#aziraphale will rip that place apart | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

filmtv2022 · 7 months

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Ineffable Agony

Pairing: Aziraphale x Platonic!Reader x Crowley

Synopsis: One quiet night, Aziraphale and Crowley's world is rocked. A fallen angel is dropped on their doorstep. Their very presence shoves the reality of their Earthly partnership back into view and calls into question the very stability of Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale and Crowley struggle not only to understand the depth of the situation they've found themselves in but also to save the reader.

Warning: bleeding/blood loss + death.

A/N: I tried my best to use gender-neutral language in this one. The reader does have hair, but other than that, I think their physicality is fairly nondescript. As always, I apologize for any mistakes. It's getting late & I'm super tired.

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Warm light spilled out of the wide windows of A.Z. Fell and Co: Antiquarian and Unusual Books. Inside, surrounded by unruly shelves and half-empty bottles of red wine sat the oddest and most right pair in celestial history. Aziraphale had long since set aside his glass of wine, forgoing further intoxication for a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Crowley on the other hand had continued to sip away, which glass or bottle he was on remained a bit unclear.

Feeling his head turning fuzzy, the demon slowed his pace of consumption, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion and inebriation. In the days post averting the apocalypse, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves settling into this new life. One free from apparent oversight from both Heaven and Hell. The two indulged in human luxury wherever and whenever they liked, unencumbered by the pull from their respective head offices. For the first time in millennia, they felt truly free to live as they liked, and what a life it was.

“How does breakfast at the Ritz sound, Angel? I think I could do with a nice morning out, feeding the ducks, fancy tea… or perhaps we'll pop over to France for some crepes?”

“That sounds lovely. ” Smiling sweetly at Crowley, he swallowed the last bit of his drink before standing to return the dirty cup to the sink in the back.

A sudden burst of white light flashed like the sun, flooding the space before being replaced by the wretched orange and red of hell fire, stopping him in his tracks. Inky darkness replaced the flare as fast as it happened. Snapping his attention to the entrance, Aziraphale stood in observation waiting in anticipation for something more to happen. Having seen, the display from his seat, Crowley stood and joined the Angel.

“What’s going on?”

“I…I don’t know. There was a…”

A sudden thump of something heavy smacking into the door forced him to stop speaking. To the human senses, nothing seemed out of place, the world continued to move just as it always had, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The air began to thrum with energy, the waves pouring into the store erratically, their intensity growing stronger the longer it went on. Crowley hissed, a guttural reaction to the feel of pain that roared through them both. Fighting to stay upright, Aziraphle gripped the demon’s shoulders as he doubled over in pain.

“Are you all right?” Pushing aside the ache that filled his own head, Aziraphale struggled to focus on the present, caught between concern for Crowley and whatever… or whoever was causing this to happen.

“I’m fine, just dandy, but I’d be better if my insides weren’t twisting around knots.”

“Yes, of course.”

Closing his eyes, the angel searched for a miracle, one strong enough to put an end to the horrific suffering that flowed freely into the room. Celestial magic hummed over his skin but died as he worked to make it so. Trying again, and failing, dread bubbled hot in in Zira’s chest.

“It’s not working!”

“Obviously!”

Groaning, Crowley clutched at his stomach as Aziraphale whimpered next to him. The angel’s head was full to the bursting point as if his mind was being ripped apart at the seams.

“I… I don’t know what to do!”

Forcing himself to stand to his full height, Crowley removed himself from the angel’s hold, “Fine, I’ll finish this myself.”

He too searched for a miracle. The darkness of his own magic flooded over his senses as he worked, but nothing happened. The lick of heat that always accompanied his miracles ran cold, leaving a chill over his skin in its absence. Aziraphale’s knees buckled as the pressure in his skull intensified. Dropping to the ground with him, Crowley held onto his angel.

Then as quickly as it started, the vibrations ceased to exist. Panting hard, the pair stood up on shaky legs. Crowley’s hand stayed firm on Aizraphale’s back, helping the Angel along as well as grounding himself. Stumbling toward the door, Zirh’s fingers trembled as he reached for the handle. Glancing at Crowley, he waited for some sign of reassurance, which was freely given in the form of a nearly imperceptible nod. Opening the door, their eyes immediately fell on the torn figure slumped face down on the ground before them. Slashes cut through their jacket and pants, the flesh below ripped to shreds and bleeding heavily. Ichor coated the surface of the stoop, pooling in a wide swath before spilling down the step. Kneeling down to see things more clearly, Aziraphale gently rolled over the stranger, the gore staining his hands red.

“They’re an angel.” Laying them on their back, his fingers felt for a pulse. It was weak, barely more than a flutter, but it was there.

“Not anymore.” Crowley gritted his teeth as he spoke, the realization of what had happened hitting too close to home, “They’ve been cast down.”

“Cast down? But Heaven they’ve… they’ve taken…”

“Taken their wings, yes.”

“That’s not supposed to happen?”

“And yet it did.”

“Why?”

“Why not? It certainly makes a statement.” Reaching for their hand, Crowley slowly unfurled their fist, removing the gore-soaked paper from within.

“A statement for who?”

“Us.” Peeling apart the folds, Crowley read the smeared words aloud, “To the attention of one A.Z. Fell & Anthony J. Crowley. Your actions have consequences that reach far behind the realms of Heaven and Hell. You’ve set something in motion that must be stopped.”

Locking eyes with the demon, Zira struggles to find words, “What does this mean?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

Scooping the fallen angel into his arms, Crowley deftly made his way toward the second floor of the bookshop. Finding the first door on the right partially open, he pushed it open with his foot. A couple of strong strides had him standing next to the bed, scanning over their face for any sign of familiarity. Finding nothing, he placed them down on the mattress on their side before turning his attention to the wounds. Trying yet again to use his magic, Crowley reached out in search of a way to staunch the flow. The stream slowed slightly, but not nearly enough.

“The bleeding won’t stop.” Waiting for an answer, he pushed his palms into the worst of the gashes, but when no response came, he shouted for assistance, “Angel, a little help here!”

“Oh, yes!” knocked back into reality, Aziraphale made his way to the bed, his stained hands once again reaching for the being before him. Using what little magic he could muster, he managed to lessen the bleeding to a trickle.

Feeling it still running between his fingers, Crowley’s head dropped between his shoulders, a deep exhale releasing as he tried to let go of the panic coursing through his system. It was an unnatural state for the demon, one that he’d only felt a few other times in his 6,000 years of life. He’d done a keen job of compartmentalizing the memory of his own fall, relegating it to the deepest depths of his mind. This, however, hit too close to home. While he’d been lucky enough to keep his wings, the transition from Heavinly Being to a Demon of Hell was horrific at best. The darkness, the pain… the loneliness. It was all too much to think about even now, all these years later.

Letting go of his hold on their wounds, Crowley gingerly placed them on their back, hoping the pressure who stop the rest of the bleeding. Sinking down beside the bed, he rested his head back on the mattress and closed his eyes tightly.

“What could they possibly have done to deserve this?” Aziraphale’s voice cracked as he spoke, his eyes never leaving their face. Brushing his fingers over their hair, he pushed the blood-coated strands out of the way.

“We better hope they wake up so we can find out.” Standing up, Crowley stalked out of the room, pounding down the hall toward the bathroom.

Turning on the water, he let it pour from the faucet until steam rolled from the stream. Hot enough to scald, he scrubbed vigorously at his hands. The red of the gore was replaced by the angry color of his skin beneath as he fought to rid himself of the stains. Standing in the doorway to the bathroom, Aziraphale watched in concern, his brows furrowed at the sight before. Losing control of himself, Crowley snapped off the water, slamming his fists down upon the porcelain and letting loose a rage-filled growl. Pushing his way past the angel, he pounded down the stairs toward the front door.

Following in his wake, Zira called to his demon, “Where are you going?”

“To find out what in the hell is going on?”

“But what if something happens… I-I should come with you.”

Snapping around, Crowley’s yellow eyes stopped Aziraphale in his tracks, “Stay here, take care of the angel… demon… thing. I’ll be back, I promise.”

Nodding in agreement, Aziraphale watched Crowley drive away, the Bentley tires screaming along the pavement.

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Agonizing flashes of pain radiated from the jagged wounds as cold sweat coated your skin turning into a slick mess of drying blood and perspiration. Spasms racked your body, each one more powerful than the last. You were dying, or so you thought. But what did that really mean for angel turned demon? You were even really alive to begin with? Where would your ‘death’ leave you? Certainly not in Heaven, they’d made it quite clear you were no longer welcome amongst their kind. So that left two other options. One being an eternity in Hell, rotting away with the other demons. The other was much more frightening… nothingness, your soul relegated to the black void somewhere between the realms. Alone. Cold. Unneeded… Unwanted. Stuck in purgatory for all time.

Time ceased to exist, and all sounds and feelings apart from the physical and mental torment fell away as you were trapped in the endless cycle of pain. Giving into it all, you allowed yourself to fall further away from the light. The beacons of Heaven were only a dim glow on the horizon. Their cool white was replaced by the furious red of the gates below. It was warm, welcoming even. It would have been so easy to let go, to surrender, and yet some small part of you keep a firm hold on the life you’d had before. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, to relinquish it fully.

The gentle press of a hand against your cheek pulled a quiet whimper from you, the touch kind and comforting. A tender voice spoke in a low mumble, their words unclear, but their intentions certain. There was something familiar about it as if a long-lost friend had come to visit.

“I’m so sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

Undoing the buttons of your shirt, the person gingerly pulled you into their chest, your forehead resting on their shoulder as they removed your top. A strangled groan fell from your lips at their ministrations.

“I know, I know.” Smoothing over your hair, they laid you back on the bed, this time on your side so they could access your body.

Walking around to the other side of the bed, they began the delicate work of cleaning the wounds. Rag and after rag came away crimson, and the cloths were discarded nearby on the floor. Slowly, but surely, the gashes were stitched and covered. Finished closing the wounds, they began to wash away the rest of the blood as best they could. The task was slow and tedious.

“There, that’s better. Now. let’s get you some fresh clothes.”

Standing from the bed, Aziraphale sought out a pair of his pajamas. Returning to your side, he slipped the jumper over your head and shoulders, taking great care to not bump your most tender spots. Moving on, he carefully peeled away your trousers, the white was splotched with darkening red. Dropping them on the pile of used rags, he then shimmied the plaid bottoms over your frame. His hands were unsure and timid as he moved.

Once again laying flat on your back, Zira pulled a blanket over you. Taking a moment to adjust the pillows, he sank back down into the spot next to you, his hands wrapping warmly around your own.

“Who are you?”

The previous question was barely more than a whisper, making the utterance of a name from your lips even more surprising. With eyes closed tight, and no other signs of consciousness, a singular word tumbled out for him to hear.

“Aziraphale…”

Zira was left speechless. What about him? Why were saying his name?

In a measure of cosmic timing, the telephone downstairs began to ring. It’s incessant trill bounding off the walls, calling to the angel. Leaving his spot, he was forced to let go of your hands. The loss of his touch caused a pained look to contort your features.

“I’ll be right back, don’t you worry.”

Silence fell over the room, as Aziraphale quietly closed the door behind himself, leaving you alone. It was as if in his absence the darkness began to creep back in, closing the distance between you and the void. Black hands reached for you, threatening to drag you away from the world of the living. Fighting against their searing grip, your body twitched and thrashed on the bed. Soon the motions were followed by gasping screams, the sounds shrill and bloodcurdling flew down the stairs toward Aziraphale. The pounding of footfalls was masked by the blistering screeches from Hell that rang in your ears. Soft hands gripped your shoulders, calling to you through the panic.

“I’m here, I’m…” Placing his palm on the side of your head, the heat rolling off your skin nearly burned him. Knowing he needed to act quickly, he flooded your mind with celestial light. Instantly, your body began to relax and your temperature dropped.

Falling limp against the pillows, your chest rose and fell in rapid succession. Sweat had soaked through the collar of the shirt, staining it darker than the rest. Aziraphale’s fingertips ran in soft arcs down your face as he continued to murmur words of comfort. Fearful of leaving your side again, he yanked the chair from the corner of the room to the side of the bed. Clasping your hand in his, he took a seat and waited. Crowley would be back soon enough, he’d promised.

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Hours passed and eventually, sleep overtook Aziraphale. Slumping back in the chair, he managed to keep a hold of your hand. Returning to the bookshop with little to no information in hand, Crowley made his way upstairs in search of his Angel. The door to the first guest room was flung wide open, and he was greeted with the image of Zira fast asleep, the lines of worry still creased between his brows. With his promise to return in mind, Crowley softly shook the angel awake.

“You’re back.”

“I promised, didn’t I.”

“Of course, What did you find out?”

“Not much. Nothing seems out of place, and the lines between Hell and Earth are quiet. Whatever this is, it’s either from Heaven alone or somebody’s going to dangerous lengths to keep it hidden.”

“Hidden? They were dropped on our front porch! How is that hidden?”

“You’ve got a point, but it doesn’t change the fact that there's nothing on the radar.” Turning to look at the stranger on the bed, Crowley’s tone softened as he spoke again, “How are they doing?”

“As best as can be expected… there was so much blood.” Shifting forward, Aziraphale adjusted his grip on your hand, “They spoke in their sleep while you were away. It didn’t make sense, but they spoke.”

“What did they say?”

“My name…”

“You name? As in Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, giver of the flaming sword and forestaller of the end of days”

“That’s what I’ve said isn’t it?” Impatience touching the edge of the question.

“Yes, but how would they know your name?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea…”

Crowley’s thoughts raced at the realization of what that could mean for Heaven. If they had fallen so far as to mutilate those they cast down then things were much worse off than he’d ever expected.

“Perhaps Heaven’s become more like Hell than they’d ever care to admit.”

Stunned into silence, the pair sat quietly for a while, observing the rise and fall of your chest. The steady movement was just enough to ease some of the worries that festered.

“There was one other thing they said while you were gone?”

“Yes?”

“The phone rang while you were out, when I left to answer, they… they started to scream—terrible screeching wails, as if… as if Hell itself was coming for them. And when I returned, their skin… it was burning like fire. Between the screams, they were calling for you.”

“Me?”

Nodding yes, he continued on, “Over and over, begging… pleading for you. They know us Crowley, and yet I’m sure I’ve never seen this face before.”

“Neither have I.”

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Morning broke over the quaint yet busy street, and the rumble of cars and voices floated in from outside. Your eyes fluttered open, and the unchecked sunlight beaming into the room assaulted your sensitive eyes. Hissing at the daggers of light, your whole body recoiled. Slamming your lids shut again, you scrambled back to retreat from the intrusive light. The mangled flesh of your back crashed against the headboard in your attempt to flee from the light. The sudden movement sent shockwaves through your body as the stitches in your wounds tugged sharply. Hearing and feeling your stir, Aziraphale and Crowley sat bolt upright in their respective positions. Zira in the same chair as the night before, and Crowley in the vanity chair across the room.

Catching your attempt to flee from the overwhelming sensations, Aizraphale reached for your shoulders and tried his best to push you back down into the pillows. His sure hands were commanding and gentle as they kept you from hurting yourself further.

“You’re all right. Careful now or you’ll rip your stitches.”

Simultaneously, Crowley was up out of his chair, his own hand coming up to grip your chin, holding your face in his direction. Your eyes flew open again as if called to look by some hell-born bond. And what he saw brought a moment of hesitation. The whites of your eyes were flooded with a sickening crimson as if every blood vessel had burst. While your pupils were blown large, covering nearly the entirety of your eyes. Shaking off the unsettling nature of your appearance, the demon deftly removed his sunglasses and placed them on your face.

“It’s their eyes, they’re not used to the light.” Stepping back, Crowley reached out a hand to Aziraphale, pushing him away from you, “Careful, Angel, emotions can be a bit unsteady.”

“It’s all right, Crowley. As you said, they’re in pain, why don’t you let me help.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Nonsense!” stepping back to your side, Aziraphale’s fingertips aligned with your temples as a gentle light filled the room.

Your breathing began to slow as the ache faded both mentally and physically. Slowly, you opened your eyes, finding that the dark lenses made the world around you much more bearable to view. Weakness replaced the pain leaving you incapable of moving, your power sat dormant, but hot beneath your skin. The heady mix of emotions melded together in what was certain to become an explosive combination.

Pushing down the flames, you spoke as if greeting old friends, “Crowley… Aziraphale… finally.”

“How do you know our names?” Zira’s question was far from accusatory.

“Oh Aziraphale, I’ve known you for thousands of years… the same goes for you, Crowley.”

“Who are you? Why do you know us?” Crowley on the other hand couldn’t help the accusation that threaded over his words.

Tilting your head to the side, you focused on him. The yellow of his snake-like eyes glinted in the sun, strong and fierce in demeanor.

“It was my job, to know you, to follow your biddings here on Earth. Like a celestial watchdog, I suppose.”

“Watchdog?” Crowley tensed at the very thought of Heaven having watched him for millennia after his fall.

“Yes. It was my job to track your movements, particularly in the years since your delivery of the AntiChrist. Well, you and Aziraphale. There was some… hesitation regarding the pair of you, given your shared history of questionable decision-making. Need I mention your flaming sword and apple debacles?” Your voice was weak and breathy as if speaking drained you of what little energy you’d recouped.

“All right, no need to rub it in. Enough about us, you’ve yet to answer our other question, demon. Who are you?”

“Well, I don’t know how this works exactly, but I suppose my angelic name will do for now. I’m Y/N.”

“And why are you here… Y/N?” Aziraphale uttered your name sweetly as if to encourage you to continue.

“It’s simple really, I’m the same as you, Crowley. I asked too many questions… I doubted the ineffable plan.” Sinking further back into the pillows, you turned your head to look at the demon.

“You what? Why?” Aziraphaled asked in shock.

“Because… you were happy.” Shifting your body slightly so that you could gaze at him, you felt a warm hand wrap around your own, “And the more I watched you here on Earth enjoying your lives together, the humanity … it made me think. Why were we going to end it all? And after such a short time as well? I saw how you looked at the world and couldn’t imagine it ceasing to exist. But even more than that… I couldn’t bear the thought of…”

Your voice caught in your throat as a fresh spasm racked your frame. The tightening of the muscles along the expanse of your back ripped the air from your lungs causing you to gasp and groan. Folding forward at the waist, the glasses slipped down your nose exposing your eyes to the blinding rays once again. Desperate to block it out, you pressed the heel of your palms into your eyes knocking the sunglasses onto the blanket covering your lap. Steady vibrations rolled through the space around you as your power spilled out unchecked. A blood-curdling wail tore from your lips as your skin flushed hot from the touch of Hell once more. Shocked by the sounds, Aziraphale took a few steps back, putting some distance between the two of you.

Crowley had returned to your side, his strong hands holding tightly to your biceps. The heat of your skin burned and blistered his palms, and yet he remained unfazed.

“Y/N, Y/N, listen to- listen to me. You’ve got to push away, you’ve got to fight against it!”

Gripping you tightly, he watched as your body spasmed beneath his touch. Blood soon tinged the light cream of the jumper you were wearing, the sudden movements having torn the stitches from your flesh. Furthermore, the heat radiating from within you singed the fabric, leaving behind blackened holes in its wake. A wet gurgle accompanied your labored breathing as if you were drowning on dry land. Coughing and choking, a blackish liquid oozed out the corners of your mouth, the scene grew more horrific as the substances ran down the exposed column of your neck. Crowley’s palms smoothed over it, wiping away the mess as best he could, but it just kept coming. Every wet hack brought more of it flooding out to replace what he’d tried to clean up.

“Crowley! Crowley, what’s happening?” Stammering, Aziraphale was frozen to his spot.

“They’re dying, the transition is consuming them.”

“But I thought-”

“Whatever you thought about this was wrong, Angel. This is the reality.”

“But I… what we can do?”

“There’s nothing we can do except ease their pain and hope for the best. It’s up to them now. Either they find the strength to fight against the darkness or it consumes them.”

Trembling, Zira moved to your side and eased himself down onto the bed. Cautiously, he reached out to touch you, his hand brushing over Crowley’s as he sought out your temples.

Turning his head to look at the demon, Aziraphale whispered one simple word, “Together.”

Understanding what he meant, Crowley nodded his head silently. Placing the pads of their fingers along your hairline, the two worked to rid you of the pain. A calming wash of peace flooded over you, chasing out the panic and terror. Your hot skin now sat cool to the touch, and the blisters covering Crowley’s hands began to heal. Slowly, your breathing regulated and the crackling wetness ceased to hinder your lungs. Serene peace settled over your features as they untwisted from the pain. Sensing that the limit of help and available miracles for this situation had been reached, both Crowley and Aziraphale sat back. Their eyes never left you as they watched for signs that their magic had failed. Zira was the first to speak

“What do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“For how long?”

“Not long now I think.” Crowley’s voice was thick with emotion.

Tracking the rise and fall of your chest, the pair watched as the movement became more erratic. The time between inhales turned more inconsistent and further apart the longer time went on. Eventually, it stopped altogether, and the last vestiges of pain fell from your features leaving behind a mask of perfect peace.

“What do we do now?” Zira asked in shock.

“We find out who the hell is responsible and we make them bleed” Looking Aziraphle in the eyes, Crowley's own brimmed with emotion, “But more importantly, we live, we live for them.

#aziraphale fanfiction #crowley x reader x aziraphale #aziraphale x reader x crowley #good omens fanfiction #good omens #crowley x reader #aziraphale x reader #crowley fanfiction #whumptober #whumptober 2023

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fearandhatred · 3 months

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thank u so much to my beloveds @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and @seven-stars-in-his-palm for tagging me, kissing u both for this omg <3 i'm doing two of each because i can

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.

transitional heart taxidermy [5986 words, wip]

They fit so perfectly together, the both of them, always. Not side by side like pieces of a puzzle, no, but like molten lava over sand; one over the other, one mellowing the other, changing its chemistry into something different, stronger, useful. The kiss tastes of Aziraphale, of copper and saliva and something holy. It's a taste he'll come to get used to, bloodied and bruised, a taste he chases after as the angel pulls back.

and one from an unpublished chapter:

It's been a day, two, maybe three. His hands are stained with blood and phantom glass, reeking of alcohol and rot palpable enough to taste. Aziraphale doesn't come for him, and he feels relief but also a pain so deep it's paralysing. It's a revelation in itself.

blood in my eyes [1953 words]

This is the first time in years he has stepped foot back into this place. It's a spontaneous decision, driven by a mellow melancholy and a soft wistful night. Muriel isn't in, so the bookshop is dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie, lonely glow on the ancient hardbacks. The rearing statue that once held his glasses every other day is coated in a thin layer of dust; he leaves them on.

Crowley wipes away a tear from Aziraphale's cheek with his thumb. It leaves a bright red streak. After, hours pass by before Aziraphale washes the blood from his face, imprinted in the vague shape of Crowley's hand. In those hours, when he sits in the quiet of a bookshop once again burned to ash, the blood stays there as a reminder, maybe, or as punishment.

sub-consequence [11567 words, wip] — six of crows

He wants to say everything he could possibly say to persuade Kaz to change his mind, because if he says everything in the world, strings together every word in every possible combination, there has to be at least one thing that would convince him to stay.

Sometimes Inej thinks Kaz cares about himself less than he cares about getting what he wants. It feels sometimes as if he's completely detached from himself, his own person becoming just another means to an end. People would scream at her that this isn't selflessness. It's ruthlessness, or psychopathy, or numbness. That's how the name Dirtyhands came about, after all. The willingness to do anything no matter the cost. To get his hands dirty with blood, be it others' or his own. But what is selflessness, really? A lack of selfishness, or a loss of self?

to sleep, perchance to dream [662 words] — the sandman

God, Calliope. His heart, face of cloud fields and white lily springs, a hope so blinding in contrast to his shadowed being that he had known from the start the hands of The Fates would pull them apart to opposite poles.

His lifetime of constraint allowed him to face the knowledge that any selfish will to see her in the wake of remembering all he had forsaken, all that had been ripped from him, would seal the vestibules to acceptance and he would beg with no dignity to stay by her side. And his heart burned, scorched unpleasantly at her parting words, just as the skin she touched and had once touched long after she was twice gone.

tagging those whose words i'd love to see (no pressure!!): @actual-changeling @sentientsky @irispurpurea @springofviolets @demonsandpieohmy

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coyotestarcraft · 4 months

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Hi can u pls write a crowley fic where he is absoleutly in love with reader who is an angel and while he is confessing like he did in the show the reader just stops and kisses him just like he did. If u r comfortable with it it can be like a fluufy smut

Hav a lovely day

Yes I can! You have a lovely day too dude/dudette (no matter boy, girl, nonbinary or trans, or whatever other gender is out there, I call everyone dude, just a fyi)

This takes place in season 1 when the world was ending just a fyi

Please clarify if you want female/male or gender neutral reader when requesting please. (This goes for everyone) 🙂

Reader is gender neutral to keep it fair.

Requests: Currently On Hiatus (I’m just finishing the ones in my inbox for now)

🚫MINORS DNI🚫

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You’ve known Aziraphale since the early years of when Earth was created.

Now that it was ending you needed to find him to confess how you felt.

“Aziraphale!” You called out but got no response back, that made you worry, but you saw a familiar redhead sitting in his chair.

“Where’s Azira?” You asked him, he shrugged, the smell of alcohol lingering in the air.

“Don’t know, don’t care. That idiot left and I didn’t do anything about it.” He groaned.

“Well do you have an idea where he might’ve went?” You dramatically threw arms out, “probably to find you, I don’t know!” He snapped.

“Fine.” You huffed, walking outside to quickly run as fast you can towards your apartment.

As you burst in you gasped in horror, Aziraphale was pinned against the wall by Michael who was holding a knife.

“Let him go!” You snarled, you went to take a step but another force stopped you, your head turns to see Sandalphon holding you back with one hand, his tight grip makes your wrist start to turn white.

“Let. Me. Go. NOW!” You shove him as hard as possible, knocking him off his feet.

You moved so fast no one, not even Aziraphale saw you grab Michael by the throat and yank them off Aziraphale.

You tone dropped to deadly level.

“Leave now, or I will rip every bone from your celestial body bit by bit until you drown in your own celestial blood.” If looks could kill, Michael would’ve been dead long ago.

They nod frantically as they pulled Sandalphon to his feet quickly miracling themselves to heaven.

“Are you okay?” You asked when you stepped up to Aziraphale.

“Yes dear, I’m fine, a little shaken up but fine.” He smiles, you gently cup his face to inspect for scratches or cuts, but nothing caught your eye.

You soon realized how close your faces were, out of embarrassment you quickly let go and backed up.

“Darling?” Aziraphale.

“Sorry, I didn’t-“ you get off when Aziraphale takes your hand in his, gently stroking your knuckles with his thumb.

“It’s alright my dear, I liked it. And to be honest I like you too, I always have since I met you 6,000 years ago.” He smiles.

“That’s a relief because I’ve been pining for you since we met.” A single tear runs down your face, the angel wipes it away while staring lovingly into your eyes.

“May I?” He asks, taking a glance at your lips.

“Please,” breathlessly you nod.

He cradles your face in his strong but incredibly gentle hands, his lips slot perfectly against yours as you two kiss one another for a moment before pulling away, panting slightly.

“That was lovely.” Aziraphale said after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, now I really love kissing.” You say but Azira feels you want to say more.

“So, does this make us a couple?” You ask.

“I suppose so, but it’s whatever makes you comfortable my love.” He replied.

“So we can cuddle and do all the things couples do?” You ask, a hopeful smile crosses your face, your question gets answered with a peck to your cheek.

“Yes.” He chuckles.

Suddenly your apartment door opens revealing Crowley.

“FINALLY!” He yells as happily as he can manage given he’s a demon.

“Thank you Crowley.” You laugh at the demons antics.

———————————————

Thank you for reading!

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale good omens #aziraphale x reader #aziraphale x you #aziraphale x y/n

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scorpi14 · 9 months

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Crowley is the biggest trauma survivor in the whole universe

Why is my brain like this? Why does it like to hurt me?!

In retaliation, I shall hurt you all.

Ever think about how Crowley fell because he didn’t want the universe to end? He “sauntered vaguely downward” and “hung around the wrong crowd”, but what he REALLY did was challenge the idea that the beautiful things they created, that HE helped create, should be destroyed.

He was rejected from heaven for loving the universe too much.

And then we see time and time again he still does everything he can think of to save things. The goats and Job’s children, questioning killing kids when the Arc was built, saving the grave robber from suicide. And he gets away with this desire to save the universe more in hell... until he doesn’t. Until he’s too blatant is saving a girl from condemning herself to hell for a cardinal sin and they torture him with god knows what for god knows how long.

And after hell gets him for this too, he’s prepared to end it all the next time heaven or hell come after him.

NO WONDER every time it looks like the noose is tightening on him and Aziraphale he jumps to “we could just leave.” He has a severe flight reaction after he was literally cast out of heaven and tortured in hell for wanting to save the universe and all the little things in it. No wonder he snaps every time Aziraphale calls him good, because all the things Aziraphale praises him for have cost him everything with BOTH HEAVEN AND HELL. I cannot imagine how much Crowley must crave this praise, but also loathe it because of what it means in the rest of his life.

And he does his fucking best to protect Aziraphale from the same pain he’s gone through. He acts as the birther for Job’s “new” children so all the heat’s on him if the angels figure it out. He bombs a church so Aziraphale doesn’t get in trouble in WW1. He tries to get Aziraphale to leave with him before they can get caught in any crossfires, and when that doesn’t work he sticks around to make sure his Angel doesn’t get hurt. Like when he stays to help with Gabriel, even though he wants to rip him apart for telling Aziraphale to “shut up and die”, because if he doesn’t, Aziraphale might be erased from the book of life.

And Aziraphale doesn’t know better because he hasn’t experienced either of the traumas Crowley has. He’s been lucky enough to skirt under the radar, and even when he DID almost get killed for it, he didn’t see what heaven was like because Crowley went in his place. He can retain the idea that heaven is inherently good because HE hasn’t been a victim of it yet. He’s seen other people victimized by it from a distance, but he’s brainwashed to think there’s a good reason for this - much the way people who are gaslit by narcissists are made to feel their feeling aren’t valid because they don’t understand what’s actually going on and can’t trust their own judgment.

And because Aziraphale doesn’t understand, Crowley has to watch him walk straight back into the trap and there’s nothing he can do about it. All his attempts to protect Aziraphale fail, and he can’t watch what comes next because he knows what comes next, and he knows Aziraphale well enough to know it’ll break him. And it’s going to break Crowley too 😭

So did I do it? Did I hurt you as badly as I hurt myself?

#i made myself cry #crowley #good omens #good omens 2 #gos2 spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #go2 spoilers #aziraphale #poor crowley #tw: suicide

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heartinajarofpickles · 7 months

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Dinner Is Not Over

Part 1

You say something's wrong

The engine finally stops after 4 hours of driving carelessly through the London streets, Crowley doesn’t seem to know how, when or why he arrived at their apartment.

— “Life must move on right?”

No one answers.

The boxes in the backseat have started to lose stability, the more the moisture of the plants is in contact with them, the worse they get, as soon as Crowley notices this he takes them out, one box at a time since he doesn’t have help this time, it’s very tedious really but at least it keeps his mind occupied, although not for long, once all the plants are secured in the second floor of the building he starts spiraling again, thinking about the confession, the kiss, but above all about Aziraphale, they have never been not together, maybe he should’ve gone to heaven, be holy again, just to be with the one that he had forever loved; but then again how could he go to that place after all he had seen, they were the ones that punished him oh so badly just for questioning god and not following her blindly, but wasn’t that the reason that he got into such a high position in the first place? And even worse, didn't god make her that way? Why was she responsible for being the way she was if another person made her specifically that way?

NONSENSE

Worse than all, heaven tried to kill the angel, HIS angel, destroy him forever just for saving life, why if he was so good did Metatron not intervene then? What if they hadn’t changed their bodies? Both of them would’ve died.

Ever since the fall Crowley didn’t care that much about his own life, he never really admitted it, but he knew that god could take anything she wanted away from them, at any given time, that's why they restricted themselves from feeling, from caring, from getting attached, because they knew that if they did it all could be destroyed, it had been once and nothing guaranteed him that it couldn’t happen again, but here on earth they had so much more that she could ever have anywhere else, they were loved and cared but above all they were needed, and that was his mistake, letting his ward down, and allowing themselves to feel, to care, to love, and just like thousands of years ago, all of that was stolen from him, ripped in seconds leaving his word shredded.

But none of that was important anymore, he had all the time in the world just for himself, and he sure could use it.

First thing Crowley did after having such a sad revelation was getting into the Bentley and driving to the closest liquor shop, what a nice sound it was the one of bottles clinking against each other and how nice did it felt to not make the right choice for once, to behave the way that everyone expected him to, to live up to all those nasty comments and beliefs, it was clear as day that the little man chasing him since 3 blocks away was never going to be able to catch him, of course Crowley had the money to pay, but he just needed some thrill, although not positive he surely was feeling something, call him whatever you want but at this exact moment he was doing 1000 times better than when Aziraphale left.

After arriving in an absurdly short amount of time to his flat Crowley decided to get right at it, apparently in such a hurry 3 bottles have broken leaving irregular shards of glass both big and small, sharp and flat; and whiskey splashed all over the suitcase, Crowley’s cold hand starts digging into the bag where the bottles are, hurting himself with a few of the smaller shards, when he manages to take a hold onto one of the bottles his hand were already bleeding, it was such a twisted picture to saw the creature that had once saved the earth and guarded it for so many years from gods oddballs, thrown on the floor drinking a disgusting mix of the red liquid emanating from their hands mixed with the liquor coming out of the bottle all while watching the sculpture that looked so different than him, so ethereal, so triumphant,so elegant, and for that same thing to felt the same way that he did, cold, hard and inert, if u would’ve been there at the time you wouldn’t have been able to differentiate which one was which, same pulse, same temperature, same tint, in fact with each gulp Crowley lost more and more of his humanity until they were nothing more than a bunch of bones and skin, muscles and blood held together by something that didn’t let him live nor let him die, the weight of those 6,000 years began settling in, all those years they had been with the angel, they had felt him sometimes so far that it was very faint, some other times so close that he believe that with a wrong movement they will merge together becoming the same energy, but as of now he couldn’t feel anything it felt lonely, it felt empty, it felt WRONG.

Crowley’s thoughts weren’t stopping and neither was his drinking, more and more time passed and with each minute more empty bottles were filling up the flat, the initial cuts on their hand had already stopped bleeding but with each bottle that he take out new cuts surface his skin, tiny red drops decorating the view with tiny red splashes, some of them were in the floor, some others in the top of the bottles, a few of them in their arms and face, but the majority were mixed with the liquor giving it a new rusty taste.

The booze had made up effect and the flat felt so quiet, she could quickly fix that, she got up and take the first vinyl that she could grab it was one from Maggie’s shop, rightnow, there were not that many people that know what they sell, but that girl had at least an idea of what she was charging for, her previous generation wasn’t as enthusiastic as her, the dark circle started spinning just like Crowley’s head when he stood up to turn on the music, his head is such a cruel mean place that with just a few sound waves is already thinking of someone, someone that it’s not here, someone who won’t be here.

He gets up and stops the music, almost falling to the ground due to the fast movement, but that is not enough, soon enough the smell of burnt plastic has filled out the entire apartment, Who even needs music? Or company? Or love?

Crowley takes another sip of the bottle, he feels so tired, this body wasn’t built for this, and after all he’s been through just this day alone he finally sleeps.

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feralbutfluffy · 8 months

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28. Aziraphale

Fury is an interesting thing.

It pumps adrenaline through the body, raising both heart rate and blood pressure, fueling a feeling that burns bright and brutal.

In the days of the Greek gods, fury was given form; the Eumenides were deities of vengeance, daughters of Nyx, with bat wings and bloodshot eyes.

Later, the Oxford Dictionary defined fury as, ‘extreme anger that often includes violent behaviour,’ and if that definition is accurate then it is true that Aziraphale had, so far, managed to always sidestep anything that might lead to that sort of trouble. Fury was a concept he had seen depicted in print, or in art, but it was something he had always observed from a safe distance.

Now, Aziraphale fairly glittered with it.

He had felt it begin to click into place from the moment Muriel had helped him establish the link to Crowley. The ache he had felt then - some warning of Crowley’s situation - had been a mournful cry for help, the kind of cry that echoes in silence and expects no reply, and fury had, for the first time, made itself known.

As soon as his eyes had locked on the broken figure of his dearest friend, it had enveloped him completely, closing over him like armour.

He could not seem to shake it off.

Something wild had surged in his chest as he’d surveyed the damage. He’d remembered Muriel’s earnest explanation of pyjamas as he’d taken in the tattered remnants of what had once been black silk trousers; Crowley’s only scrap of clothing. His mind had overlaid an image from the past over the image in his present…

His friend, then, sleek and stylish and hermetically wrapped in layers of charcoal and black.

His friend, now, half-naked and ripped to shreds, looking like he’d been hunted for sport.

And maybe he had.

He had wished for his flaming sword in that moment. He would have waited for those responsible and struck them down without a thought. But Saraqael had grounded him, reminded him of what needed to be done, and directed him during the healings. They had asked him to lift Crowley’s head, or move Crowley’s arm, or spread Crowley’s wing; directions that probably weren’t necessary outside of giving him something to do so that his mind didn’t splinter into maddened slivers of undiluted rage.

The urge to tear the place apart with his bare hands had been almost overwhelming. Instead, he had gritted his teeth and used those same hands to cradle Crowley’s head in his lap, his fingers catching in blood-matted snarls. He was hollowed out by sorrow, asphyxiated by anger, and the fury was inside him then, a stinging cold crawling through him until he shook with it.

Back at the bookshop, Aziraphale had knelt at Crowley’s side with a bowl of warm water and wiped away the blood with slow, gentle, deliberate strokes. Each bruise and scar revealed had stoked his rage. It had crystalised into something sharp and vicious and diamond-hard.

Afterwards, he had poured the water out in the sink and the colour of it had broken his heart.

Saraqael was a welcome ally. They didn’t conceal their disgust at the situation, just explained more fully what Aziraphale had already half-known; the Metatron had wanted to separate him from Crowley, believing them too powerful. Saraqael had been pragmatic about his choice to leave Earth.

“The Metatron used good bait. You were always a believer.”

“Yes.”

A sidelong glance. “I heard he spiked your earthly beverage with an extra shot of religious zeal just to be sure of your answer.”

“My coffee? ”

“Just a rumour. You probably would have made the same decision regardless. You’ve always been…” - Saraqael paused - “... eager.”

“But… But the Metatron succeeded. I was in Heaven. We weren’t even on speaking terms !”

The questions hung in the air unspoken. Why do this? Why take him?

“There was still contact, was there not?” Saraqael nodded their head towards the front of the shop. “Through Muriel? The two of you have never been able to keep away from each other for too long,” Saraqael wrinkled their nose in bewilderment. “God only knows why. Still, it did seem inevitable that perhaps a year from now, a decade from now, a century from now… you two would simply pick up where you left off. Unless… ”

“Unless.” Repeated Aziraphale dully.

“...Unless that possibility was eliminated.”

“But why Crowley? Why not me?”

Saraqael gave him a look that told him they wouldn’t be dignifying his question with an answer. Why would Heaven ever think to lose an angel to spare a demon?

Aziraphale had gone to Crowley then, bent his forehead to Crowley’s arm, silently begged for forgiveness, and Crowley had come to, startling him. He had warned Aziraphale away. He had warned him of danger he didn’t seem to realise was no longer present.

Aziraphale had stared at the thin white line that split his eyebrow and continued down his cheek, thought about his own failure to warn Crowley, and silently swallowed down the guilt threatening to choke him.

Or start from the top!

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actual-changeling · 6 months

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today on "excerpts of a fic i will never write": pain and more pain.

"Do you love me?"

It comes out as a breathless whisper, half lost against Crowley's lips, and the moment he registers it, he wishes he hadn't heard it at all. His entire body freezes, his palm flattens against the wall while his other grasps the fabric of Aziraphale's shirt so tightly that it almost tears apart at the seams, straining to stay in place.

Three months. Three months, and when Aziraphale knocked on his door, entering without permission as soon as he opened it, the idea of having to listen to his entire sorry speech again had been harder to bear than giving in, shoving him against the wall right there in the hallway, and kissing him.

Kissing and kissing and kissing, clinging to him because Someone knows when he will see him after this, if he will see him, and Crowley swallowed every sound, every moan, and every stuttered word before it could spill.

Except, as always, the one time it mattered.

Aziraphale stares up at him, lashes wet with uncried tears and regret, and Crowley wonders if God ever really stopped punishing him.

"How dare you?" he says, spitting it out rough and hoarse and forcing himself to let go of him.

"How dare you ask me that?"

Crowley takes a step back, then another, and before he realises it, it is his back that is pressed against the opposite wall, it's his eyes that are stinging with tears he refuses to allow to fall; he has done enough of that to last eternity. Pain rips his chest right open, jagged nails pulling and tearing the flesh as blood floods out and onto the floor, and for a second he thinks he can taste it hot and metallic on his tongue. When he breathes and attempts to inhale around the gaping wound, no air will come, and his next words are strained.

"Get out. How fucking dare you ask me that question?"

"Crowley-" Hands, familiar, soft, reaching for him, and he flinches back hard enough to feel the beginnings of a flashing headache when his head slams into the brick wall.

He can taste blood and angel, desire and desperation, rage and regret—so much regret. More regret than any being should be capable of.

They've reached an impasse (againagainagain), and it ends the way it always does, the way it ended three months ago, four and a half before that, and six before that. Closer and closer, chasing after the life they did not get to live, and every single time Aziraphale tries to make him return to heaven with him.

It's not right that he can make his body, his existence, torture him worse than the deepest pits of hell with one single question. It's not fair, but then again, the universe has never cared much about fairness.

"Get. Out."

Aziraphale leaves (he always does), and Crowley slides to the floor and pushes the door shut behind him, leaning back to stare up at the ceiling. He mouths the words he can never say out loud; he has already said too much.

He always says too much.

Of course I love you, I never stopped.

I never stopped hating myself for it, either.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce

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sightkeeper · 2 years

Photo

A request that I had a ton of fun doing (read: perhaps too much) - Good Omens but in the Borderlands universe! With additional text below the cut of me waffling lore that should not be scrutinized too closely aha

So for those unfamiliar with Borderlands, the general gist of the game is a space treasure hunt. Planets have Vaults, which are full of treasure/secrets, and they're guarded by monsters. The playable characters are called Vault Hunters, and you're usually battling malicious individuals or corporations long the way. And now for the description that might be confusing for people who haven't played but here I go anyways: So a lot of names in Borderlands are taken from greek mythology, so I chose to create a new mother corporation named Gaia. The idea of Gaia is that it was an older corporation that was originally intended to be a shield manufacturer, not a weapons manufacturer, but a schism within the company came about around the same time they tried to find a foothold on Eden-6, but were beat out by the Jakob's corporation and fell apart into two separate factions. The company's main selling point was a closely-held secret elemental type that they called "grace". Instead of causing a status effect, it's a elemental neutralizer, and causes temporary invulnerability. Likewise, grace-infused ammo does not have a weakness to shields or armor. Bit of a unstoppable force/immovable object situation between the two sides. However, without the combined might of the Gaia corporation to back either one of them, they're left to use what little remains of the "grace" and continue to try to build up their work forces on either side. Maybe with the treasure of a Vault, they might just succeed? Pandora seems the place to be, in that case... More onto the character design, but so I made two versions for each of them: the pre-schism version of their Gaia outfits, and then post-schism where they've established themselves outside of the company. Aziraphale starts off in soldier gear, based loosely off of Atlas and Dahl fatigues, but with canisters of "grace" attached to his back that are infused into an Oz-kit structure around his neck.

The idea was the two cannisters might look like mounted wings. Speaking of wings, two white arches are main motif of the Gaia corporation, so you'll see them also on the armor plating and logo. Crowley, on the other hand, was much more on the planning and negotiations sides of the company, so he gets decked out in Gaia-approved corporate wear that he can't stand, including wing-tipped shoes, lapels with golden wings embossed on them, and even golden ECHO-eyes.

These outfits then get ripped to Pandora and back.

Aziraphale's fatigues get worn down to the base set, losing most of the armor parts in favor of comfort. He's down to one cannister of grace, but a little goes a long way, and he's become a lot more world-wise since being stationed on Pandora. The feather motif remains along the jacket lining. His class-mod (Guardsman) is his coin-fob on the chain at his belt. Crowley, the edgelord that he is and we love, went full-in for the bandit aesthetic. All that remains of his previous look is the white shirt, now accompanied by significantly more leather and spikes, scaled belts and shoes, and a tiny water-mister full of remaining grace for when he needs to keep things in line. His class-mod would be the snake-charm earring, which would double as a ECHO-drive for the port in his temples. I could so easily make a whole comic based on this premise it's addicting aha

#good omens #good omens fanart #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #borderlands #my art #request

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bad-apple-darlin · 3 months

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I just finished my rewatch of s2e6… first time I’ve watched it since last summer. So here are my immediate thoughts after the final fifteen (mostly just agony tbh)

Oh boy what a ride that was. I had an intense mounting sense of dread through the whole episode, no lie, knowing exactly what pain was about to be inflicted on me and them. When the Metatron showed up in line at Nina’s I got a shiver even. Then of course Crowley opens the talk, all panicky and rushed, words spilling out of him. The dam is breaking on millennia of suppressed feeling and Aziraphale really just “hold that thought”s him and I can’t take it. Neither can Crowley. The silence of the background is deafening, I noticed that more this time than ever. It’s like time stops between them right there - tell me you said no. If I’m in charge…

The tension snaps and the heartbreak starts to unfold. Crowley makes his petition, his voice breaking in the exact right places to make my heart seize up. We’ve spent our existence - this love is ancient, this love is built into our foundations - pretending that we aren’t. Let’s stop pretending.

Aziraphale wants it; you can see it in the way he leaps forward at Crowley there. He’d take his hands if he could. Come with me - his vision for this version of them in heaven only-even-nicer is only possible if they go together. It means they can be together, openly, honestly, freely - well, free to do Heaven’s bidding. For one heartbeat of a moment, I think Aziraphale sees them wanting the same thing, and thinks he has found a way.

Oh, Crowley. Nothing last forever. And that’s it, I’m in tears, the miscommunication reaches its height and Crowley is shuttering himself to the world and Aziraphale watches his retreat with such open confusion and longing that it makes my stomach turn. They pick at each other, never content to let a scab form, always scratching at it. I don’t think you understand - oh I think I understand better than you do. They tense up again, the anger grows, and as Aziraphale turns away you can see the breath escape Crowley. His shoulders drop, he does this heavy-heart gasp for air before he storms across the shop to Aziraphale and the pure want of it drives me mad. Look at me. Don’t turn away from this. This is important, the most important thing. Don’t leave me alone with this.

And Aziraphale takes it in, pushes into Crowley, meets him for that sublime moment. It almost works. You can see the anguish build on Aziraphale’s face as he tries to process through it - I love - I want - I can’t - I forgive you.

Will any series of facial expressions devastate me more than the moment after Crowley leaves the bookshop? When Aziraphale’s face crumbles as the realization that his life long love is leaving him, the fear and sadness and longing, confusion and hurt. Aziraphale’s hands are trembling and mine are too and I cannot imagine the devastation of losing the one creature in all of creation that you have loved since before the beginning of time itself. The scale and depth of their relationship gives me whiplash to think about. And here, in fifteen minutes, it all starts unraveling at once, the subtleties, the coded language, the unspoken desire, the deep, passionate love. All of it laid bare and then ripped apart, their whole world crushed, and the promise of more destruction to come.

So Aziraphale is on his own, like he hasn’t been for time immemorial. And Crowley is on his own too, but without the anchor points of the precious, peaceful existence he was so attached to. Crowley looks exhausted. Aziraphale looks like an animal realizing that the cage he’s in isn’t meant to protect him, but to keep him trapped. He looks like a madman planning a heist - a magician envisioning his next illusion.

And me, I’m just rolling around wailing because I cannot believe I have to wait so very long to find out how they resolve this. How do they come back from it?? Because they do, no separation lasts long for them, not in proportion to their impossibly long lives. The Metatron walked in not a moment later and Aziraphale thought it was Crowley again, he was ready to hash it out and mend it that fast. Every potential is there. So how?? And when?? How long will it take for Aziraphale to own his feelings for the only being in all of history that he has ever loved? How will Crowley cope with the only loss he has ever really feared? How will I ever go another day without thinking about them and their loss??

#final fifteen #good omens #aziracrow #my heart!!!!

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undecidedscorpio · 3 months

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So Much For Stardust

A Short Good Omens Fic

Warning: Lots of Angst! Listen to So Much for Stardust if you want to feel extra angst.

Crowley parks the Bentley. Raindrops pelted down on the windshield. Not quite sure when the rain had started or why it was coming down so hard, he couldn’t care less. Stepping out, Crowley hadn’t bothered with a miracle. He might as well feel like he did on the outside as he did on the inside.

Drowning.

Walking up to his old apartment in Mayfair, he was dripping in the stuff. Leaving pools of water everywhere he stepped as he walked to the door of the apartment. Mail was stacked on the edge of the door with his name on it. Electing to ignore it, he opened and closed the door with the pile of mail, now soaked, lying there.

The apartment looked the same. Shax hadn’t bothered changing anything aside from a single cup on the countertop. Holding it in his hands he turns it over, reading the word “bitch.”

His grip tightened at the thought of Shax. Had she stayed in her lane, and not interfered, likely things would have been fine. It was easier to blame another demon for his own demise rather than remembering the angel he loved choosing to leave him.

Without a thought, he threw the mug against the wall, the sound of it shuddering bringing momentary relief.

Right, he thought. Why not?

Walking down the halls of heaven felt hollow. The Metatron was walking next to him, showing him around heaven as if it had changed in any way that would matter to the new Supreme Archangel. The words that came out of his mouth seemed drowned out by the angel's own thoughts.

He kissed me. He really kissed me, he thought. There had been no time for the angel to really put the pieces together. Now that he was in heaven, reality washed over him. Gasping for air at the final realization of what he had done; leaving his best friend behind. No. That's no longer acceptable, let alone accurate. His Love. He left his love. He left him for what? A job that he doesn’t even want? Aziraphale tried to remember why he even said yes in the first place. He had been so sure it was the right thing, and now? Crowley's words echoed in his mind.

How could someone so clever be so stupid?

Crash

Glass and ceramic pieces remained scattered about the apartment. If Crowley could break it, he sought to make it so. Ripping down glasses and mugs, throwing them to the side to hear the shattering sound that seemed to, at the very least, felt gratifying.

He grabbed a bottle of wine, having planned to throw it, too, remembering that he was gifted by his so-called friend.

No. They were still friends.

Right?

He popped the wine bottle open and brought it to his lips, tilting the bottle up. Wine escaped his lips, dripping down his jaw, mixing with the tears the demon hadn’t realized he had begun to shed. The bottle was nearly empty when he stopped. Looking at the red liquid, swirling it around in the bottle, remembering it was a post armageddon gift. Now, it was but the beginning of the next.

“Ngk!” he screamed as he threw the bottle against a new wall. Wine stained the wall, dripping down to the scattered glass beneath it.

The Metatron's words broke through the fog that was Aziraphale's thoughts. “And here is your desk, we don’t have much use for them but perhaps that will change, yes?”

Aziraphale nodded softly. He waved the Metatron goodbye, electing to create a sound barrier around his new desk that simply sat in the middle of a random corridor. He had been struggling to hold back his tears walking with the Metatron that he miracled them to earth, who knows where.

Sitting down at his desk, head in hand, he began to sob. Trying to remember why he was there in the first place. Thinking back to his conversation with the Metatron, how he knew about Crowley and his arrangement. Worried as to how heaven might retaliate against them had he said no. So he said yes. To protect him, he told himself.

Crowley had all but confessed his love for Aziraphale moments before the kiss. It should have been a moment of celebration, a loving reunion as they both, at last, had each other.

Instead, it was painful. Heart-wrenching.

And there was nothing the angel could do about it. So, he cried.

Crowley, hunched forward, taking long strides down the hallway. The door opened before he could reach for the handle, as it feared for its life.

As it should, Crowley thought.

Standing at his desk, arms stretched out, he threw whatever plans Shax had left to the floor. For good measure, he set them ablaze. Flames fanned around him, rising to meet him. His hands were flat against the marble desk. He curled his fingers, dragging them down into the marble as he screamed into the flames, trying to release his rage as he cried out.

He slumped down into his throne, left only with the sharp pain of his own broken heart.

Crowley took his sunglasses off, throwing them against the already frightened door. The broken pieces lay on the floor.

Looking up, his mind was filled with so many questions. For himself. For Aziraphale. For Her.

One that had encompassed them all.

His eyes shone amber yellow, full of tears that began streaming down his face, as he asked “Why?”

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #why not hurt myself some more?

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dionysia-does-stories · 4 months

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The Inescapable Library - Chapter 1

On AO3

Rating T - 1,183 words - Teen Titans - Starfire Ficlet

Summary: Post The Kiss, Crowley is an emotional wreck but when he discovers that Muriel is clearing out Aziraphale's bookshop he is determined to find out where the books are going. He finds himself trapped in Aziraphale's Inescapable Library subject to the most dangerous thing imaginable, an angel with good intentions.

Story:

How many times had Crowley heard a drunk at a bar slosh over to some long suffering woman and say, “When did you fall from heaven?”

Crowley had fallen. He’d felt the rush of divine grace as it turned to sharp knives on his skin. He remembered the feeling of God’s wraith. She’d wanted him to suffer, to hurt, to lose. A gravity like he’d never experienced slammed into his body. The force of it was too strong for even his wings to fight against. He’d rocketed down, down, down. Away, away, away.

He’d landed somewhere that never existed before. A new place that was made just for him. Hell. The answer to a question he should never have asked.

No one tried to pick him up in bars. Not with cheesy one-liners about heaven anyway. If someone ever had then he would have told them the truth about when he fell about the windburn so strong in his memory that he felt it even now. He wanted to see the beauty in falling. The attraction of the devilish that humans seemed to operate under.

He wanted to spend his eternity saying cheesy one-liners to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale’s betrayal had been worse than the fall. Worse then the gravity. Worse then the ripping away of all things divine and familiar. Hell was a place made just for Crowley and it could hold no competition for the tortures of his own mind.

He had kissed Aziraphale. He had done it because he loved him. And because he hated him in the way that you can only hate something precious. And because he was scared that they would never seen each other again. Not as friends anyway. He had stopped the apocalypse the first time round, but this one he hadn’t even seen coming.

It was a quiet apocalypse with socks on its feet. No plagues besetting your homeland. No horseman jangling their stirrups all the way to prophecy. No. This apocalypse was like wool socks on a country floor in winter. It felt like the whole world was still with sunlight and frost as the rapture slid through unnoticed. Crowley walked into his last conversation with Aziraphale thinking it was Christmas morning only to discover that the world had ended while he wasn’t even looking.

So, he kissed. Then he left. Then he got in his car. Crowley drove for a long time with no destination. The only place he wanted to be was away. But where do you go to isolate from God and her archangels. All existence and non-existence matter and anti-matter were made of her being, were dominion to the job Aziraphale chose over him. Crowley wished for the archaic punishment of being torn sunder from God. He wanted to be broken open. Broken apart. He already was.

He drove and he thought. Days passed without delineation. He drove to Tadfield and circled aimlessly for a while. When he found no solace or purpose, he drove onward. He drove through rolling hills, sprawling cities. Braying sheep blocked his path. Fragile humans admired the Bentley. All was as it ever had been. The world didn’t even seem to know that it had ended. It carried on with the same shuddering enthusiasm that had compelled it through the millennia. Crowley drove back to London.

He pulled into the carpark for his old flat. The Bentley’s engine cut out with a whine. The plants wilted in the back seat. Everything he loved in the world was now in this one parking space. That was a madness that defied comprehension. To discover that his love was so small.

He decided that he would go back to the bookshop. He wasn’t sure what he would do there. Maybe he would burn it down on purpose. Maybe he would sit quietly somewhere and read his favorite volume. All he knew was that if everywhere in the universe was going to be miserable, then he would like to be miserable somewhere familiar.

When he got to the shop, there were moving trucks out front. Great yellow beasts with stupid slogans, being filled to the brim with Aziraphale’s books. A rage took Crowley over as he charged into the shop to track down what fiend would destroy the archangel’s home.

There was no being in the entire building but the cheerful, nervous angel. Marjorie? No, Muriel. They were no longer in their officer costume. They wore a white cable knit jumper and beige tweed pants. They looked almost human.

They waved to Crowley, pleased to see a familiar face regardless of the familiar rage that darkened it.

“Hey, you,” They said.

“It’s only been a few days,” Crowley’s voice was accusatory. “How have you sorted out pretending to be human?”

Muriel held a clipboard close to them. “It’s been months, Mr. Crowley.”

That couldn’t be right.

“It is, though.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Crowley defended himself.

Their eyes were dripping with pity and Crowley hated it.

“You can’t take his books.”

Muriel’s smile was sympathetic. She reached out a hand to touch his forearm. “Archangel Aziraphale has given orders for the books to be moved.”

“Bollocks.”

Muriel had learned the trick to lying. All you had to do was tell yourself that you were doing it for the right reasons. A month, a year, a millennia ago—Muriel had been a normal angel. A being who told the truth and expected honesty and kindness in return. Perhaps Earth had changed them. They did more in a single minute on Earth then they would have during a century in Heaven.

Mortal life was rich with experience. There was so much of it that humans complained about the type of experience they were subject to. “Oh, that hurts.” and “No, not that movie, it’s sad.” Humans wanted everything to feel good. They had no idea what a miracle it was to feel at all.

Muriel could admit that they became jealous of the humans. It gave new context to the war between the angels. They understood—just a little bit—why they were mad at God. She had cheated them of rich full lives. She had made them to serve and that is what they did.

Today, Muriel’s service was to lie.

“I wish I could tell you more, Mr. Crowley.” The next part was the tough bit. She had to make it sound natural. “But I have strict instructions not to let you know where these books are going.”

“His instructions?” Crowley condemned them.

Muriel had him on the line. Now all she had to do was reel him in. “That’s not any of your concern anymore.” She could see him struggle, flopping around against the force of her deception. “These trucks are leaving at 8 pm tonight and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Crowley smirked. “I guess I’ll just give up then.”

Crowley sauntered out of the bookstore. He was so preoccupied by the plan forming in his mind that he didn’t notice Muriel’s eyes follow him out. They had to warn The Library to expect him.

#good omens fanfiction #good omens #fanfiction #crowley/aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #go season 2

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