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anxiety meta is the best meta

Okay so the reason–well, the actual reason that A. doesn’t allow C. to come over is that a) the creators are not batshit shippers like us* and, if they ever do Go There, will not do it on a lark; plus b) they don’t want to make light of breaking quarantine (or were asked not to) even a little, what with crowds of idiots getting so restless lately. On both counts: fair enough!

But in-universe, to me, the reason that A. doesn’t allow C. to come over is hilariously familiar to anyone with dating anxiety. At first, you have to make sure dates have endpoints. A waiter brings the check, or the play ends, or you shake hands and agree to secretly raise the Antichrist together. But if you have a date without an endpoint, and someone just comes over, and there’s no reason for them to leave, well, that is just asking for it. For what, precisely, A. would not be sure, but whatever it was, it would be a lot to ask of a nervous man who’s been doing a lot of quarantine baking and who hasn’t seen his barber in weeks.

So it is delightful to me and my anxiety. The fact that A. can bake, though, puts an end to a fic idea I had, which was that angels (and demons) could not cook or bake or create anything real with their hands because that is a gift given to humankind. It would have involved a lot of angst, research, a request to Higher Authorities to become human, a purchase of real estate, a The Good Part, and a bittersweet ending. But all that seemed like a long way around the barn, plus there are so many longfics about similar ideas, so I wandered off. I tend to keep things short, at least by fanfic standards (which are amazingly long by lit standards).

—–

* Except for Michael Sheen

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“Saw a giant snake outside A.Z. Fell’s bookshop. Nature is healing.”

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👀👀👀

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I’ve noticed in the Gomens fandom there’s two interpretations of Crowley

1. Smooth, suave, and sexy 

2. Trips over his own shoelaces if Aziraphale looks in his general direction 

But my personal favorite is a mix of both. Crowley is smooth, suave, and sexy until it starts to actually work. Then all plans go out the window because he 100% did not expect to get this far. Somehow, Aziraphale actually reciprocating his advances is the worst case scenario. 

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The Compromise

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CROWLEY IS COVERED IN TATTOOS AND AZIRAPHALE’S FLAT IS FULL OF FLOWERS BUT IT’S ONLY BECAUSE CROWLEY NEEDS EXCUSES TO VISIT AZIRAPHALE’S TATTOO PARLOR AND AZIRAPHALE NEEDS EXCUSES TO VISIT CROWLEY’S FLORIST

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there really isn't enough 'Crowley in suspenders' content, and I intend to fix that

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I drew this and then completely forgot about it. 

Anyway, would anyone like some serotonin in this trying time. 

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crowley saving the books from the bombs. aziraphale handing him a flask of holy water. nervous tension. love love love. love offered so quietly over thousands of years that it does not demand attention. i will love you when you see and i will love you when you are unable to see it. i love you enough to think of things that mean everything to you even if they’re not much to me - they’re everything to me because you love them. i love you enough to give you the thing that could destroy you, so that you don’t get hurt seeking it out. love that is terrifying, a burning page thrown in the water, lashing out in anger because you cannot reconcile who you’re supposed to be with who you are. giving in to so many indulgences. yes, my dear, i will restore the coat you’ve worn a hundred years and leave not a stain, i know how you care for these things. yes, darling, one day we’ll have a picnic. we’ll dine at the ritz. we’ll love in the open, in the sunlight, once we don’t have to be afraid anymore. i’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go. i will go with you always.

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i put this up on my patreon about a fortnight ago and i figured it was about time i put it out into the world at large <3

so yes, here’s a simple, lovely evening in the book shop

i don’t have tiers on my patreon, it’s $1 a month or more if you wanna flirt, have a look and see if you’re keen xx

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My favorite Ineffable Husbands trope is Aziraphale being very open and free with saying sweet nothings/ridiculously romantic things and Crowley blushing ten shades of red, embarrassed and indignant says “you can’t just say that, angel!” And Aziraphale just frowns and says “why ever not? It’s the truth.” 

And then when Crowley starts doling out the endearments Aziraphale is just like “Oh, uh, yes, I see why you can’t just go around saying these things now. Gosh, I feel like my heart might burst! Is this how you feel when I say things like that to you, dearest?” 

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#33, Crowley saying it to Aziraphale. Up to you what he gives him.

One hundred ways to say I love you prompt! (33: “Close your eyes and hold out your hands”) @yamikakyuu

(Note: In the book, after Aziraphale mentions his new children’s book collection, we have this line: “Gosh, I’m sorry. said Crowley, who knew how much the angel had treasured his book collection. I always took this to mean that the children’s books replaced the misprint Bibles and books of prophecy.)

–

“Crowley, you’re not listening to me,” Aziraphale said, more than a little annoyed.

The demon sprawled out on the sofa, tapping at his clever little phone. “I am. You’re missing some books.”

“Not just some books!” He gestured to the middle shelf on the back-corner book case. “Mother Shipton, gone.” To the top shelf. “Nostradamus, gone.” He gasped as something occurred to him, dashing to the cabinet where he kept his ancient scrolls. St John of Patmos, the Sybilline Books and Oracles, the Book of Daniel…

All gone.

“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” Crowley said, when Aziraphale’s cry of pain had ended.

“I am not being – why? Why would Adam bring back the shop and not my books of prophecy?”

“Mmmh.”

“What? Do you have something to say?”

“Just…have you checked the misprint Bibles yet?”

Keep reading

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With all this talk about cursed Good Omens covers recently I’ve felt a certain unexplainable itch to try my hand at cover design.

You’re someone with more...particular tastes? Fear not!

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Crowley wakes up in 1900 but closes his eyes and decides to sleep for another year. 1901 comes by and he stretches and rolls out of bed.

He takes his time getting ready, miracling dust and cobwebs out of his apartment. He opens the window to reveal a spring day. It's the perfect temperature, and he can see people strolling along the sidewalk in clothes he'd never imagine would be fashionable.

He calls Aziraphale, and Aziraphale sounds so delighted to hear his voice even if it still a bit rough from sleep and disuse. Aziraphale insists on visiting immediately. The bookshop he opened right as Crowley laid down can wait, he says.

Crowley tries doing something with his hair. The scruff around his chin is immediately gone (how he ended up with so little facial hair had to have been the work of a doting angel who he assumes visited him every so often). He doesn't know how to style his hair, but the long, dark, matted mess has to go. It's combed back and stays in place.

Aziraphale beams at him with an armful of packages and papers and gifts when they see each other. He sets everything down, and they hug in a rare embrace so intense, Aziraphale teeters back and Crowley is briefly lifted off the ground.

Aziraphale has a parcel. A carefully wrapped outfit for him since he must have no sense of fashion (bold statement coming from Aziraphale) for the time. It's Crowley's usual color pallete with a light pink pocket square. Crowley picks it up and it turns red.

Aziraphale rambles about everything he's missed. He pulls out newspapers of major events, explaining when it all happened and how the humans reacted. There's a few books in the pile that Aziraphale declares are "must reads." There's a list of every major invention, and he insists that they must update Crowley's flat to electric. Crowley mentions something about moving entirely.

Aziraphale catches him smiling with his head in his hand.

"What is it?"

"I actually missed you," Crowley says, though the times he woke up to think of Aziraphale for a fleeting moment while chugging a glass of water before falling right back asleep were few.

Aziraphale's cheeks are rosy. "I missed you, too, dear boy."

They smile at each other for a bit longer until they giggle a little. Crowley places all of his new belongings on his dining table.

"You're probably starving," Aziraphale says. "You look as though you've lost a few pounds while you were asleep. There's a lovely restaurant not far from my shop. You will adore what this country can do with their food now. And when we're done, we can spend the evening in my shop. I'd love to show you around! And I saved a bottle of wine for you from 1830. You're going to adore it."

Crowley changes into his new suit and follows Aziraphale outside with wide eyes. Over lunch, Aziraphale tells Crowley story after story. Aziraphale, of course, found ways to entertain himself. The 19th century appeared to be one major event after another. His stories made him laugh and sometimes dab at his eyes and muttered how silly he was being while Crowley pressed his lips together in sympathy.

Crowley learned about Wilde, Victoria, Conan Doyle, and Austen. He learned about the rise and fall of the British Empire. He learned about the wonderful thing called the telephone that could allow Aziraphale and Crowley to talk when they weren't physically together (which Crowley was sceptical of).

Most importantly, Crowley learned that it would be a waste of his limitless time to sleep for so long again.

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Humans have dreams that make them seem like they’re falling. Demons are no different. When he dreams, Crowley imagines a world where he and Aziraphale spent all their waking moments together, from the Beginning to the Current; he dreams that they met in Heaven, where his heart was claimed by ethereal blue eyes and a special pout that showed itself when the angel was thinking. He dreams of showing him the stars and galaxies he parented and loved, of drinking ichor on clouds of space dust and laughing about the few antics the others got up to. There were so few of them in the first place anyway. He dreams of spending Eternity in Aziraphale’s arms, always warm, always loved.

When Crowley has nightmares, it’s always the same.  

It’s pain, it’s darkness, it’s him clutching at his chest and gasping for breath when he can’t open his eyes, when everything is deafening silence and his existence is being ripped apart atom by atom until there’s nothing left.

His Fall was much worse; memories fade with time.

You have betrayed me, he heard Her say, an omnipresence in his head - in everyone’s head.

He fell to his knees in the clean expanse of Heaven, his skin kissing the cool tile, his sparkling, lava eyes lifted toward the infinite expanse above him. Everyone was watching; he felt their stares as if standing on trial, being observed in an interrogation room. He knows what that feels like now.

Tears streamed down his face, stained his tunic, dampened his upturned palms.

“What have I done, My Lord?” he asked brokenly, and immediately felt the crushing guilt of saying something completely wrong, making the situation worse in every possible way. 

Silence was his answer. The Almighty did not reward his curiosity like She did praise.

Aziraphale sat watching his Raphael on his knees, exposed to the infinite power above, and stifled a sob of his own; his being ached, and he was both terrified for Raphael and for himself. What was he experiencing? Was dissonance was his soul paying the price for? 

Your punishment, She continued, is to Fall.

A million gasps rang out at once, producing a gust of air that showered over Crowley’s form, mixed with stardust and vapor. He shut his eyes, felt the tears subside for only a moment, and his body reacted for him: dry sobs wracked his shoulders, his throat raw and his eyes bloodshot. He clutched at his tunic, the floor, fell to his front and pressed his cheek to the tile that now felt sharp and cold to the touch. There was nothing he could do.

“Raphael!” Aziraphale shouted out to his own disbelief; all pairs of eyes were on him now, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but him stepping off the invisible perch and having his wings carry him down to his broken love. She would allow this much. She believed She wasn’t cruel.

“Raphael…” Aziraphale whispered as he pulled him into his arms, knelt in worship of their Lord no longer, but toward his star maker. Crowley clutched at him desperately, seeking warmth, familiarity, already cursing their pliable bodies because this wouldn’t be enough - nothing would ever be enough. They wouldn’t get close to enough. 

“Aziraphale…” It came out scratchy, just as broken as the rest of him, and he pulled back to look his angel in the eyes one last steady time. “I love you.”

What he felt next was an eternity of agony.

Time wasn’t real, nothing was real. Even he wasn’t real. Which was an interesting concept, given the fact that every inch of him felt like it was being engulfed by lava and flame, pricked with a million needles of holy water, torn apart at the soft hands of his lover. It was only a singular moment filled with the most incredible pain, and that did not compare to the next one. His body lurched, his stomach turned, and he was not falling - but being pulled. A hand was crushing his mortal bones and drawing him through the floor down down down down- and he could not escape. He gasped for air, but none came. He willed the swirling stars of his creation to char his tortured form but they did not obey. He fell, alone and scared and screaming with no voice, for another eternity, through galaxies and blue skies and fresh dirt and dinosaur bones and through the magma that formed Earth’s core. Every cell, every essence of his being was torn to shreds.

Only to be reformed. 

Born in a pool of sulfur, his cells reformed themselves in an unholy bath of heat and stink and jagged stones, in the darkness that falls on a silent night; a claw here, a fang there, a patch of scales decorating his neck, eyes split open and rearranged, Hellfire staining his hair with blood. Crowley clawed his way out of the pit for minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades - he didn’t know.

And when he opened those serpentine eyes wide, he was greeted with a smile that was not his angel’s, nor the worst of all the other’s. It shined pearly white in the darkness, framing nothing but sharp teeth and illuminating a serpent sigil floating in the air, ready to be branded onto the side of his cheek. 

“Welcome, Crawly. You’ll fit right in here,” the mouth mused in a wicked, sickly-sweet timber, and then he felt a searing pain that would not ever compare to the seconds, days, decades before- before- What was before?

What was before?

What was before…

Crowley sits up sweating, rubbing his face, his tattoo, and feeling like his lungs are going to burst. Beside him, Aziraphale stirs, and reaches up to take his hand, give it a squeeze.

“Are you alright love…” he mumbles in a pleasant hum, and Crowley is soothed by his tone, his flesh, and he sinks back down to curl his limbs around Aziraphale like he hadn’t seen him in thousands of years. 

“I love you.”

“I love you too, dear. Are you truly alright?”

“-Yeah. Yeah. Long as I have you.”

“You have me, dear. I’m right here.”

“Yeah, you are…”

But Crowley makes sure, gives his plush middle a squeeze as matching fingers curl through his hair that they love to admire so much, relishes the absence of burning and crunching and heaviness, and just about stifles one more sob.

“You’re here.”

“Yes my love, and I promise that I always will be. Now what brought all this about?”

“Just a nightmare, angel. But it can bugger off.”

“Quite right. Do you need my special good dream trick?”

“It’s not a magic trick, angel. But no, I don’t- I don’t think so. ‘Cause the best thing I could ever think of is right here in my arms.”

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We need fics of Aziraphale showing Crowley around after his 19th-century nap. Crowley fell asleep during one of the most productive centuries. Imagine

Crowley seeing an automobile for the first time. 

“How is it moving? Angel, what did the humans do?”

Crowley being on a train for the first time. 

“I don’t like this. I don’t like moving like this. Why does my stomach feel bad?”

The end of the industrial revolution

“Angel, what are those?” 

“They’re called factories, dear boy. They’re a bit of a tricky situation at the moment.” 

“What do they do?” 

“Everything.”

There’s a ringing in the bookshop

“What’s that sound?!” 

“The telephone.” 

“The what?”

Crowley smashing a typewriter

“What does this do?” 

“Please stop touching it, dear. You’re going to get the keys stuck. It’s called a typewriter.” 

“Does it write for you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s convenient.” 

“Why are the letters in this order?”

Drugs

“I have a headache from all of this.” 

“Would you like an aspirin? I think I may also have a coca-cola if you’d prefer that.” 

“I’ve no idea what either of those things are.”