon warned.

She took a bite of their own. She had taken care to lightly toast her marshmallow and place it neatly inside. It was a dainty bite. Marshmallow stretched out in strings as she pulled it away and snapped onto her chin and hands.

“It’s not worth the mess,” she said.

She grabbed a napkin and wiped herself clean before passing the rest to Beelzebub.

Not burning the marshmallow was a good decision. There was no grittiness or smokey flavor. It was just that much sweeter. Beelzebub’s throat was on fire.

A metal water bottle was pressed into their hands. Dagon used her to wet a napkin and begin scrubbing at Beelzebub’s face. Normally, they wouldn’t mind being cleaned up by Dagon. It wasn’t unusual. She organized their files in Hell and cleaned up their messes on Earth. But they heard Aziraphale laugh and coo behind his hand.

“That is quite sweet of you two,” he said.

And it angered Beelzebub. They weren’t baby animals to be fawned over and patronized. They were demons to be feared. They had been more powerful angels than Aziraphale could ever strive to be, and they had made Hell what it was as demons.

Beelzebub swatted Dagon’s hand away, open palm slapping her wrist. She flinched back and held her arm back.

“Hey!” Crowley snapped. “Don’t treat her like that! Why would you do that?”

The silence that hung over them all was thick. No one moved.

Beelzebub tried reaching out to Dagon but stopped themselves. Their cheeks burned so much that their throat felt fine.

“I think I’ll go back to the house,” Dagon whispered, calmly rising to her feet.

“Let me accompany you,” Aziraphale said.

Beelzebub watched Aziraphale and Dagon gather their belongings and silently begin walking down the trail. They turned to Crowley, who steadily glared.

“That was low even for a demon,” he said.

“I know.”

“What the Hell was that even about?”

“I don’t know!”

Crowley was right. Demons wouldn’t stoop so low. They could start wars and tempt priests. But they would never hit a partner.

Beelzebub felt sick. They thought about going back to the house and finding Dagon nervous and hurt. They thought about her in bed only to avoid having to talk to them. It was sickening. They were a grade-A cunt. Dagon left Hell for them and they had the audacity to hit her in front of the people she had turned to for help. Help for them.

“You know.” Crowley shoved everything back into the picnic basket. “I think you’re beyond helping at this point. You’ve had three people try to get you out and feel better about your whole situation. Dagon’s done everything for you these past three months, and you repay her by hitting her.”

Crowley stood with his basket. He unscrewed the lid to one of the water bottles.

“I didn’t ask for help,” Beelzebub said.

It was only to defend themselves. Make it seem like Aziraphale and Crowley had crossed a boundary. Make it seem like they were part of the problem.

Crowley shook his head. He poured the water over the fire. Steam and smoke flared up as the fire dwindled.

“Well, maybe that’s your biggest problem. You don’t know when to let someone help rather than keep fucking everything up.”

Read past prompts on AO3

#good omens #fly wives cottage au #fileflies #summeromens

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ourownsideimagines · 5 years

Text

In a Field of Roses, My Petals Were Always Blue (Aziraphale x FTM!Reader x Crowley)

Characters: Male!Reader (FTM), Aziraphale, Crowley

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Anon

Point of View: Second Person

Warnings: Some Trandphobic asshole making comments, I may have cussed, and minimal editing

Words: 913

A/N: N/A

----

Shopping for clothes had never been much fun in the past. You’d only been out as transgender for a little over three months, meaning that you’d always gotten women's pants, or women's t-shirts (you know, the kind that widen the bust and shrink the waist). Finally being out had been exhilarating, and you’d finally found time to go clothes shopping with your partners Aziraphale and Crowley.

The three of you browsed separately, and the boys would approach you every few minutes with clothes they thought you might like. So far you’d gathered a few sets of jeans, a handful of graphic t-shirts, more comfortable underwear, and a new jacket.

You were looking at belts when it all started to feel like it was going down hill. You heard shuffling and looked up, expecting to see one of your partners, but instead caught the eyes of an older woman. It seemed fine at first. She smiled. You smiled back. You continued looking for belts.

Then, she spoke.

“It’s so nice of you,” She began, catching your attention. “Helping those gentlemen pick out clothes.” She was looking at the belts on the other side of the rack. “I know how tiring it is to pick out clothes for my son, I can’t imagine picking out clothes for picky old men.” Your blood ran cold. Do you tell her?

“They’re, uh,” No, you decided. You weren’t gonna hide. You didn’t need to - it wasn’t right. “They’re actually for me.” You said. The woman’s smile dropped.

“Honey, you realize you’re in the men’s section, right?” Her voice, originally playful, was now icy. “The women’s section is on the other side of the store.”

“I think I’m right where I need to be, miss.” You replied, taking a belt off the rack. The woman frowned. “After all, men belong in the men’s section.”

“Honey, why would you do this to yourself?” She sighed. “You’re such a pretty girl, you should keep it that way.”

“Except I’m not a girl.” You clench your fists, throwing the belt into the cart. You were preparing to walk away.

“Yes, honey, you are.” She replied. “You’re just confused.” She marched over to your cart and took the belt, and spoke as she began to hang it back up. “Come with me. You just need a woman’s touch, I’ll find you a nice dress to wear.” You gaped at her audacity.

“I think I’m perfectly fine right where I am.” You snapped. She turned to you with a hard glare.

“No, sweetheart, you’re not.” She blocked your reach for the belt rack. “Because everyone knows the women's section is for women and the men’s section is for men.” She jabbed a finger at you, about to speak again when an arm wrapped around you.

“If only men are meant to be in the men's section, I think it’s you who should be leaving.” Crowley hissed out as he pulled you to his side. You could see the woman’s face turning red in anger. “I think it’s about time you stopped harassing my boyfriend and got back to shopping for your kids.” It looked like the women was about to argue, but then Aziraphale arrived with a nice red sweater.

“(Name), my dear, what do you think of this? I saw it on the ‘clearance’ rack, and thought you might like it.” When he looked up finally he realized the situation. “Oh, uh, is something wrong?” He gazed between you and the woman, noting Crowley's protective stance.

“Absolutely sir-” Crowley cut the woman off.

“No, angel, nothing wrong, this lovely woman was just about to get back to shopping and leave us alone.” You watched as his words danced around the woman’s head, and her eyes glazed over, the expression of anger dropping. She began to mutter to herself unintelligibly before moving back over to her cart and disappearing further into the men's section. Once she was out of sight you felt like you could breathe again.

“What in heaven’s name was that?” Aziraphale asked, worry still evident both in his voice and on his face.

“Just an early morning, close-minded idiot.” Crowley said, moving his arm up around your shoulders. He pulled you into him, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You gladly welcomed the affection.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, suddenly realizing what was going on. “Oh, dear, are you alright?” He asks softly, coming to stand in front of you. You smile at him, though it’s shaky, and nod slowly.

“I am now.” You tell him. You gently take the sweater from him and examine it. You press a kiss to his cheek. “I love it.” You tell him as you put it in the cart. “I love you. Both of you.”

“Awe, but you love me more.” Crowley jokes, earning a playful glare from Aziraphale. Crowley chuckles, pulling Aziraphale over and planting a kiss on his forehead.

“Silly boys.” You laugh. “Come on, I think I’ve got enough for now. Let’s check out and get something to eat? I saw a sushi place over by Starbucks.” Aziraphale’s eyes light up at the idea.

“Oh, yes, that sounds lovely.” He grins. Crowley slings an arm over the Angel’s shoulder, but says nothing.

For the rest of the day, Crowley and Aziraphale made sure to keep your mind off of what happened, and by the time you returned home you’d forgotten it almost completely. You couldn’t have asked for better partners.

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victoodles · 5 years

Note

Not 100% sure if you do requests, but if you do could you do something (platonic or romantic) with Aziraphale where the reader is a demon and works with Crowley and acts all tough but Aziraphale finds out that she secretly LOVES baking? Sorry it's so specific but I've had the idea in my head for awhile but for some reason couldn't write it. I saw your Crowley fic and it was so well-written!

another request coming in hot!!! i have only written for my angel oc but switching it up with a demon gal was so much fun! as always, enjoy

“Boo!”

Aziraphale jolts back in his chair with a yelp at the unexpected intrusion, knocking over a stack of books in the process. The discordance is paired with mischievous giggling followed by a heavy sigh, courtesy of Crowley.

“Told ya it would spook him!” You continue to titter, wrapping your arms around Crowley’s neck as you float behind him. Crowley rolls his eyes from behind his glasses and regards you from over his shoulder.

“Boo? Really? Are you a thousand years old?” You respond to his reprimands with a pout.

“It was funny!”

Aziraphale begs to differ as he miracles the mess back into order with a snap of his fingers. “Hello you two,” he says, exasperated already. Crowley acknowledges his friend with a nod and you a salute, now floating leisurely on your back.

“My dear, you’re corporeal now. You can walk, you have legs.” Aziraphale explains with the same sternness of a chiding mother.

You purse your lips again. “But that means effort. And this,” you cross your legs and elevate them in the air, “is much more fun.”

“But if a human were to come in and see-“ Aziraphale begins but you interrupt with your own snap. The locks to his bookshop turn up with a click.

“There, problem solved.” You say simply, holding your palm out to Crowley for a high-five. He complies. You lower your over-sized sunglasses (you vehemently brag that they’re Gucci), revealing pitch black eyes and shoot Aziraphale a wink.

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose, saying a silent prayer for his patience. “Right,” he begins before taking a seat again, pulling out a file full of various documents. “Now that the two of you have arrived-“

You eye the papers with contempt. “Wait,” you interject yet again, “are we actually here to do work?” Aziraphale looks at you incredulously. Crowley has opted to stay out of it, pouring himself a glass of red wine before plopping down on the couch.

“Y-yes of course. Now that Armageddon has been successfully thwarted we must plan for the new future! Managing Adam’s powers, proper schooling for him, and-“

“Yeah yeah that all sounds grand. And very boring.” You fake a yawn and motion for Crowley to pass the wine.

“Boring?!”

“She’s not wrong,” Crowley adds casually, earning him a shocked gasp from the angel.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cannot believe what he is hearing. Crowley shrugs nonchalantly in response and you snicker playfully.

“Well you two can hash it out, figure out all the details. Azi, just come over later and fill me in.” You say with a dismissive wave.

“But-“

“Toodles!” And with that you vanished, presumably returning to your own abode. Aziraphale is left dumbfounded; Crowley seems unsurprised with how the afternoon is turning out.

“She is…” Aziraphale begins, nerves frayed.

“Something else? I know, you’ve previously mentioned.” Crowley offers Aziraphale a well needed glass of Cabernet.

After hours of much deliberation, meticulously crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, Aziraphale and Crowley successfully mapped out the next ten years of Adam’s life and then some. While it would’ve gone by quicker if you were a willing participant, it seems you were not fond of working, physical or mental.

Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair (which he heavily considered tearing out due to frustration) and heads for your flat. It’s conveniently in the same complex as Crowley’s; Aziraphale has the route memorized and thoroughly enjoys the walk.

He takes the time to reflect. The world is safe from needless slaughter - humanity can continue to thrive. And it’s all because of the friendship between demons and an angel. Yet despite all these victories, Aziraphale can’t place why you are being so lackadaisical about...well everything.

Crowley had said you spent a majority of your time when you were in office at Circle 5 - Sloth. And even when you decided to “grace” Hell with your presence, as you often put it, you would just sunbathe next to the River Styx. In contrast to doing any of your assigned clerical duties, or anything work related at all.

Yet when Armgeddon came knocking on Earth’s door, you were there alongside them to eagerly answer the call.

Quite strange indeed, Aziraphale muses as he approaches your door. He gives the wood three polite knocks and awaits your response.

Nothing.

He tries again, this time with a call of your name. And once again he is met with the same silence.

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale’s patience has already waned dangerously thin; he just wants to give you an overview of today’s happenings and get back home. While he typically tries to avoid debauchery of any kind, he is too exhausted to follow his usual principles.

Aziraphale looks to both ends of the corridor to ensure the coast is clear before miracling your door open. Being frivolous with his powers wasn’t a concern anymore thankfully.

Your door unlatches effortlessly and Aziraphale escorts himself inside. He doesn’t think he’s ever set foot in your flat before - you weren’t prone to company. But just from the entryway he can deduce that this place definitely belongs to you.

Red velvet drapes cover the windows with ornate patterns stitched in gold along their borders. Your carpets seem to mimic that same style: burgundy rugs covering rich mahogany floors. Adorning the walls are a variety of paintings; Aziraphale might be imagining things but he swears you have the original “Birth of Venus”. He thinks it wise to not ask how you acquired that for your collection.

Aziraphale might have thought he wandered into a demonic opera house had it not been for the aroma of baked goods wafting in the air. Their sweetness was almost palpable and he wished to seek the origins of these confections.

The trail led him to your kitchen, constructed entirely of marble and equipped with the finest of appliances. You had your back to him, idly whisking a bowl of batter and humming softly to yourself.

There was none of your usual rigidness or arsenal of snarky comments being slung every which way. You were relaxed, peacefully baking (a skill Aziraphale admittedly didn’t think you capable of). Aziraphale thought you almost looked…

“Angelic…”

He hadn’t meant to speak that sentiment aloud and you squeal in surprise. The bowl slips from your grasp, splattering its contents all over your floor; a simple wave of your hand soon rectifies the mess. You spin around, horrified to meet Aziraphale’s giddy smile. He was practically bouncing on his feet at this discovery. You pull your sunglasses back down to cover the shame in your eyes.

“You never told me you baked!” Aziraphale chirps, clasping his hands together. The red tint that adorns your cheeks is positively adorable; Aziraphale has never seen you so flustered! He didn’t think bashful was listed in your range of emotions to be perfectly honest.

You pathetically sputter, trying to conjure up some sort of excuse but coming up short. Would he believe you if you said you were attempting to poison the nasty old lady who lived next door? Probably not.

“Who, me? Bake? Don’t be preposterous, Azi!” The angel just continues to beam at you, much to your chagrin.

“Oh, so who made that stack of crepes then?” He motions to the plate filled with a generous portion of fresh crepes, still steaming. Your flush intensifies.

“I-I have no idea! How peculiar…”

Aziraphale says your name like the coo of a dove, urging the truth from you. He’ll continue to persist, and you sigh in defeat at the realization that you just don’t have the energy to combat him. You silently reprimand yourself for your incessant laziness.

“Fine, fine,” you begin with a dismissive wave. Aziraphale’s smile only widens at your admission. “If you must know, I enjoy baking from time to time. It feels nice, the manual labor that is...” You feel painfully sheepish all of a sudden.

“And...all of these are for you?” It’s an earnest question poised with so much sweetness it hurts your teeth.

“No,” you mumble. Transparency has never been one of your strong suits but Aziraphale has a talent for changing people. Crowley can personally attest to that. “They’re for you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in shock. “For me?” He parrots and you scoff. How dare he have the audacity to make you admit this not once but twice.

“Yes you!” You bark. When he flinches you feel a pang where your heart should be and you soften your tone. Pursing your lips, you cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child. After centuries of exposure to your mannerisms, Aziraphale found himself admitting that they were actually quite sweet. What a shift - from Hellish to cute in the span of a day.

“I,” you pause, mulling over your words. He awaits them with bated breath. “I felt bad for leaving you and Crow alone. So I...wanted to make it up to you, I guess.” You admit shyly. It wasn’t much, but you figured you could play it off as a gesture of good faith from a local bakery. Wishful thinking in retrospect.

Aziraphale helps himself to a seat at your kitchen island, littered with bowls of fruit and whipped cream. He’s already gone to work on preparing himself a crepe filled to the brim with all the proper fixings.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Aziraphale asks, patting the empty stool next to him. Once again you find heat rushing to your face. How could an angel such as himself be so unconditionally hospitable to a nefarious Hell-inhabitant? And you thought you were the strange one.

You grumble some nonsense under your breath and comply with his request. Aziraphale is certainly pleased as punch. He continues helping himself to your hard work (it was meant for him after all) and moaning in delight with each bite. Your heart beats wildly against your ribs; you must be dying.

“These are absolutely scrumptious, my dear.” He says with a sincerity you’re still not used to. It’s hard to reciprocate but you try your best. One step at a time.

“Thanks…” you grouse, but the appreciation is there. Aziraphale hears it - he always will.

#vic's fics!#anon #good omens #good omens x reader #aziraphale x reader #crowley x reader #this was a lot of fun

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years

Text

Dennis

Welllllll this one got a bit away from me. I blame cabin fever (two days snowed in) and my angst addiction. Story 4 for @drawlight‘s advent challenge.

Couple of notes: Dennis, MA is a real place, and chosen for the setting because (a) it is the site of the first recorded commercial cranberry bog in America, and (b) it has a very silly name. It’s actually quite nice, if you manage to visit between the overcrowded tourist season and the completely dead off season, Crowley just has no patience.

Cranberry wine is not as common as the story might imply, especially in 1982. Crowley is drinking Truro Vineyard’s Cranberry Red from their Lighthouse Wine Series, which my parents are big fans of (it’s good, if you like red wines), even though that wasn’t available until the late 2000s. Bad historian, no cookie for you.

Thanks to @angel-and-serpent for reminding me about the wolf spiders.

04 - Cranberry (2,600 words)

Crowley sat on the four-poster bed, staring at the phone. The clock beside it clicked from 1:59 PM to 2:00. He tensed…but nothing happened.

Don’t panic. It’s not always exactly the same time. He tried to occupy himself by listing things he disliked about the hotel room.

The lighting room was atrocious, casting everything in a sickly yellow color. Even sitting alone, he wore his glasses to dull the glow a little. The bed was…passably comfortable, the quilt too stiff, the pillows far too flat. The carpet was worn, though only a little. The color scheme was too…green. He’d seen three ants, which might just be a coincidence, or the start of an infestation.

The phone rang, a sharp jangle cutting right across his nerves. 2:03 PM.

He scooped up the handset and said as casually as possible, “Yeah?”

And relaxed, smile drifting across his face that he’d never allow in a face-to-face conversation.

“No, I’m not too busy, Angel. How was your week?”

Slowly, he leaned back on the bed, stretching the coiled cord as far as it would go.

“Really? No. The audacity, coming in and trying to buy a book. What do they think it is, some kind of shop?” He listened another moment. “Aziraphale, I am taking this exactly as seriously as it deserves.”

He listened for a while longer, with an occasional, “Yeah. Yeah.”

“How are my plants?” He frowned. “Perfectly fine? They’re dropping leaves all over the shop, aren’t they?” Rolled his eyes and sat up. “No, I don’t care if it’s November, they know what’s expected of them. I’ve only been gone…” he sighed. “Twenty months.” He was really going to have to re-establish dominance when he got back.

“Nah, I mean, New York was great. Plenty going on there. We should – you should – yeah, I think you’d like it there.” He winced. He sounded pathetic. “Then two days ago, hey, congratulations, now on to the next location. But…I really think someone cocked this one up. No way this is where I’m supposed to be.”

“Dennis.”

He jumped to his feet. “No, not Dennis who, Dennis. It’s a town.” Pacing was difficult in a room this small. He almost immediately became tangled in the phone cord. “I have no idea who names a town ‘Dennis.’” He struggled to free himself without moving the earpiece. “Some bloody tourist place, beaches and sea food, only it’s the off-season.”

He kicked the last bit of cord off his leg – how had that even gotten there? – and flung himself dramatically into the armchair. It wasn’t as good without an audience.

“Now I’m stuck here, nothing to do, until Hell admits they made a mistake. Who knows how long that’s going to be.”

Furious scowl. “No, I’m not being… who even uses the word histrionic? There’s really nothing here. Even the hotel – you’ll never guess. Three stars.” He frowned. “You try it.”

“There is a cranberry bog.” He admitted sullenly. “Lots of spiders. I’m sure there’s something I can do with that.” Pause. “No, I will not behave myself, I’m a demon. And I was told to make trouble, not that there’s any trouble to get into here.”

He sighed. “Haven’t the first idea, they just congratulated me for something to do with politics or the economy.” Crowley pulled off his glasses rubbing at his eyes. “Come on, Aziraphale, you know that’s not how I work. I don’t even understand the economy. Supply-side whatsname, what’s that even mean? But Hell was really happy.” He shuddered. “Ah, I hope I don’t get a commendation. Then I’ll know it’s bad. It’ll be like the Spanish Inquisition all over again. Or the French Revolution.”

He smiled, twisting the cord around his finger. “No, I – you don’t have to. If you want crepes, I’m sure there’s someplace closer.” He laughed. “Yeah, now you mention it, they do still have the death penalty here, but I think you need something more than a bad outfit.”

He was running out of things to say. He tried desperately to think of something, anything. “Uh, any dinner plans?” Nodded. “No, that’s – that sounds good. I wish – I hope you enjoy it.” He knocked his head against the back of his chair. “Got some wine at the airport. ’S alright, I guess.” Nodded again. “Yeah. No, definitely. Talk to you next week.”

Crowley walked back to the bed and dropped the phone into the cradle with another sigh.

It was 2:07 PM and Crowley had the phone to his ear before the first ring even finished. “Yeah?”

“Not good, Angel. I spent days getting those wolf spiders to listen to me, and before I could enact my plan, they closed the bog for the season!”

He covered the mouth of the phone and scowled at the half-dozen spiders on his curtain. “Oi, you lot. Back in the planter or you can winter outside with the rest.” He glared until they had settled back among the spiny shrubs with small red blossoms. He would not be telling Aziraphale about his new roommates, or that the best option at the undersized plant shop had been a succulent called crown of thorns.

“No, it was going to be a great plan. All my plans are great.” He clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Well, that worked, didn’t it?”

He groaned and flung himself back onto the green quilt. “Of course I’m still in Dennis, where else would I be? I told them it was probably supposed to be Denver, but does anyone listen to me?” He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “The worst is, they keep congratulating me on all the good work I’m doing.”

“No, Aziraphale, I don’t think they meant the spiders, either.” He picked up a newspaper – an actual, local paper, not one of the ones put out by Hell. “I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on, but they don’t exactly get the New York Times here.” He flipped through the titles – Cape Cod Chronicle, Provincetown Advocate, The Register. He’d tried to get a few older issues, but everything was from the current month: November, 1982.

“Why would I go to a library?” Pause. “Ohhhhh. Mm, I suppose I can try that if I get desperate.”

Aziraphale asked a question. “Nh, ah, ok. So. Someone wrote this book about this huge secret satanic organization that, I don’t know, controls the world or something. Accused my side of…some stuff.”

He sighed. “If you must know. Torturing and murdering children.” Crowley sat bolt upright. “No, Aziraphale, obviously not. You’d know if it was true.” He picked at the seams of his black jeans. “I suppose you had to ask.”

“Well that’s the thing. We didn’t know anything about it either. So they sent me here to figure out what was going on.”

He flipped through the pages of the newspapers. “Not much, really. All in their heads, right? Didn’t even need to bother stirring it up, these things really take care of themselves. I’ve just been doing my usual, traveling to different cities, causing a little trouble.”

Giving up on the tiny newsprint, Crowley reached for one of the bottles of cranberry wine that the liquor store had had in abundance. “Well, that’s the thing. I can’t find anything in the papers, so that can’t be it.” He poured himself a glass. “Just…you know. Economic stuff. Banks. Taxes. I don’t know.”

He took a drink. “Mh. There was something, can’t find it now. Some men getting sick out in California. Hope it’s not another plague.” He laughed a little. “Hooray penicillin. Honestly, I’m glad to see the end of plagues. Lousy way to do things.”

Aziraphale turned the conversation to lighter things, and for a while Crowley sipped his wine and listened, learning everything going on back in London, what the customers had tried to buy now, and the angel’s dinner plans.

“Oh, you’ll like this. You know what next week is? Thanksgiving.” He poured the last of the bottle into his glass. “It’s like Christmas, only instead of presents, more food. Very American. The hotel’s serving it in the main dining room.” He drained his glass. “Eh, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce. The usual. I probably won’t have any, you know, you’re supposed to celebrate with friends, but – yeah I thought you’d like that.” He smiled at the phone. “I’ll…uh, I’ll talk to you then, right?”

After he hung up, he noticed one of the spiders sitting on the floor next to him. “I thought I told you to stay in the planter.” At least they’d cleared up the ant infestation. He’d have to get some crickets in the morning.

The wolf spider waved hairy legs at him. “Oh, alright.” He let her scramble up his arm and settle on his shoulder. “But no wine for you. That’s all I need, bunch of drunk spiders.”

The phone rang at 2:01 PM. Crowley didn’t pick up.

Or at 2:10. Or 2:13.

It was 2:29 PM – long after Aziraphale had lost track of the number of times he’d called and hung up – when Crowley finally knocked the handset out of the cradle. “Wha’?” he demanded, slouched on the floor amid empty bottles of cranberry wine.

“’M celebrating, tha’s what.” The spider on his shoulder scurried down to settle on his knee instead. She was always nearby these days. “Cuz I know what Hell c’gratulated me for.”

He dug around for a bottle that was still half-full, drank straight from its mouth. “Not the economy. Well. Starts with that. Whole time I’m here, people been…losing jobs, banks closing. Did I notice?” He leaned his head against the bed. “No, s’pose not. But people…you know people.”

He nodded, watching the spider jump from one knee to the other. “Satanic Cult story just…keeps growing. Accusations. People in prison. Kids always in the middle. ’S not even real. Just. Panic. And then the other thing.”

He held out his hand, let the spider crawl across his fingers. “Said I was done caring, after the Black Death. You can’t… can’t care, you know? Plague’s gotta run its course.” He hadn’t ever really believed that anyway. “But this is… something new.”

He raised his hand and the spider clambered onto his head. It felt nice, little fuzzy legs combing through his hair. “Dunno. Something with… ’mune system? ’S bad. And…and no one cares. Aren’t studying it. Aren’t talking about it. Cuz of who’s sick.”

He picked up the bottle again, draining it, sweet-tart wine running down his throat. “’S what ’m s’posed to’ve done, y’know. Make ’em turn on each other. Cut off th’ ones who need help. ’S like I did in Spain…and France…”

He leaned his head against his knees, curling up beside the bed in his nest of bottles. “Nnhhh, ’f its nothing to do with me, why do I keep getting credit?”

Crowley couldn’t listen any longer. He let the phone tumble out of his fingers, onto the floor. Aziraphale’s voice grew louder, more insistent, then abruptly cut off.

Of course he’d hang up. Why would anyone want to talk to a demon who –

With a strange hum, something burst out of the phone, materializing in the hotel room very close to where Crowley sat. The pale figure stumbled on the wine bottles, then straightened his tartan bow tie and glared.

“Don’t you dare ignore me, Crowley.”

“I…how’d you…”

“Traveling through the telephone lines. You told me you’d tried it once before.”

“It was awful.”

“Not nearly as awful as your driving.” Aziraphale looked him up and down. “Look at yourself. You’re dressed like some sort of…teenaged ruffian. Why is there a spider in your hair?”

“’S fashion,” Crowley answered vaguely.

The angel leaned down and lifted the wolf spider, being careful not to hurt her legs. He watched the spider run across his palm. “And how long has he been like this?”

“Look, Angel, she just –”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Aziraphale walked away, whispering to the spider. “Really? And you didn’t try to tell him – No, I suppose not. No, you’ve done your best. I’ll take it from here.” He set the spider down among the crown of thorns.

The angel still looked absolutely furious. “You could at least stand up instead of skulking on the floor like that.”

Crowley stumbled and tottered getting to his feet, and it wasn’t only because of the all the empty bottles. Well, in a way it was.

“Angel, you shouldn’ be here –”

“I should absolutely be here. You’ve been on your own far too long.” He eyed the bottles. “How many of those are from today?”

“Nn. All of ’em. Housekeeping clears them out every morning.”

He tried not to notice the look Aziraphale gave him as the angel snapped his fingers, miracling the bottles into a neat row across the bedside table. “Now sober up.”

“C’mon, Angel, ’m fine.”

“Sober up. I’m not talking to you like this.”

The cranberry wine was a lot less pleasant coming out than it had been going in. And sobriety only made all the emotions he’d been feeling more clear.

Aziraphale watched the liquid pour back into the bottles, and when he was satisfied, jabbed a finger into Crowley’s chest.

“I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense. You are not responsible for what the humans do, or believe, or ignore. That is their choice.”

“I know.” He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I just…how can they be so cruel to each other?”

“Free will.” Aziraphale sat beside him, so close their shoulders just barely brushed. “One day an act of kindness that surprises even me, the next…”

“The next, they leave hundreds of people to die horribly, just because they’re different.” This wasn’t any easier to process sober. “Are you going to tell me this is all part of the Ineffable Plan?”

“Would that make you feel better?”

“Has it ever?”

“Then, no. I think I’ll leave it at that.”

They sat together in silence for a long time.

There really weren’t any words to make it better. Free will or not, Plan or not, sometimes, humans were the absolute worst. He didn’t know why, after six thousand years, it still hurt to learn that.

But it helped to know, from the pressure of one shoulder leaning on another, that at least someone else had never learned to stop caring.

“So, are you going to head back to London?”

“After coming all this way?” Aziraphale had run out of severe looks; he just smiled sadly. “I have a few healings left in my allowance for the year. I think I might…see what I can do out in California.”

Crowley nodded, and for once he was the one on the verge of a forbidden thank you.

“Before you go. I think the Thanksgiving dinner is about to start. I don’t suppose…”

“My dear, I would never turn down a feast.”

The demon quickly stood up, re-settling his glasses, manifesting something a little more sophisticated than the punk-inspired look he’d been wearing.

Aziraphale dug under the bed and found an unopened bottle of cranberry wine. “I’m looking forward to seeing how this tastes. Oh, it looks like a little lighthouse! Lovely.”

Crowley paused at the door. “You’re not going to be all weird and pretend we don’t know each other, are you?”

“I suppose not. Since this is supposed to be a celebration with friends.” He eyed Crowley suspiciously. “Don’t go being overly familiar just because I said that.”

“Me? I would never!”

#good omens fanfiction #good omens prime #ineffable husbands #31 days of ineffables #aziraphale #crowley #hurt comfort #but tough love comfort #aziraphale is a bastard

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thejackalxi · 5 years

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Archangel Raphael Theory

So, after reading up a bit on the Crowley!Raphael theory, here's how I've come to view it.

Firstly, in the series we always see Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel together. They are 3 of the 4 main archangels. Raphael is the fourth, yet Sandalphon is among their group? This allows the theory some soft (or strong for some) foundation for the theory.

(UPDATE ON THIS POINT: There are so many different lists and interpretations of which were the first batch of archangels. Sandalphon IS an archangel and works closely with Metatron. He is the angel patron of mercy and music.)

Second, I believe that because the Almighty had the entire thing planned out from the beginning like a prewritten script or novel and is simply watching her plans play out, she intended an angel and a demon work together to stop the apocalypse, but they had to be unique of both groups. Crowley and Aziraphale both hold love and respect (in their own ways) for the earth and the organic lifeforms on it, and are unafraid to bend the rules of their respectable sides. No other demon or angel is shown to be like this in the whole of the series.

Third, I believe when Archangel Raphael questioned the future well being of Earth and its creation and perhaps questioning the banishment of Lucifer and his other fellow angels (however this presumed scene and dialogue would play out), it earned him fallen angel sentencing, but before he fell, Raphael was torn in two by the Almighty. Aziraphael, the goodness of Raphael, and the newly dubbed Crawly, the darkness and rebelliousness of Raphael. As a demon, Crowley remembers is fall from grace but both share different memories as Raphael, however, Aziraphale believes these scenes he can recall had to have been from dreams and Crowley does not remember the name Raphael as himself. The name was blurred in their minds.

Fourth, the biggest argument for those not for this theory say Raphael was not associated with the creation of stars. Crowley, in the series stated while going through pages of an astronomy book, "Beautiful nebula, I helped build that one." As one of the 4 top Archangels it is quite probable that he lent a hand where he was needed in the construction of the universe, or perhaps he simply wanted to help that particular project. It is never explicitly said that Crowley was once some great star cluster master, just that he helped with one nebula, though maybe more. Archangel Raphael is associated with quite a few things, but his main associations are HEALING and PROTECTION OF TRAVELERS.

Fifth, consider the line when Aziraphale suggests he inhabits Crowley while the angel was discorporated. What if he did do this and the intermingling of their ethereal spirits fused back together to reform Raphael. The sudden realization of who they had always been, who they were meant to be together. Aziraphale's "dreams" confirmed to be memories, and the name Raphael suddenly being made clear like a mist dissipating quickly from the bright rays of the sun.

Sixth, imagine the sibling quarrels between Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and Raphael. I am unsure if the archangels know that God split Raphael, but Aziraphale's name "Azi from Raphael" makes the other angels look down on him. He's not only seen as a young, lesser angel assigned to a basic and all too temporary earth assignment, but he was named after Raphael, almost as if he were named as a byproduct from a stubborn archangel who had the audacity to question the Almighty.

Seventh, the image of what I imagine Raphael to look like. (Raphael is almost always depicted as a red head, but just picture it) Green eyes, long strawberry blonde hair and a perfect blend of Aziraphale and Crowley's faces...

If you focus on one particular being, you can see them, but you can see traits of the other as well.

IN CONCLUSION,

I can understand those who don't like this theory and that's completely fair. It takes Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's joint collab of "starting with a single character and splitting them into two" very literally to the narrative, but it is a fun concept to play with. It's only a theory, but I believe BOTH Aziraphale and Crowley are/were Raphael together.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #crowley!raphael #fan theory #fusion #archangel raphael #is crowley the archangel raphael

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erideights · 5 years

Text

Everything that we never get to say.

Request by @lady-of-black-roses : Our best angel x reader, the moment they met, their relationship through the years and a kiss in the end.

Pairing: Aziraphale x Fem!Reader (Good Omens)

Word Count: 2066.

Warnings: SO MUCH ANGST. Death. War.

A/N: I'm totally fucking sure this isn't what you was thinking this would be, but you wanted angst and I had this horrible idea and... I'm so sorry.

''—and then I said ‘Pardon me, what!? No way.’ My Bentley! Buy MY Bentley! Can you believe it?"

Aziraphale's gaze was lost in the distance through the transparent and clear glass of the window of the back room of his shop, where his most precious books were safely kept in his old desk.

He heard Crowley's voice, but he didn’t listen to him, so when the silence fell, almost like a cue to give his opinion, he just hummed.

It was raining, and the drops of water that slid down the impeccable surface before him were reflected in his eyes, eyes that for the first time in oh, so many years, mirrored a regret, sadness and longing the demon would never have believed possible in the angel.

But he was watching his back, so, in any case, he didn’t witness such an atrocious image.

"—angel, angel! You're listening? Where the fuck are you? Get down from the clouds."

But again, the blonde platinum angel didn’t answer, just sighed deeply and allowed his whole body to rock to the rhythm of that breath.

Only the red-haired demon's hand on his shoulder, who had been forced to leave his comfortable seat in search of his friend's attention, was able to tear our Aziraphale from his daydream.

"Hey, you okay?" Crowley asked when through the eyes of the angel crossed confusion and bewilderment. Question to which, quickly but worse pretended than he would have expected, Aziraphale replied:

"Of course, of course I am! I was just trying to imagine a world in which you existed without the car. But it has been in vain, certainly. I can not visualize you without it."

But it was evident that he was lying, and Crowley knew it.

The sad story our beloved angel was reviving begins a few years before the outbreak of the Second World War.

We are in London, on a lost street in a neighborhood not very rich but not poor either, where sad gray buildings stood to the sky and people walked down the street as if life had been taken from them.

The atmosphere was tense, there was no doubt about it, with the war about to explode at any moment, to allow oneself to be happy and to wear a smile was complicated to see.

But even so, there were always those special individuals, unique in their kind, who with only a slight upward curve of their lips, seemed to radiate their own light and bathe in it all who came and wanted some of its warmth.

She was just like that.

Y/N, a young librarian who worked day and night in the most lost and desolate of libraries in all London, but for some reason, was always surrounded by children hungry for her charisma, her love and, above all, her stories.

The first time he saw her, Aziraphale was desperately searching for a book of prophecies that, people told, had been discovered a few years ago in an attic of an abandoned building by the area, and like most books lost and/or without owner with real value for the state, it ended up in the town hall or in the closest library to his find.

That same day he crossed two large wooden doors, worn, scruffy by time but cozy in its tender, eccentric and strange way. And there she was, hair tied in a bun that after so many hours of work was practically undone, smile in a mouth full of white pearls for teeth and eyes that could make the most insensitive of men fall in love with her.

She chatted animatedly with a group of what Aziraphale considered mothers, their children not many meters away, huddled around a round table like knights in shining armors, reading similar books that they would later exchange and use to create a story to be able to play in the park.

The angel Aziraphale would swear he had never experienced what love was, but the moment their eyes met, the common description of that emotion was the closest thing he could feel in his more than 5,000 years of life.

She was Heaven in Earth.

But as it was habit for him, those feelings that seemed to surface in his skin were completely ignored, buried at the end of a dark chamber that until a few years later he wouldn’t have the audacity to open.

Not until it was too late.

With an affable smile and his hands, nervously playing with the end of his cinnamon-colored vest, the thousand-years-old angel made his way to the counter of the small, old but cozy library, interrupting —without wanting to— the conversation between his charming and mysterious unknown woman and the mothers of the neighborhood, who soon began chatting between them several meters away.

"Good Morning!" she chirped happily, as charming as he had imagined her. He found himself sighing and drawing the most beautiful of his smiles just for her. "How can I help you?"

Over a few years, their relationship developed between —not so— random fortuitous meetings in the library, all caused by Aziraphale under the pretext and the excuse of enjoying the calm that reigned there —he assured that, in other libraries, ‘’the tumult came to overwhelm him’’— and other approaches not left to chance itself, but by the initiative that the young Y/N showed in order to spend more time with him.

She would be lying if she said that after some time she hadn’t fallen in love with those eyes that seemed to hold all the love in the world, that tender and adorable giggle that rang in his throat when he was nervous or how he seemed to treat her as if she were the most precious thing in the universe.

His heart, his lovely personality, his empathy and how extremely intelligent he was also helped to shape those feelings that often reduced her sleep hours and kept the girl away from reality and in a constant daydream.

Oh, c'est l'amour.

But no matter how hard she tried, how many hints she dropped or how much effort she put into it; her feelings for Aziraphale didn’t seem to be reciprocated.

And that was good! She was satisfied, —or so she wanted to think—, with the shelter of his friendship with the angel.

That was enough.

But the war came to London, and one is unable to appreciate and understand the treasure that is the calm of a simple life until something like this explodes in front of you and plunges you into the flames of despair.

Chaos, destruction and crying soon seized the streets of the largest city in England.

The families were divided, the great national treasures were lost among the most atrocious fires, innocents died, and among the ashes, one couldn’t even find consolation in mourning those who lost, because in reality, there were no bodies left to mourn.

Events like this didn’t harm or disturb in the least celestial beings free of all guilt and exempt to die, anyone could think, but from the corner of one of the most lost streets in the whole city, where a small and cozy library used to be, an angel began to cry.

Aziraphale found rubble where walls and shelves once stood up to join the roof and collect all the knowledge that such a place could hold; ashes where thousands of books used to rest, waiting for someone to read again what they had to teach; a huge void in the counter from where, he then knew, the love of his life used to smile at the sight of him arriving.

A sharp thud on the ground, —a huge leather bag full of books of ancient prophecies— signaled the exact second when Aziraphale, in shock, began to walk and enter the chaos he once considered a home.

His lips trembled as did his hands and practically the rest of his body.

No, he didn’t even want to think that...

''Y/N?'' He asked in just a broken whisper, unable to raise his voice, unable to verify whether or not she had been a victim of that disaster.

Please, God, do not let her be a victim of this disaster, he thought.

'’Y/N? '' He tried again, this time louder, so the pain in his voice was so obvious that anyone who could get to hear him would know, in effect, that the soft angel was crying.

The bomb couldn’t have fallen more than a couple of hours ago. He knew it because he was there, with her, begging her to hide and search for refuge before what he thought would be a furtive meeting to hunt the enemy.

Please, God, I hope that she has listened to me, he prayed again.

But soon he would find out that God didn’t have mercy for anything and anyone. That no matter how much Aziraphale prayed, he had no greater power over the grand plan.

Because it was ineffable, right? Everything had to happen for a reason in order to achieve a specific goal.

But why, of all the millions of people that existed on the planet, of all those who perhaps deserved it, his blue eyes, sad, crystalline with tears, had to rest on the unconscious body of the woman he loved?

''No, no, no, please, no.'' He muttered in a choked way and so quickly that he couldn’t even understand himself, rushing to reach the body and hold it in his arms while his corduroy pants were destroyed by the ashes on the ground.

''Y/N...'' he begged, caressing her face, brushing the strands of hair that had clung to her sweet features from the sweat of her skin

She was breathing, but not for too long.

Her heart was beating, but his heartbeat was numbered and the clock was only moving forward in time.

''It's okay.'' she suddenly murmured, her voice no more than a barely audible whisper between her forced breathing and the silent crying of the blond angel.

She couldn’t open her eyes, her body didn’t have the strength to do it, but she could recognize that warmth anywhere; after all, she was in love with him, right?

''It's okay.'' she repeated, knowing that from her first two words, Aziraphale's eyes had been fixed on her face and that he was probably afraid to blink and that when he opened them again, she would no longer be with him.

‘’I’m sorr—’’

‘’I love you, Aziraphale.’’

His breath stopped, he was frozen in place, unable to look away from the lips that, after her confession, had drawn a tired smile.

She should tell him, right? She couldn’t leave without telling him at least once.

''I'm sorry I took so long to tell you.''

Prey of his own panic and everything that perhaps he wanted to say choked at the beginning of his throat, the only way out that Aziraphale found to give free rein to the feelings that for years he repressed in his little Pandora's box was to kiss that smile that so many times it had stolen his breath.

And he did.

Then a blink.

He, again, had allowed himself to be carried back to that memory of more than 70 years ago.

His hands caressed, distracted, the green cover of an old book that Crowley had never seen before and that he, at that moment, peeked curiously from the shoulder of the angel, wanting to ask for it but knowing, inside his chest and for some unknown reason, that he shouldn’t.

If he had, Aziraphale would have replied that it was simply a gift from an old friend.

Actually, it was the first gift he received throughout his long life.

''Do not tell anyone, but I stole this book from some archives of the Senate House Library when I was a child and I have always kept it as a treasure.

It has not prophecies, or stories of religious interest, but I think the love story it contains could make you smile on a dark and rainy April afternoon.

With all my love for my guardian angel,

Y/N.''

#aziraphale x reader #good omens #aziraphale #good omens one shots #good omens imagine #so much angst #I'm crying so much #aziraphale x fem!reader #crowley is here too

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