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patheticpaprika · 1 year

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Fandom: Good Omens Relationship: Aziraphale/Crowley Rating: General Wordcount: 2.2k 1^(words) = footnote because I'm not sure how else to integrate them on tumblr “Is that... is that a violin?” Crowley said in amused disbelief.

“Clearly. What of it, Crowley?” Aziraphale huffed.

“...That you presumably used to play?”

“Well... a bit.”

“Oh that is just too funny, that is!” he cackled.

“I don’t see why you think this is so comedic, Crowley. You picked up playing the guitar, and from what I heard, you’re rather good at it; is it that hard to believe that I could play the violin?”

“’s not that Aziraphale.” he waved his hand, dismissing the idea, still trying to hold back his laughter. “It’s the fact that of all the instruments you picked to learn, you picked the violin. My angel went and picked the devil’s instrument. Satan’s choice conspirator~.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous! We both know that is just old human superstition. It’s no more an instrument of demons than the piano or- or- the crumhorn. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if She herself is rather fond of it.”

“Well, go on then. Play something. Why not La damnation de Faust, or the Devil’s Trill, some Paganini even if you’re feeling extra devious?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, a fond smile playing at his lips. “I don’t know much classical, I’m afraid.”

Crowley once again appeared astounded. “Then what do you know?”

He clasped his hands together, rubbing his thumbs together. “Just... oh, you know... a few folk tunes here and there. I spent some time in Quebec in the early 1900s, you see.”

“So it wasn’t even the violin... you played the fiddle?” His face cracked into a grin, his eyes fully uncovered by his sunglasses, shined with amusement. “Where'd you even get it? Met some odd-looking chap at a crossroads that sold it to you for the small price of your soul, then?"

Aziraphale pointedly ignored that comment. He unclasped his hands and picked up the instrument reverently as he spoke. "Well, if you must know, it was made for me by this lovely man back in 1904 after I saved his daughter. She fell through a frozen pond, ice-skating. The poor thing was practically frozen herself when I fished her out. It's a miracle she was okay. Their family was ever so kind. He carved this beauty himself out of some local maple and pine in thanks.” He smiled wistfully. “He was truly such a wonderful luthier."

Crowley smiled softly back.

"Oh, Crowley! You would have loved it,” he flutted. “Everyone would get together, playing music and dancing. It was quite unlike the concerts we'd go to, all joyfully obstreperous but so delightfully human!" He tightened the bow decidedly believing the old horsehair would not snap, so it didn't.

He watched Aziraphale ramble on, the angel practically glowing as he spoke. And Crowley was happily basking in it like the reptilian he was.

I always wished you could have joined, even then ...But well... you know." At that, his words awkwardly tittered off, merely hinting at the past they didn’t like to mention. So, without another word about it, he put the violin to his shoulder, asking it ever so politely to be in tune, and after some thinking, started to play a shaky, decades-out-of-practice rendition of the Jessica Waltz.

It was utterly abominable, but Crowley kept the wince off his face for the sake of the shy, enraptured smile blooming across Aziraphale's features.

He finished the tune with a dramatic flourish of the bow, quite unfitting its scratchy playing, and met Crowley's eyes. "I- I can't believe I'd forgotten." he brought the fiddle up to his face to study it, his smile turning to a doting pout. "But oh, the poor dear, I've completely neglected her, and now she's sounding ill."

Crowley took a measured pause. "...Are you sure that's not just your playing, angel?"

Aziraphale hmphed. "You don't need to tell me I'm out of practice, Crowley, I'm quite aware, but she's done this to me before. She gets mad at me and goes to sleep. Something you’re quite familiar with, I’m sure." He stared pointedly at him before looking back at the violin in his hands. "Her tone gets all muted," he sighed. "It will take ages to wake her up. I do suppose it's been a while, though; I guess I can’t really blame her. I just hope I remember the tunes; it's not like I have anyone to teach me. Partly why I stopped, I suppose. I could never play it like the humans can, and I lost the people to play it with coming back here."

Crowley gave him a sympathetic pout. A look far too soft to be given to anyone but the angel. "...I'm no human either, but I could join you? If you'd like. Can do a bit of guitar like y' said."

Aziraphale's expression softened. "Oh! Would you?"

"Ngk. I will if you stop sounding like you're trying to strangle a cat whenever you play."

He smiled fondly. "It's settled then. I will see if I can find a fiddle teacher, and eventually, we can play some tunes together. I still remember some of the names of my favorites. Do you know much folk?"

~~~

As time went by, Aziraphale determinedly relearned how to play, excitedly telling Crowley all about his progress over dinner or ambushing him as he entered the bookshop, bow still in hand. 1^("Oh hello Crowley! I was just practicing the tune 'Road to Lisdoonvarna," he said with an excited wiggle. "Care to join me?")

As it happened, he'd found an old-school fiddle teacher that had been helping him relearn his old favorites and teach him some new ones.

But worst of all, he had yet to forget Crowley's offer to join him. A singular moment of weakness caused by one of Aziraphale's trademark resolve-melting sad expressions, and you have an angel barking at your ankles nonstop for months. Bah.

"Come on Crowley, you promised!"

"Excuse me? I did no such thing, angel. I suggested."

"But it would be so lovely! I don't see why you're suddenly so against it."

"I don't see why it matters, really. 'm not even very good at it. I'm happy enough here in the shadows watching you play, slowly getting more and more possessed by the evil of the devil's instrument and all that."

"Is that what this is about?!" he said disbelievingly.

"Wut? I'm a demon 'ziraphale; that's kind of my whole schtick."

"No not that." He shook his head. "You don't think you're any good at it," he finished softly.

Crowley blinked crudely but didn't say anything to deny it.

"I think you're marvelous at it myself. But even if you weren’t, I don’t think I would mind, really; that is if it means we get to play together.

Together

"Nrmph, fine. Since you won't shut up about it, I s'pose we can play a tune or two. I'll just need to grab my guitar first and all that."

"Oh, thank you!"

"Shut it.”

“I do mean it, Crowley. You are wonderful.”

“Eeeh, don’t think so, but before I go, angel,” he said, quickly changing the subject. “I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Ask what, dear?”

“What’s the difference between a fiddle and a violin?"

“Well, there’s no differe—"

“—One has strings, and the other has strangs.” he interrupted, grinning.

~~~

Despite all of Crowley’s griping, it quickly became somewhat of a tradition. Every month or so, Crowley would saunter into the bookshop with a guitar case in his hand. Inside it was an old red Burns guitar that did not look the part to play folk tunes but would play acoustic for him if he believed it to, all the same. He had to keep up appearances somehow. There in the bookshop, they'd play any tune they knew and fancied playing together. 2^("A tradition." They've become quite human themselves by now, haven’t they?)

Aziraphale would teach Crowley the tunes he relearned from Quebec. A small offering from the time in history they went their separate ways and did not experience the world together. 3^(If they still kept a constant ear and eye to each other's lives regardless, who was to say? It was the right thing to do, really. Hereditary enemies and all that. Someone had to keep the angel from spreading too many blessings everywhere. Made him sneeze.) And after much persuasion by the demon, Crowley would occasionally teach Aziraphale simple renditions of his favorite "bebop" tunes.

They fell into a simple rhythm of their own; a "hello angel~" followed by an exchanging of tunes and a slow descent into Aziraphale's wine cabinet; the music steadily getting more haphazard and the laughter brighter the farther in they got.

For being occult and ethereal, the dance came strangely natural to them. The millenniums spent on Earth wore away at their supposed identities, turning them as human as one who lives for eternity could be. They truly were on their own side now, had been for eons. Because no one else could understand this strange duality of identity, they had ever so slowly developed. War changes a man, and 6 thousand years’ worth of them changes an angel and a demon.

Heaven stayed up in their ivory-colored office tower, surveying from above, thinking they understood them. And Hell lurked below, not caring of their existence except to worsen it.

But Aziraphale and Crowley stood beside them through their kindness and atrocities. They celebrated their victories and consoled them through their pain. Humans feel and exist so intensely it's impossible to not feel a touch for them in return. It's impossible to watch them wander through their small glimpses of life, helping them through in small steps along the way and not start to care for them at least a little; to not secretly celebrate their victories just a teeny bit your own.

They will always be outsiders but that doesn't make them alone. So when they join together in their little disjointed melody playing music and drinking wine, they know that's where they belong.

"I was wondering if we could try to play this new song I learned recently. It's quite a wonderful tune the humans made up. A guitar accompaniment would sound beautiful"

"Beautiful' isn't really what I do, angel, but if you insist." he joked.

"Well I would beg to differ, Crowley, I have seen those stars you've made."

"And that was 'along time ago" he said tapping at his temple in a pointed gesture towards his uncovered eyes.

"And those my dear, are beautiful too." Aziraphale smiled tenderly like the bastard he was.

"Mmph." Crowley's face turned a light shade of pink. "Alright, fine, you win. What's the tune called. How's it go."

"They call it Ashokan Farewell. I'll play it for you." He picked up his fiddle, letting it rest familiarly inside the crook of his neck. He began to play the tune, a gentle euphonic lament. The instrument now singing brightly under the angel's care and attention. Anyone would.

Crowley watched Aziraphale's face, transfixed as he played. His own features likely pooled into an expression he would rarely dare show before the apocalypse that wasn't. But it was different now; their lives could now be safely oh so closely intertwined like a snake around his own angelic apple tree. Or something like that. He’d never been good at metaphors.

Aziraphale finished the tune with a content sigh. "So, did you like it?"

"You're right, I think." He propped his head on his hand, his elbow resting soundly on his lap, still looking straight at Aziraphale. "Is’ beautiful."

"I knew you'd like it! Would you care to join along?"

"Oh right, yeah, the song.”

Aziraphale gave him a knowing look.

"But yes, course." He cleared his throat. " Love'd to angel. Could you play it again, and I'll jump in when I can?" He tapped his fingers twice gently on the strings.

He nodded and started to play the tune again. Crowley joined in around the second time through.

And it really was beautiful, wasn't it? Humans had a way of pouring their hearts out into their creations till it all but coalesced with your own, bringing together sacred memories mixed with hints of ones you never experienced yet somehow felt all the same.

The music rung out through the soft goodbyes. Years of parting, never knowing when they'd see each other again but quietly hoping it'd be soon.

It was there in the heartbreak, reverberating through the "We're not friends, we never were" and flitted around the scared looks towards the sky.

It gathered around the hopeful glances, drawing each one out in long bowstrokes, emphasizing the terrifying feeling of being loved, of being known.

Oh. That's why Aziraphale loved this song so much.

It swept around them like a deafening gale as they stood side by side against both Heaven and Hell. It sang out like a declaration. This was their home, here in each other's presence, surrounded by the humans and all the brilliant things they've done.

Something so alarmingly dear that the very thought of losing it made you cling to it desperately closer. The idea of losing it felt like the end of the world. 4^(And he'd know, he'd been there.)

"Crowley, are you... are you crying?" They'd finished playing?

"Hm? Wot?" Humans, those brilliant bastards. The lot of them.

Aziraphale just kept looking at him like that. So much care in his eyes.

He touched his hand to his eyes, it came back wet. He wiped the tears away hurriedly. "Don't worry angel, 'm not crying; snakes don't even have tear ducts.” 5^(Not that his corporation didn't.)

"Are you sure you’re alright?"

"Should think so. Care for a spot of lunch? There’s this new hole-in-the-wall Korean place I’ve been meaning to take you."

He shook his head disapprovingly at Crowley's quick brushing off of the apparent, but his eyes sparkled. "I'd love to."

Crowley knew he knew. Not all things had to be said.

Click link for A/N

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #gomens #I forgot to post this on tumblr when I posted it on ao3 so we doin that now #aziracrow #ineffable partners #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #fanfiction #fiddling #SoundCloud

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sleepymccoy · 4 years

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this one was so much nicer to write than i expected!! I’m loving these little prompts, they’re great starting platforms and then i just let it take me really. This got a little long, so two thirds of it is under a readmore. It also got fairly emotional really, it’s nice. Hope you enjoy it @mothfluff

"You're not getting in?" Aziraphale asked as he tiptoed across the pebble stone beach to meet Crowley at the bench they'd put in.

"Feelin' the cold today," Crowley muttered. He watched without offering to help as Aziraphale stumbled and slid across the stones. They grew larger, more permanent and grass covered as he got closer to Crowley, but still slightly treacherous. Crowley enjoyed the sight, the focus on the angel's face as he studied his path, his arms out as he balanced on a wobbly rock. His wings twitching and fluttering as he nearly tipped, flapping once to catch himself.

"Thanks for the help," Aziraphale said darkly as he came to a stop before Crowley.

Crowley opened his arms wide. "What help did you need? You did fine. Sit down, I'll get the seaweed out of your wings."

Aziraphale glared, but turned and sat between Crowley's legs, wings displayed in full.

"You were smirking at my struggles," Aziraphale complained while Crowley got to work. "What kind of lover are you?"

"I wasn't smirking," Crowley said. He pulled the big pieces of seaweed off first, throwing them back half-heartedly towards the ocean, then got to digging around for the smaller dark specks. Aziraphale always got seaweed so deep in his wings.

"I was enjoying the show," Crowley continued. "Gettin' to see your body in those interesting poses."

"Is that right?" Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley hummed his assent. "When you stuck your leg out I got to see all your thigh at once, that was nice." He poked Aziraphale in the bum with his toe to punctuate his point.

Aziraphale chuckled. "You needn't wait around for an opportunity, if you wish to see my thigh you can just ask."

"Ooh, can I see your thigh, then?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shifted, moving to the side slightly before settling back in his seat. "There you go," he said.

Crowley stood and craned his neck to see over the top of Aziraphale's wings. Aziraphale had stuck a leg out in front of himself, his pale thigh spilling over the rocks under him.

Crowley hummed and bent lower to reach the top of Aziraphale's head. He gave him a kiss. "What a lovely thigh you have," he murmured.

"All the better to please you with, my dear," Aziraphale said lightly.

"Ha!" Crowley laughed, the sound a brief bark. "Now, quit your distractions, you beautiful creature. I'm trying to work." He stood back up and returned to plucking slivers of dark seaweed from the salt-damp feathers.

Aziraphale hummed and tipped his head back to lean against Crowley's thigh. "I like how your work feels," he said lushly.

Crowley smiled to himself and dropped one hand to Aziraphale's head, trailing his fingers through his hair. Aziraphale hummed quietly, so Crowley pressed his fingers down, lightly massaging him as he continued to pick the feathers clean.

A few minutes passed before Crowley shifted his attention to the other wing, and removed his hand from Aziraphale's head.

A quiet noise of complaint followed the departure. Crowley chuckled and asked, "How many hands d'you think I have, angel? I'm working here for you."

"I like what that one was doing," Aziraphale muttered.

"Don't give up on me yet," Crowley said, "I'll get back to that soon." He worked quickly, but with finesse. His fingers plunged deep into Aziraphale's long feathers, feeling for any sensation of slime or coarseness that may be hidden seaweed. He found many, pulling them out deftly and dropping them to the ground without worry. He'd done this many times for Aziraphale now, and his fingers knew how roughly to search so that it would feel like a massage more than an invasion for Aziraphale.

And he was doing well. Aziraphale's small, pleased noises were increasing in both frequency and volume. Finally, Crowley was done. He wrapped his hands around the first bend of Aziraphale's wings and squeezed, fluttering his fingers along the muscle.

Aziraphale let out a moan, a deeper, chesty one. Unabashed in the afternoon sun. "What did I ever do without you, dear?" he sighed. Crowley danced his fingers to the other wing and repeated the massage.

"Well," Crowley muttered, "not much. These wings were in an awful state when I first got to-"

"Shut up, beast," Aziraphale said airily, "I'm in a good mood."

Crowley chuckled and knelt behind him, hands going into his hair again. He pressed his fingers to Aziraphale's temples and dragged them back around to his neck. "Only 'cause I put you in a good mood," Crowley whispered.

He felt Aziraphale's head shake slightly, not enough to displace his fingers. "Ocean water did that," Aziraphale said. His words were beginning to weaken, almost slur. "You had nothing to do with it."

Crowley grinned. He let the comment slide, more in a mood to be kind to Aziraphale than tease him. He felt very in love, warmed by the sun and the angel he was allowed to dote on.

He rearranged his legs to wrap either side of Aziraphale's hips, and pulled the angel to his chest. He kissed the back of Aziraphale's neck while pressing his fingers in small circles to his neck, jaw, temples again, through his hair line.

Aziraphale began to moan almost constantly. Minutes passed and his moan devolved into a groan. "Crowley," he said thickly.

"I know, darling," Crowley whispered. He did know, Aziraphale was always so willing to sign up for vulnerability, but when it actually came around he struggled. It had been difficult, early on, but after Aziraphale had tired of apologising for ruining an honest mood with a poorly timed joke and actually explained himself, Crowley had been willing and able to make room for these last barriers.

"Crowley," Aziraphale groaned again.

Crowley kept his fingers working, kept kissing the back of Aziraphale's neck. "Just us, love. I've got you," he whispered. "All alone here, just us."

Crowley looked out at the beach, continuing to massage Aziraphale's head and down his neck.

"I can see the horizon," Crowley whispered. "The ocean is calm. There's nothing out there, it's just a view for us. And listen-" he paused. He ran his fingers down Aziraphale's traps, eliciting a deep moan from him. "It's quiet. Just the breeze. And you and me."

Aziraphale moaned again, then with no warning he leant heavily against Crowley. Crowley dropped one hand to catch himself, keeping himself propped up as Aziraphale's entire upper body weight rested against his chest. The angel wasn't asleep or unconscious, just in a rare state of true relaxation. Crowley wrapped his other hand around Aziraphale's chest and rubbed soft circles against his collarbone so Aziraphale could identify some movement, proof of his company.

And Crowley sat and watched the sea. He let Aziraphale lean on him for a time and kept an alert eye out for anything worth watching for. Aziraphale needed someone to watch over him, to keep them safe. And while Crowley may feel safe in their home, and while he didn't have a habit of watching the skies for sourceless lighting or the ground for localised disturbance, in these rare moments he would take Aziraphale's post and watch for him. So that Aziraphale might relax.

#sleepy writes #good omens #good omens ficlet #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #massage #wing grooming #hug #this is basically a big hug fic #im enjoying these little prompts #and feeling very unpressured too which is nice #south Downs

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bewitchedfeathers · 4 years

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A Cold Performance (Part 1/2)

(Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley Modern Human AU)

(DO NOT REBLOG IF YOU ARE NOT A KINK BLOG. THANKS)

Thank you so much for sending me this request @crowlyxangleforlife! This fic ended up being way longer than I intended and it’s still not complete so here’s the first half for you! I hope you enjoy it!

Request was to use this prompt - “Opening night of their debut performance A comes down with a terrible cold. They’re trying to hide their reddening nose and cheeks with powder (that could set them off tons too), clear their throat, limber up, but the closer A gets to curtain the worse they’re starting to feel. B either has to do everything in their power to make sure the performance goes off without a hitch, or convince A to cancel the event and come home with B, as A looks just about ready to drop.” for Good Omens.

-----

Crowley had been preparing for this performance for weeks now and he’d been desperately trying to fight off a cold for the last 3 days. He was sitting in the backstage room trying to decide how to best handle his cold symptoms while his flushed feverish cheeks and red tender nose mocked him in the vanity mirror. On the counter and floor he was surrounded by every cold remedy he’d managed to grab at the corner store beforehand.

Aziraphale knocked quietly on Crowley’s dressing room door backstage, he was concerned because Crowley had been ill the past few days and despite that had refused to call off his performance. And he understood, he really did, this was an important performance to his lover but he so hated the idea that Crowley might be embarrassed or ashamed of his cold symptoms if they made themselves known on stage in front of his audience. “Crowley? I’m coming in,” He warned as he opened the door and stepped inside.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley said looking vaguely panicked.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m here. Let’s get you ready,” He said with a comforting smile, shoving down his own nerves and concerns.

His eyes went a little wide as he observed the scattered medicines all over the counter and in bags on the floor. “Have you taken any of these?”

“Not yet. I wasn’t sure what w-would….w-huh...HUH’ESSHoo...snf what would help mbost,” He responded cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his sneeze and stuffed up voice.

“Gesundheit, darling. Well a nasal spray will probably help the most with the tickle in your poor nose. And then a decongestant for post nasal drip,” He grabbed a tissue from the open box on the floor passing it to Crowley and then politely looking away, knowing that despite how much he just wanted to dote on his ill lover, Crowley would be too tense to appreciate it in the moment.

Crowley took the tissue with a grateful look towards his partner before turning to the side and blowing his nose productively. “Thanks, angel,” He said with a quiet sigh of relief at the feeling of having his nose cleared out, for a moment at least.

Aziraphale leaned in and pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead and then began looking through the scattered cold medicines before finding what he was looking for. “Are you coughing much, dear?”

“No, throat’s a little sore but mostly it’s just my...hih...snf my nose,” He said with a little sigh of relief as he was able to hold off the sneeze.

“Alright well take this tablet it will help with congestion and then here’s a pain killer which will help with your throat and the fever - which don’t think I haven’t noticed that,” He chastised, but he passed over the meds with a bottle of water to soften his scolding.

He found a nasal spray to use and turned back to Crowley who was slightly slumped in his chair. “Blow your nose dear and then you’ll want to use the spray,” He said pushing the tissue box towards Crowley in offering.

Crowley obediently blew his nose and then took the nasal spray, two spritz up each nostril to do the trick. But almost immediately his nose tickled from the feeling. He rubbed at his pink irritated nose as his breath started to waver and his nostrils fluttered. He sniffled and rubbed, and managed to hold it off for a moment but he still felt terribly sneezy.

“Oh sweetheart, you really have such a cold in your poor nose. Try not to sneeze, alright, we want the medication to have time to take effect before you sneeze it all out,” He said with a little worried frown.

“Not sure I can c-ah-hah….” Aziraphale kneeled down and pressed his own finger up under Crowley’s nose firmly, helping his lover to hold back. Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered as they grew damp with tears as he desperately tried to hold back the sneeze brewing in his nose with Aziraphale’s help. But luckily it backed down again.

“Thagks, angel,” He said stuffily, trying not to sniffle so as not to set himself off again.

“You’re welcome darling. Let’s give all that a little time to take effect and then I can help you with your makeup if you like,” Aziraphale offered rubbing at Crowley’s shoulder, his eyes wandered over to a small couch against the wall. “How about you rest for a minute with me while we wait,” He suggested gently.

Crowley frowned but had to admit the idea of curling up with his love for a minute sounded like heaven. “Yeah, alrighd, angel,” He agreed tiredly. Aziraphale guided him over the couch with a firm hand to Crowley’s lower back and then settled pulling Crowley against his side as he wrapped an arm around his lover so he could relax.

“How’s that sweetheart?” He asked running his hand gently through Crowley’s hair.

“S’good,” Crowley mumbled, leaning heavily against his partner as he tried not to think about how tired and sore he felt from this wretched cold. He managed to rest and focus on his lover’s warm comforting presence for a little bit. Then he sniffled without thinking and immediately his nose gave a twitch, he groaned even as his breath started hitching. Aziraphale looked down at Crowley to see his face falling with the need to sneeze.

Aziraphale pressed his finger under Crowley’s nose but it seemed to be less effective this time, his nostrils fluttering damply against his knuckle. He tried to rub from side to side like he’d seen Crowley do before.

“Hih…..Huh….Hh-Hih?....I ca-hah-n’t heh...help it..have to...hah-have to…” His head drifted back as his nostrils flared out wide, showing how damp and irritated they were.

Aziraphale switched tack - pulling out his handkerchief and cupping Crowley’s nose in the folds. “It’s alright dear, just let it come. It’s been long enough you should be fine,” He reassured.

Crowley was too overcome to respond and just let go, sneezing wetly into the kerchief. “Hh-Heh...Heh’DJZCHUH….HEH’MPSHCH...AEH’SHOO…Hih….”

“Such a cold in your poor nose. Just sneeze out some of that tickle, dear. It’s alright,” He said, continuing to reassure Crowley who’s cheeks and ears were as pink as his nose with embarrassment. He gently rubbed at Crowley’s back with his freehand.

“Hh..AESSHUH….Hh-Huh-HUH’TSHOO!...ugh…” He groaned, sniffling for a moment. Aziraphale wiped at his nose and then folded the kerchief over to a relatively dry side so his cold-ridden companion could blow his nose again.

“Gesundheit, darling. Blow your nose for me, dear,” Aziraphale said firm but kind.

Crowley did as he was bid and blew his nose, pulling back when he was done to flop back against his lover’s side. “Thanks. Sorry I’m such a mess,” Crowley said meekly.

“No need to apologize sweetheart. You know that there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I just wish you wouldn’t push yourself so hard, darling,” He said and then followed up quickly when Crowley shot him a glare, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t go on tonight. I know you’ve made your decision, dear.”

Crowley subsided as Aziraphale explained, it was an argument they’d had several times over the past couple days but Crowley was not going to miss out on this venue, even if this cold seemed determined to try to make him.

“Let’s start on your makeup, dear,” Aziraphale said regretfully, but if they started now then they’d have plenty of time to fix things if Crowley needed to clean up his running nose or his eyes watered from sneezing.

“Yeah, sounds good. Thanks again, angel. I know you didn’t want me to do this but it...it means a lot that you’re here to help,” He said looking down towards his black snakeskin shoes.

“I didn’t want you to make yourself more ill but I know you will be as excellent as you always are darling. And I’ll be glad to see it,” Aziraphale said with a little smile. He tilted Crowley’s chin up so he could meet his eyes. “I love you, my dear. And you know how much I enjoy doting on you,” He said teasingly as he tried to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, yeah. You fuss too much. Love you too, angel,” Crowley said with a crooked smile that made his eyes brighten.

Crowley settled back in the chair as Aziraphale pulled out various makeup products. Crowley was perfectly capable of doing his own makeup but Aziraphale was a deft hand at it as well and often did Crowley’s makeup before a show. A comforting ritual that let Aziraphale dote on Crowley in an understated way that was easier for the guitarist to allow.

As soon as Aziraphale started to use his usual powder foundation though he realized this was going to be an all new challenge. “Hh...angel...I..Hh’GSH-uh...Hih-Hh’mmpssh...ssorry,” He said after managing to pull away from the brush before the first sneeze burst from him half stifled against the back of his hand. He dabbed at his nose with a tissue as he sniffled.

“Oh dear. Your nose is quite sensitive isn’t it, this might be a touch trickier than usual,” Aziraphale said with a concerned look, “Do you think you can hold still long enough for me to finish with the powder, dear?”

“Erhm, yeah I think so,” He said with an uncertain sniffle. If he could just get control of his damned nose.

Aziraphale tried to leave his nose alone as much as possible but the even without the bristles of the brush tickling his nose the excess powder in the air was making his nose feel dreadfully tickley. “Hh….Heh...Hiiih?....” Finally Aziraphale powdered Crowley’s nose and the area around it as quickly as possible.

Crowley’s breath hitched desperately, nostrils flaring and fluttering and as soon as Aziraphale was done he turned to the side to sneeze harshly towards the floor. “hh-Hh-Hhh-AESHOO….Heh’SHUH...EPTSHoo..Essh..Etshuh-TSHT... Heh-hih-HEH-RRRUSSHOOO….” He panted heavily leaning back in his chair with a groan.

Aziraphale bit his tongue to not ask if he was sure he was alright to go on. “Gesundheit! Well that should be the worst of it, darling,” He reassured as he brought a tissue up to dab at Crowley’s nose carefully. “Are you alright, my dear?” He asked before he could suppress the need to fuss over his sick love.

Crowley gave a light cough, the sneezes having roughed up his sore throat a bit. “Yeah. ‘m alright, Zira,” He said.

“Oh! I have some tea and lozenges for your throat,” He said bustling over to his bag and pulling out a small thermos and a baggie of lozenges. He poured some tea into the thermos top and offered it to his sick lover. Crowley shot him a grateful look as he sipped at it.

“Best get on with it, angel,” Crowley said tiredly, trying to mentally psych himself up even though he felt dreadful.

“Of course darling. Turn your head towards me again. There we are,” He said gently as he got to work. Luckily the rest of the makeup application went by without incident and then they were nearing the start of the show.

“I should go out to get to my seat soon, my sweet. Do you need anything else?” Aziraphale said pressing a kiss to the side of Crowley’s hair so as not to mess up his makeup or the artfully mussed hair on the top of his head.

“Nah. I’m good. You’re a lifesaver, Aziraphale,” He said with a soft warm look in his eyes and continued sappily, “My angel.” He reached out and tangled their hands together giving Aziraphale’s a squeeze.

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale said as his cheeks went pink, “I love you, my darling. Now um break a leg I think is how it goes.”

Crowley gave a low chuckle. “Yeah that’s the one. See you after, yeah?”

“Of course, darling.” With one last gentle squeeze of their hands Aziraphale left to join the audience in the large auditorium. Crowley was the opening act and then would be helping to close the performance with a couple pieces in a duet with one of the other artists performing this evening as well.

With his last few moments he fiddled with his hair foregoing hairspray as a bad idea and just gelling it in place. He grabbed his guitar, mentally donned his flash bastard persona and made his way out to the stage.

On stage Crowley had to rub his nose and drink water between each song but managed to make it through to the last song before his nose really started to fuss. He turned from the mic to sniffle trying to hold back his cold symptoms until he was off stage and just barely managed to take a bow and rush into the wings before he was stifling a fit of sneezes into his elbow. Some of the staff came up looking worried but he waved them off and rushed off to his dressing room for some much needed privacy.

Link to [ Part 2 ]

AN: Comments and reblogs are appreciated! (Also I do read the tags so feel free to leave your comments there) And feel free to send me requests/prompts!

#snez fic #snz fic #sneezing fic #snz fanfic #sneezing kink #go om #con crit welcome

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mostweakhamlets · 5 years

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Parsley, Thyme, Sage, Daffodils

Finally a full fic to this post

Summary: Aziraphale has a popular cooking show on the internet. Crowley dedicates part of his garden to the hobby, growing herbs and berries. Crowley also struggles to handle life after the apocalypse. Established relationship. South Downs fic. Features PTSD.

On AO3

By autumn, Crowley’s garden was beginning to die. He thought about yelling at them to keep growing past the season, but Aziraphale had gently reminded him that they had neighbors who most likely did not want to be disturbed any further by his plant discipline. Crowley didn’t necessarily care what the humans thought when he was in his garden, but he cared about Aziraphale’s desire to be good neighbors. So, he let his plants naturally wilt.

He had only a few handfuls of herbs that were salvageable. He was disappointed, but he wouldn’t let the plants know that right then. In a few weeks, he’d uproot them and let them think about their actions in the trash bin.

Crowley tucked the handle of his basket in the crook of his arm, holding his pruning shears and gloves in the opposite hand and pushing open the door of the cottage with his shoulder.

“And I’m very proud of all of you who are cooking for the first time,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley stepped into the kitchen. Aziraphale stood in front of their stove, his camera sitting just to the side. The aroma of fruit baking flooded the room and immediately Crowley felt indescribably warm. It wasn’t so much a physical warmth as much as it was emotional.

“I enjoy reading how you’re all doing with your first meals. You’re coming along wonderfully. I know that some of you feel as though you’re struggling, but if you keep at it, you’ll be able to look back and see how much you’ve improved.”

Crowley was about to pass behind Aziraphale, hoping he’d go unnoticed so that he could tend to his herb clippings in peace. But of course, Aziraphale turned to him as soon as he was close enough and pulled him in-frame.

Neither was sure why, but Crowley was painfully camera shy. Perhaps it was his fear that it was easy documentation for Above and Below in case they thought it was time to interfere again. It also could have been because whenever Crowley made a cameo in a video, viewers left a flood of adoring comments.

His husband is so sweet for growing everything for him!!

I wish I had a husband that helped me with my hobbies like this.

Anthony should be in more videos! I love seeing them together. It’s like their soulmates.

Since Aziraphale had introduced him to his audience as “Anthony,” they were just as interested in catching glimpses of him as they were watching Aziraphale’s newest recipes. Crowley had never been in such a position before. He was a demon. He was supposed to be hated by his peers and cause chaos for humans--and he had accomplished both with no problems. He wasn’t supposed to be liked.

He hadn’t been liked by so many others since he fell.

The only person who truly liked him was Aziraphale.

And if the humans watching those videos knew what Crowley really was, they wouldn’t be so eager to see him--to like him.

“Taste this, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

He held a spoonful of jam to Crowley’s lips with his free hand cautiously under it, ready to catch any dripping.

Crowley leaned forward to wrap his lips around the spoon.

“Do you like it?”

Crowley’s cheeks heated. He nodded.

Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley’s waist.

“Thank you, my dear.”

Most likely his shyness came from the small tender moments Aziraphale was not afraid of showing the world. It had been the topic of many long conversations after Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in St. James Park, causing Crowley to freeze and break out in a cold sweat. Being discreet had always been their top priority. For 6,000 years, someone would have surely seen them if they embraced in the middle of London. But now, Aziraphale had assured Crowley, things were different. They no longer needed to hide, but Aziraphale would go as slow as Crowley needed him to.

It was almost funny how their roles had switched after the apocalypse.

“You’re welcome, angel,” he mumbled.

Aziraphale smiled and let him go. There would be an offer later, like there always was, to delete whatever parts of the video Crowley was in.

Since the apocalypse and all the trouble that came with it, Crowley had been jumpy. He would wake in the middle of the night from nightmares. He would stop breathing if he saw a tall man with a square jaw in a gray suit (and though he didn’t need to breathe, it still felt wrong not being able to). But Aziraphale was always there to soothe him back to sleep or guide him away from the stranger that triggered such strong feelings. And every night he made a homemade meal, telling Crowley on bad days, “you’ll feel better if you eat.”

Crowley hated that he was always right.

Even if he picked at his dinner and had Aziraphale tut at him for only eating a few bites, Aziraphale was right.

“Now, if you don’t have a husband to give you feedback, you can be your own critic.”

Crowley shook his head as he laid his basket and tools on the countertop a safe ways away from the camera. He grabbed a handful of thyme, rinsing it and laying it on a clean towel. Aziraphale would decide what to do with it later.

“Remember that the food you make doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be loved.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He grabbed basil.

Aziraphale’s videos were always met with overwhelming positivity. The viewers, when not writing about Crowley, wrote about how Aziraphale taught them what their parents hadn’t, how they were living on their own for the first time and were slowly learning how to support themselves, how they had had unhealthy relationships with food for years but Aziraphale was helping them change that. To any other demon, it would be sickening. But Crowley was proud of his angel.

Without Heaven, Aziraphale was still performing his good deeds with the freedom to add his own twist. Heaven would never approve of Aziraphale’s new hobby. They hated food. They hated Earthly pleasures. They wouldn’t be able to see that Aziraphale was a great angel when left to his own devices.

“My dear, are you ready for dinner?”

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist.

“Is the camera off?”

Crowley hated how his voice sounded. It was quiet. It was meek.

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said. Crowley relaxed. “Dinner?”

“Let me finish this. I’ll only be a minute.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement and waited exactly three seconds before kissing Crowley’s neck. It wasn’t a sweet peck. It wasn’t a kiss that said: “this is the only place I can kiss you at the moment, but I don’t care because I love every inch of you.”

It was a kiss that Aziraphale knew would make Crowley’s knees go weak. He dropped his basil.

Aziraphale was also just enough of a bad angel to keep things interesting.

It was the middle of December when the weather turned too cold for Crowley’s well-being.

Having been a snake, he still kept some of the traits. For starters, his yellow eyes were always going to be around. That he didn’t mind (Aziraphale told him multiple times he loved them). What he did mind was that when the cold crept through their cottage and assaulted him when he stepped outside, he grew sluggish and tired and found trouble eating. He really found trouble eating that winter.

Aziraphale fussed over his cheekbones as they became gaunter. He touched Crowley’s hip bones, which protruded more than they had, and sighed. He caught Crowley when he swayed during a too-long fast and begged him to have a bite of something--just a bite--while he helped him sit.

But they knew it wasn’t just the cold that had Crowley in such a state. He hadn’t been the sickly thin mess in winters previous.

It was the increasing panic attacks and restless nights and nightmares that angelic miracles couldn’t always stop. It was the awful anxiety that made Crowley’s hands shake and stomach cramp with nausea if he thought about holy water or Hellfire for too long. It was the absence of the relief they had expected South Downs to give them.

The cold just added more intensity to it. It was bad timing.

Aziraphale tucked a hot water bottle against Crowley before pulling the blankets close again. Crowley burrowed into his cocoon of quilts and Aziraphale’s sweater he had stolen weeks ago, curling around the new heat as it worked away aches. He was content where he was on the sofa, pleasantly drowsy and warm for once. He hadn’t moved since early that morning when he declared the spot as his when he stumbled down the stairs, exhausted after another sleepless night.

“Will I disturb you if I cook?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. “Go for it, angel.”

“I’ll make your favorite. Maybe you’ll manage to eat in a couple of hours.”

Crowley didn’t bother hiding his smile. Despite his growing anxiety in the past few months, he found himself smiling more because with every bad moment there was Aziraphale being gentle and doting.

Aziraphale kissed him on the forehead and brushed his temple. “Rest for now. Have sweet dreams.”

And Aziraphale left with a little angelic magic beginning to settle over him.

Crowley closed his eyes, curling up as tight as he could. He could hear Aziraphale trying to be quiet in the kitchen, gently setting pots and pans down and arranging whatever else he was miracling into existence.

“This recipe is a little more challenging,” Crowley heard. “But I thought it would be perfect for the season. My dear husband is under the weather, and I expect many of you are as well right now. Or maybe you know someone who is, and you’d like to make them a meal.”

Crowley could imagine the comments pouring in the second Aziraphale would post the video. Humans were so pitying and adoring of others when they were ill. They’d praise Aziraphale for being so thoughtful. They’d hope for Crowley to recover. It would be, if Crowley were to be honest, disgusting.

“It’s a light soup, so it’s wonderful for someone who has a touch of influenza.”

But Aziraphale deserved that praise. It was the praise Crowley felt too exhausted to give. If he wasn’t sleeping (or laying in bed trying desperately to fall asleep) every second he could, he would write an entire book to Aziraphale, telling him how wonderful he was and how little Crowley deserved such a caring, attentive angel. Once spring came, he would start to rebuild his garden. He would make it bigger than the year before--more room for berries and herbs. He’d let Aziraphale have whatever he wanted. And maybe he’d yell at his plants less.

Or maybe not that last one.

They’d never grow without discipline.

“My dear Anthony loves this soup. He first tried it at the Ritz years ago. I remember the first time I tried making it for him…”

And that was why everyone loved Aziraphale’s videos. 10 minutes were dedicated to telling a story about when he ate the meal for the first time--usually with Crowley, usually not within the last 100 years. He kept certain details out. They didn’t want his audience to know that they were immortal beings.

Maybe Crowley would dig up the grass in the front of the cottage and put in flower beds. Flowers weren’t necessarily his thing, but Aziraphale always admired them on walks. He’d oh so gently touch the petals and lean in to smell them. He’d tell Crowley to do the same, and Crowley would find himself doing it just to humor his angel.

Crowley fell asleep thinking of daffodils lining the front door, listening to Aziraphale list ingredients.

He dreamt of guiding Aziraphale’s hands through the dirt and helping him place bulbs in neat lines. The sun beat down on them, and though Crowley couldn’t feel it, he welcomed it. Aziraphale’s smile was bright, and he was proud of the little mounds in the soil.

There was no more shaking hands or uneven breathing. Crowley felt well again. Aziraphale openly touched him as people walked by, and Crowley laughed when they joked about the dirt and grass stains on Aziraphale’s pale suit that he still insisted on wearing.

They moved to the kitchen where fresh vegetables awaited them. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands this time, helping him cut peppers and scrape out the seeds.

He woke up to Aziraphale leaning over him.

“I’m sorry, my dear, I lost track of time. This has gone cold.”

Aziraphale pulled the water bottle out of Crowley’s grip. It had turned cold, and Crowley could feel cramps returning.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Aziraphale lifted the blankets again to slide the water bottle--now satisfyingly burning as Crowley liked it--into Crowley’s waiting arms.

“I made you tea,” he said. “We still had just enough leaves left from when I made them a month ago.”

Crowley remembered the tea video. Aziraphale had felt adventurous and set out to cut up the herbs Crowley had been growing in their window sill (the only thing he could manage to grow in cold). The leaves turned out fine without any miracle, though Crowley’s plants saw better days after being butchered.

But the tea Aziraphale made from it was ridiculously amazing. It was earthy and rich. Every cup was perfect.

The newest steaming mug was right by Crowley’s head.

“I thought you might like it before we try dinner.”

Crowley sat up. He kept the water bottle close.

“How was filming?”

Aziraphale sat next to him. Crowley took advantage and rested against him. Much better than the water bottle.

“It was splendid. I’m thinking that everyone might be ready to try more complicated dishes. I’ll have to see what they think of this one. I know they’ll do their best, but there is no need to stress them out.”

Crowley had tried his hardest to explain that many of his viewers didn’t attempt every dish Aziraphale made and they didn’t watch them in chronological order. They simply watched because they were fond of him. But Aziraphale never seemed to understand, insisting that surely they must all be interested in cooking.

Crowley took a sip of his tea. The heat traveled down his throat to his stomach where it began easing knots.

“Remind me. Have you already made a video on crepes?”

Aziraphale huffed. “Of course, I have. It was one of the first. But they didn’t compare to what’s made in Paris. I gave a full disclaimer at the start of the video.”

“Oh, that’s right. I had to stop you from mentioning the Reign of Terror.” Crowley closed his eyes. “Mostly because humans frown upon people having happy memories of it.”

“It wasn’t as though I was talking about the revolution itself. Just the memories that coincidentally aligned with it. Dear, do try to stay awake long enough to eat. I’d love for you to have something tonight.”

Crowley hummed. “I’m not sleeping. Keep talking.”

Aziraphale was quiet, admitting his defeat to himself. Crowley would be asleep again within minutes.

“Anyways, I always tell them that the love surrounding the dishes is what makes it all the more special. That’s why it’s best to cook for someone you love…”

Crowley didn’t hear the rest of Aziraphale’s lecture. He returned to the summer garden.

Spring was much kinder.

Crowley started his garden again.

He whispered a threat to every seed, telling them that they were for Aziraphale and therefore if they were a disappointment, the consequences would be dire. He had promised to stop yelling at the plants while he was outside in plain sight of passing neighbors. While Aziraphale made a list of the crops he’d like that year, he also made a list of conditions. Inside the cottage was fair game for yelling. All “punishments” had to be done in the shed. Crowley negotiated to be allowed to make an example of bad plants in front of the others at the beginning of the season (and since Aziraphale had never actually witnessed the “punishments” and was beginning to severely doubt that any true punishments were taking place, he allowed it).

Kneeling in front of the garden, detailing the many ways he learned to torture in Hell (a blatant lie as any demon who knew how often Crowley avoided seeing souls being tortured would tell you), he felt at peace. He heard Aziraphale step out the back door and smiled. His stomach flipped, but in a good way. He was excited to show Aziraphale the progress he had made and tell him about all the new plants they would have soon. He was excited to see Aziraphale clap his hands together and tell him how proud he was.

“Dear?”

Crowley turned around.

Aziraphale held the camera out. He had never learned how to zoom in and out and manually held the camera closer or further away instead.

“Angel,” Crowley whined, cheeks turning red.

He tried hiding his face, looking back down at the garden.

“Tell us what you’re doing,” Aziraphale said, sitting down in the grass next to Crowley.

“I’m starting the garden,” Crowley mumbled, still not facing the camera but not exactly minding it as much as he had in the past. “This is your bed. For all of, uh, the crops you need.”

“It’s looking wonderful, my dear. Almost as wonderful as you.”

Crowley didn’t want to imagine the blush the camera was picking up.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Aziraphale said, perhaps beginning to doubt his choice of surprising Crowley.

He began to stand. Crowley finally faced him.

“You don’t have to.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Do you really not mind?”

Crowley shook his head. He held his hand out. Aziraphale took it and sat back down.

“What are we growing this year, my love?”

Crowley’s chest tightened--but again, in a good way.

Crowley had just woken up. His new favorite part of summer was waking up to a breeze coming through the open windows and Aziraphale in the kitchen.

June had been treating the couple nicely. They began to enjoy walks through the town on sunny days, fingers laced together and nodding at neighbors who smiled at the eccentric couple who were finally debuting themselves. After their first walk, which included a short, polite yet nervous exchange of small talk with a neighbor about the weather, Aziraphale had kissed Crowley’s face a dozen times as he told him how proud he was. He had come a long way, Aziraphale told him.

Even the rainy days--and being in England, there were many--were beautiful for them. Crowley had grown to enjoy the sound of thunder, and Aziraphale was finding himself pleasantly pinned down by a sleeping Crowley on his lap more often.

Crowley made his way downstairs. He could smell whatever Aziraphale was baking, the sensation of warmth overcoming him as it always did.

“I understand it’s a special month for some of you, and I always see the comments thanking Anthony and me for being ourselves.”

Crowley stayed behind the wall of the hallway. He hadn’t realized Aziraphale was filming.

“I believe that we may have a little more history of rebelling than you’re all aware of. I’ve never acknowledged it before because, well, it is a bit difficult to bring up, but we do understand what it’s like to have to walk away from those who are supposed to be accepting of you. We have plenty of experience going against what we’ve been told is God’s plan, but we found ourselves happier doing so. And believe me, She doesn’t mind what humans are together romantically. I really don’t know where that rumor started.”

Crowley shook his head. To humans, Aziraphale sounded like a pious man that was very certain of his beliefs (and maybe a little crazy when he didn’t bother censoring himself as much as he should have).

“Nevertheless, it is hard to give it all up. You do lose a part of your identity and you have to rebuild that. And maybe Anthony knows a bit more about being rejected and falling--falling out with those who are supposed to love you, I mean.”

Crowley rested his head against the wall. It took a special demon to be a fallen angel and be a traitor to Hell.

“He has had an awfully rough time with it all, but he’s overcoming it. I’m very proud of him. He’s found where he truly belongs, and we’re both much happier.”

There was a pause.

“And the joy I feel being with him finally--here, in this little home we’ve made for ourselves--is indescribable. I couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else. I do hope the rest of you are able to find similar happiness.”

Crowley changed his clothes and fixed his hair with a snap of his fingers.

“Anyways, that’s why I’ve decided that scones would be perfect this morning--”

Aziraphale was cut off by the weight of a demon crashing into him. Crowley spun him around and wrapped his arms around him, pressing their hips together.

“Good morning, angel.”

“Good morning, dear.” Aziraphale looked taken aback. “The camera is on--”

“Screw the camera.”

He pressed his lips to Aziraphale’s, taking a long moment to savor it. Every anxiety-inducing thought of the wrong person watching them was momentarily gone. He didn’t care about the people on the other side of the screen. He only thought about holding Aziraphale right there.

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s face and pulled away.

“I love you very dearly,” he said.

“I think I love you even more.”

Crowley kissed him again.

Aziraphale’s hands moved to Crowley’s shoulders, then his waist, then lower.

“Alright, camera has to go,” Crowley said, breathless.

A wave of his hand and Aziraphale turned off the camera and the oven.

Truly an awful angel.

(These are the people who asked to be tagged/who I think wanted to be tagged

@frenchibi @thegryffindorbookworm @odysseyinink @misstylersmith @fairkid-forever @a-person-in-the-rain )

#it's finally here!!#good omens #my fics #vlogger au #sorry it's not 200K #but i'll write more at some point!!!

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thelasthomelyurl · 5 years

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thelasthomelyurl’s Good Omens fic masterlist

Please excuse some blatant self-promotion. Hi, I’m on AO3 as amerande and I’ve written a handful of Good Omens fics and I thought it’d be good to make a little list of them for your delectation and delight.

All of these are Aziraphale/Crowley-centric.

And I Would Hide My Face In You (E) 9k words, oneshot

Summary: The one where they share a body. Built on the conceit that our favorite demon and angel have gotten very used to the foibles of their fleshy corporations and when Aziraphale gets discorporated, he has cause to remember how different it is without one. Smut: yes! POV: Aziraphale

Excerpt: For a moment, Crowley seemed to chew on that thought, his taut posture unchanging. Then he nodded his head decisively. “Well—why not this one?” he asked. Aziraphale looked around. “This one,” Crowley said again, emphatically, indicating himself. ”Oh! I mean, surely that’s obvious,” said Aziraphale by way of answer.

Review: “They love each other so much, I just can't... handle all the love...” -AO3 user shit_happens_bitchachos7

This Halfway Thing (M) 23k words, multi-chapter

Summary: A hurt/comfort story spanning the last few hundred years before the end of the world, starting with an unexpected encounter that leaves Crowley badly hurt and starting to realize that perhaps things cannot continue as they have always been. Smut: A little tiny bit. Not explicit. POV: Crowley

Excerpt: “Is that all this is, to you? A business arrangement?” Aziraphale answered his question with another one. “Isn’t that precisely what you proposed?” Crowley floundered, caught off-guard. That’s all I thought you would accept, he could not say. That’s all I dared hope for, and more than I deserved. He had thought that just an acquaintance, just a taste, just the barest of connections, would be enough. He’d grown greedy. Hundreds of years of this arrangement, of little conversations and compromises and clandestine meetings, until he’d allowed himself to wish, to let tiny tendrils of hope wind their way around his heart. All things he could not say. This was it: the doom he’d known he’s been consigning himself to when he stayed and let Aziraphale nurse him to health. He’d been starved for so long, and then gorged himself, and now turned up his nose at the scraps that would once have seemed a banquet.

Review: “WTF, I have secondhand pining.” - tumblr user @curlycrowley

he I was seeking, or she I was seeking (it comes to me as of a dream) (M) 2k words, oneshot

Summary: This is a simple oneshot that takes place around 1200 BC; Aziraphale is at a wedding to give a blessing and runs into Crawly, who is a woman at the time. Features genderqueer/genderfluid Crowley using she/her pronouns. This is a significant departure from the writing style of the other fics. Smut: Not explicit, heavily poetic. As a fun note, I tried to keep references to Crowley’s body configuration phrased in such a way that you can pick what set of genitals you think Crowley should have for this. POV: Aziraphale

Excerpt: They talk, and she brings him wine, and he places dates, raisins, and apricots on a plate for her. He laughs when she shares half of each with him. They are sweeter, coming from her hand—sweeter still is the brush of her fingers against his lips. He shares wine from his own cup; her lips meet it like a kiss and she drinks deeply. As he watches her, the glint of her golden eyes, the flash of her teeth when she talks, the dance of light on the angles of her strong face, he feels sated beyond any need for food or drink. There is something like a hunger, but it is instead a fullness which might overwhelm him if he lets it.

Review: “This was gorgeous. So atmospheric and tender.” -AO3 user juniperphoenix

The Second Coming of the Apocalypse (G) 3k words, oneshot

Summary: This one’s weird! Buckle in for some theological angst and one idiot’s stab at interpreting how the whole God thing and Ineffable Bureaucracy could work out. Smut: no! There is hand-holding though. POV: Omniscient narrator who dotes on Crowley

Excerpt: God turned Her attention to the angel. MY AZIRAPHALE. “Almighty,” he choked. Well, he had asked three years ago for a chance to speak directly to the highest authority. It seemed his opportunity had arrived. GABRIEL CALLS YOU FALLEN, She said. “I rather think that Gabriel and I disagree on some fundamental points of theology,” he said as delicately as he was able. THEOLOGY? “It’s a human term,” he explained. “For the study of...You. And what You mean for the rest of us.” Silence. “Not what You meant, of course,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “You see, I think Gabriel said that because he believes that in working against the orders he was working under, I must have been doing the wrong thing. Which, you know, an angel can’t do...at least not if they’re going to stay an angel.” Silence. “It’s just that I thought that maybe orders calling for the destruction of the world and all the life in it might be worth...questioning.”

Review: “[jumps up on the table] GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!” -twitter user stabletorus

The Angel of Eastgate: A Prologue (T) 10k words, multi-chapter

Summary: The fic that started it all (for me). My first entry into the GO fandom, which started with the thought “hahaha that sign says Eastgate, what if Aziraphale lived there” and then turned into a study of why our beloved angel is so damn angsty. Written with copious footnotes. Smut: No but there is yearning. POV: Aziraphale

Excerpt: Aziraphale had always clung to the Ineffable Plan, to the knowledge that everything would eventually work together for Good. Until Crowley had influenced him, given him this thirst to know, it had been enough that the Plan existed and that the Almighty knew its every turn. She knew the particulars, and She passed what knowledge was needed unto her closest servants, and eventually Aziraphale’s orders would reach him, and as long as he followed them, everything would be okay. The possibility which Crowley had planted in his mind—that he, the principality Aziraphale, might take actions and not just hope that they were insignificant enough to escape notice (as with The Arrangement) but actually pursue the dictates of his own conscience—was deeply compelling. It was also, of course, entirely heretical.

Review: “This is special. And your footnotes are hilarious.“ -AO3 user Katzamboni

I’ll update with more as I write them!

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fic rec #ineffable husbands fic #good omens fic #go fic #mine fic #thelasthomelyurl #blatant self promotion #my point is MY POINT IS i love them

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holywaterandcrepes · 4 years

Note

Mun & Muse questions: 1, 7, 8

1. What inspired you to make/pick up this character?

I really related to the idea of Aziraphale, of him struggling to break free from an oppresive power, of him feeling powerless and too afraid to change for the longest time. I saw a lot of myself in him, how I'm trying to find a way out from under my overbearing mother, and yet I know I'm too terrified to go against her.

There's also a softness to Aziraphale that I'm drawn to, that I see in myself. @biblioxceleste can attest to how much my Aziraphale loves cuddles. Aziraphale loves his creature comforts, his books and his wine and his food and his soft things, and I definitely relate to that a lot.

7. Do you ever wish you could be your muse?

Do I ever wish I could be a literal angel with the ability to perform miracles and a demonic boyfriend to dote on me and cater to my every whim? ...YES???

8. What is your favorite random headcanon?

Honestly there's a fic called These Three Remain where Aziraphale just cracks and breaks down at the bottom of the ocean, and I'm realizing this fits in a lot with my RP with @hellsrhapsody , so...

Headcanon that Aziraphale literally dunks himself underwater when he gets stressed or overwhelmed. He'll stick his head in a barrell, lay completely submerged in a bathtub, spend some time under a waterfall or at the bottom of the ocean...And he's not coming back up until he's calmed down.

On a softer note, I also headcanon that Crowley eventually convinces Aziraphale to take naps. He teaches him about the joys of being tucked in, of being cocooned in soft blankets and curled around soft, fluffy pillows...He helps Aziraphale realize that naps are creature comforts to the nth degree. And of course, he loves cuddling with Crowley and falling asleep with him.

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our-smooty · 5 years

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The Pain We Live With: Chapter 1

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley

Tags: Disabled Character, Crowley Has Chronic Pain, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues, Hurt/Comfort, CryingThe Fall, after the end, Aziraphale is a good Husband

Summary: Crowley was used to pain. He was a demon of Hell, he’d Fallen, and he’d been punished. The ache it left inside him was constant and he found it was easier to confront it and push through it than deny it existed. He’d tried that and it’d been the worst thousand years of his life. No, better to be familiar with the pain, at least then you knew what you were in for. The hurt in his knees and in his legs, the kind that burned and ached as a reminder that no, he wasn’t meant to walk around like Her other creations. Crowley was cursed to crawl on his belly or live with the excruciating consequences.

Crowley was used to pain. He was a demon of Hell, he’d Fallen, and he’d been punished. The ache it left inside him was constant and he found it was easier to confront it and push through it than deny it existed. He’d tried that and it’d been the worst thousand years of his life. No, better to be familiar with the pain, at least then you knew what you were in for. The hurt in his knees and in his legs, the kind that burned and ached as a reminder that no, he wasn’t meant to walk around like Her other creations. Crowley was cursed to crawl on his belly or live with the excruciating consequences.

But there wasn’t a type of pain that he could never quite get the hang of owning. It was one of the stronger sensations he experienced, and one of the most common. It hit him at strange times, but mostly when he was around the angel. At first he had thought it was some sort of reaction, like an allergy to Aziraphale’s holiness. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out it was something much more serious.

He was in love. The first few seconds after he’d realized--he’d been sitting on a scratchy blanket, in the tent of a very important shepherd at the time, wishing Aziraphale had been there to provide some much-neededinteresting companionship--had been bliss. Love, something he’d been completely bereft of since his Fall, flooded his chest and filled him with such joy he’d had to grip the blanket under himself to keep from floating away. Then came the real realization, the stomach-dropping, pinching dread of oh fuck I’m in love with an angel. And that horrible feeling had never really left.

It was hard to keep it under control, to keep Aziraphale from finding out because of course, the fucker could sense love. If he’d ever picked up on Crowley’s feelings with that particular ability he’d never said anything. Crowley couldn’t decide which was worse, the idea that the angel was completely oblivious or that he knew and didn’t care enough to mention it. Still, Crowley dealt with it as best he could, just like all the other aches and pains he had, because the other option was pushing Aziraphale away and that just wasn’t doable.

But, oh, it hurt every time the angel was the one doing the pushing. Crowley never knew what would be too far, what would make Aziraphale balk and what would make him practically swoon. Too many times it was the former. Enough times that Crowley’s heart, so curious and optimistic despite what it had been through, began to lose that spark and accept that he would never be good enough. That he deserved this pain, and every other one he’d experienced.

Which was why he was having so much trouble now that the world hadn't ended, and they were together in every way he’d ever dared to dream. Aziraphale held him, kissed him, called him sweet names and doted on his every whim but Crowley’s poor, broken heart still ached with the pain of 6000 years of loneliness and rejection every time they were together. It was almost Pavlovian at this point.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t feel happy when the angel touched him or said he loved him. He did, more than he’d felt in 6000 years of existing and roaming the planet. There were entire hours where he could forget the pain for a little while and just be, usually while he lay bundled up in Aziraphale’s arms in bed. But it would always come creeping back, that millennia-old feeling of not good enough, not worthy, not going to last.

He had no idea how to tell Aziraphale, or if he even should tell him. The angel already knew about his physical pains, the ones leftover from his Fall and the ones he’d gathered over the years from Hell. It’d been kind of hard to hide when they’d begun spending so much time together. And when the angel had started talking about cottages in the South Downs Crowley had been backed into a corner. But he hadn’t figured out what to do about the bits he was still hiding. And it only got worse when they moved in together.

“Aziraphale,” he’d call out in the middle of the night. He was always sure to be quiet so he wouldn’t actually hear him, though he sometimes desperately wished he would. “Please don’t leave, please don’t leave me--” Over and over he’d plead, telling himself it wasn’t praying if he didn’t mention Her. Crowley was good at lying to himself and others.

Waking up every morning to the image of his angel asleep in the bed beside him was torture because all he could think about was we could have had this years ago, I could lose this at any second. He was mourning for what could have been, and for what he’d lose when the angel decided to once again push him away. It was all he could think about, even while he was safe in the other’s arms, even while Aziraphale poured love and lust and pleasure into Crowley’s very bones.

It was all building up inside, pain and suffering that just didn’t make sense anymore, driving him to madness. What should have been the happiest time in his life--they had a lovely little house, with a gorgeous garden what more could he want?--was the most miserable. Crowley stopped tending to the flowers first, then the hedges, then the lawn. Aziraphale made several comments, mostly inquiring if Crowley was feeling well but he assured him he was fine. That demon did not get sick. That he was just testing the plants resolve to remain verdant and lush without his constant intervention.

Not tending the plants gave him more time to hang around his angel. But even physical affection wasn’t calming the storm within him anymore. That didn’t stop him from hanging off Aziraphale at any given moment of the day, trying in vain to set himself right.

“My dear,” Aziraphale started one such afternoon. Crowley had been in his lap for three hours, pressed so closely that the angel could barely turn the pages on his novel. “Are you sure everything is alright? You’ve seemed… restless for the past few weeks. Not to mention you’ve been clinging like anything.”

“M’sorry,” Crowley mumbled, willing his limbs to unlock from around Aziraphale’s body. Something inside him cracked and popped with a more than healthy dose of pain. “Didn’t know it bothered you.”

“It doesn’t!” Aziraphale assured him. “It’s just you seem terribly unhappy, more so than your usual attitude towards life.”

So he had begun to notice. And Crowley thought he'd been doing so well, keeping the angel from knowing all these years. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Aziraphale muttered something. Crowley made a curious noise, hoping the angel would repeat himself or change the subject. “I said, bullshit, dearest. Something is bothering you!”

It wasn’t often Azirphale swore, and when he did it meant he was extremely upset. Crowley didn’t want to make his angel upset. But it seemed that he was damned either way, which was kind of funny, in a laugh until you rip your own hair out kind of way, if he thought about it too long.

“I can’t explain it, drop it Aziraphale,” he begged, burrowing his face further into his lover’s neck. Aziraphale twisted as he did so, gripping Crowley’s chin lightly to make him look up.

“Try for me, love? That’s all I ask.” Something inside Crowley snapped at that, like the last thread holding together an old favourite shirt. He could never deny Aziraphale anything. The words blistered in his mouth but there was no way he could keep them inside any longer. 6000 years of not knowing, of stopping himself from asking spilled out.

“Why aren’t I enough!” he moaned, teeth clenched tightly. “I wanted this for years but it’s--it won’t last I know it because I’m not good enough! And it hurts, angel, it hurts and I can’t make it stop even when you’re with me it never stops!”

Aziraphale looked bewildered and completely caught off guard, even though he'd asked for this. “Crowley I don’t--”

“I want to be happy with this, but I can’t--And I’ve given you everything--” Aziraphale was frantically setting his book aside while trying to soothe the demon in his lap with gentle murmurs. “I don’t have anything left, m’empty and--and m’tired of hurting…”

Aziraphale shushed him, finally getting is tea set on the side table so he could wrap Crowley’s trembling form in his arms. Part of the demon wanted to push him off, to get angry over all the times Aziraphale had done the same to him, to show him what it felt like. But a much larger part, the bit that had kept him tagging along after the angel like a lovesick puppy, stopped him. Instead, he allowed Aziraphale to comfort him, though it didn’t help as much as it should have.

“Can you--If you could try again, to explain this to me dear, I’d appreciate it. I admit I’m a little lost,” Aziraphale said quietly once the demon had wound down a little bit. Crowley took a deep, shaky breath. He didn’t know where to start.

“I’m not happy,” might as well rip the bandaid off right in the beginning, “I want to be, because this is everything I ever wanted. You, me, our side. But I’m not. I keep--” the hand he had wound in Aziraphale’s jacket travelled up to his own hair. “I keep thinking it won’t last, I’ll fuck it up again, and I don’t think I can handle that.”

Aziraphale had a pensive look on his face that slowly morphed into one of horror. “Is this… is this because of what I said--?”

“Every time I tried to--you would--and I--” The pain got worse if he dwelled on it, which was exactly what this conversation was forcing him to do. He could see in vivid detail every time Aziraphale had pulled away, every moment he had gotten his hopes up and had them dashed. “It doesn’t feel real.”

Aziraphale’s lip was quivering, and his eyes were glossy as he ran soft fingers over every inch of Crowley he could reach. “Oh, my love. I’ve been awful to you for so long. It’s not your fault you feel this way. You’re just trying to keep your heart safe.”

But Crowley knew that wasn’t true. “But I want to be happy with you, angel. If I could stop being so fucking--!”

“Do not!” Aziraphale cut him off, tone serious. “It's not your fault, Crowley.”

Crowley, who has always forced himself to assume that it was, in fact, his fault, that the pain he felt was some sort of Divine Punishment, shook harder. If it wasn’t his fault, who was he supposed to be upset at? God, Aziraphale?

“I’ll admit that much of this is on me, always denying you. Always assuming that you’d be there for me no matter how many times I wasn’t there for you. It’s OK to be angry, to mourn the wasted time, love.” The angel sounded like he understood all too well what Crowley had been feeling. He made another curious noise, too distressed to actually speak. “Yes well, you aren’t the only one with regrets. Though I do think time has been less kind to you, in that sense.”

“I don’t regret it,” Crowley croaked. “And I’m not angry.” He was explaining this all wrong and making a mess of things as usual. “I-I’m scared.” Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement.

“A-and fuck angel, I’ve dealt with it for so long and I th-thought I could ignore it but I’m scared. For 6000 years it hurt every time I saw you b-but it was OK because maybe someday we’d be--and now we are and I r-realised I can’t lose you again. I can’t.”

“You aren’t going to lose me. I’m done pushing you away Crowley. I’ll tell you that every day if you need to hear it,” Aziraphale promised. Crowley shook his head again. His chest felt like it was on fire, the aching pain rising up and up until it choaked him. “You deserve so much dearest.”

There wasn’t any chance of Crowley believing him right now. He’d spent far too long guarding himself against the hurt for it to be solved with a single conversation. But it at least gave him the tiniest bit of hope to cling to, just the briefest hint of it’s OK to feel like this, let it out.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whined. He felt a few strands of hair come loose from where he was gripping it so hard. If his throat hadn’t felt like it was closing up he would have sobbed. As it was his tears fell silently to soak into, and possibly ruin, the angel’s favourite coat.

“It’s ok, Crowley, I’ll be here,” he assured him. “Would it be alright if you gave me your hands dear? You have such lovely hair and it’d be a shame to ruin it.” Aziraphale always knew exactly how hard to squeeze to keep him grounded. In this instance, it was quite hard.

“I might have lied,” Crowley said quietly after some time. His voice was pathetic and it made him cringe. “I am a little angry.”

“As is your right, darling,” Aziraphale responded lightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I--why did you keep turning me away? If you didn’t want to…” It’d been on his mind for hundreds of years after he’d eventually caught on to the fact that maybe Aziraphale wasn’t being truthful about his feelings. The realization hadn’t made the pain any better.

The sigh Aziraphale let out was sad and spoke of many long nights asking himself the same thing. “I was afraid of what Hell might do to you, of what Heaven might do to me if they found out. I was worried you may have been--and I want you to know I do not think of you like this now--but I was worried you might have been tempting me.”

“Never,” Crowley gasped. He needed Aziraphale to know he’d never, ever do that. No matter how angry or hurt he was.

“I know, I know Crowley. I was foolish to think otherwise.” Another even tighter squeeze of their hands. “You can be angry with me if you need to be.”

The tears were still flowing and he knew they would be for a while now that he was letting them. “I don’t want to be, but--”

“You don’t have to forgive me, or anyone else.” Outside the grey clouds cast a cool shadow over the cottage. “Not unless you want to.”

Crowley nodded. He realized he was still in Aziraphale’s lap and that the angel’s shoulder was completely soaked. It was actually rather uncomfortable, now that he thought about it. There was a crick in his spine and a burning in his knees that only got worse the more he thought about it. He didn’t move.

“Do you--do you ever feel angry?” he asked, his voice a low, gruff whisper. He rarely saw Aziraphale angry, and the times he had it was usually directed at someone who deserved it. Irritation, frustration, yes, but almost never anger.

“I do,” the angel answered to Crowley’s surprise. “I tried to ignore it but I have to admit I’ve been angry at a good number of people, or beings.”

“Gabriel?”

“And the others, yes. God too, if we’re being completely honest my dear boy.” He said it so casually Crowley had to look up. There was no deceit in those slate-grey eyes. “If it wasn’t for Her you wouldn’t have suffered, and humanity wouldn’t have had to go through so much. But then, there wouldn’t be anything without Her. It's confusing, to say the least.”

“I was angry at Her for a long time,” Crowley said, watching Aziraphale’s face. The angel’s expression was soft and full of remorse. Crowley didn’t like to talk about God, so he tried to change the subject. “And sometimes I still am, but I’m also glad we’re here.”

“As am I, my love.” Aziraphale adjusted their positions so one of his hands held Crowley’s while the other soothed his frazzled hair. ‘We can stay right here for as long as you want.”

Finally, Crowley felt the tears begin to stop. They’d be back, probably at an inconvenient time, but for now, they were gone. “My back hurts.”

“Mine too, though probably not as much as yours. Shall we move to a more comfortable location?” A brief moment of consideration, then Crowley nodded. He could feel his shoulder beginning to stiffen up as well.

“Yeah, s’been a bad pain day,” he answered slowly, raising his face from the angel’s shoulder. “I might need help getting up.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to nod. He slowly eased Crowley off his lap and onto the sofa before getting up and stretching himself. Then he took hold of Crowley’s forearms and helped him up, supporting his weight as Crowley’s knees gave out.

“Ow ow ow,” Crowley hissed, pillowing his head on Aziraphale’s chest. “Not moving for half the day was a bad idea.”

“I’m sorry, dearest, I should have remembered. Would you like to take a hot bath?” Aziraphale was all but carrying him now. They had specifically chosen this cottage because the master bedroom was on the first floor, and was therefore easy for Crowley to get to.

“Only if you stay,” Crowley answered breathily, though if it because of the pain or something more tender he wasn’t sure. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course. I’ll get you situated then make us a new pot of tea, how does that sound?” It sounded almost perfect to the demon. He and Aziraphale both enjoyed the human luxury of bathing and had recently discovered the wonders of Lush bath products.

“Can’t you just miracle it? Want you to stay close,” he whined, much more like his old self than he’d been in weeks. Aziraphale never liked to miracle his food and drink, saying it always tasted different.

“Fine, but just this once. You know it’s better when it’s done the human way.” With a contented wiggle, followed by a pained hiss, Crowley let himself be carried into their ensuite bath without any more fuss. This wouldn’t be the last time they had to talk about this particular issue, but as first times went it hadn’t been the absolute worst. Maybe a close second.

“We can do it the human way later,” Crowley hummed, oblivious to the way Aziraphale flushed at the accidental innuendo.

“Of course, Crowley. My beautiful serpent. Anything you want.” And so they spent the rest of the day in the bath and in bed, talking and being together because, more than anything, that was what Crowley needed.

#ineffable husbands #good omens #gomens #aziraphale/crowley #crowziraphale #fanfic

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grifalinas · 5 years

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Brainstorming ideas for the Robin Hood au:

-a flashback to when the pair met. Aziraphale is borrowing the Friar’s little chapel to study in the quiet when Crowley turns up because it’s his sanctuary from the rest of the bandits. When Crowley first sees Aziraphale, he drops a really cheesy line to the tune of “I didn’t know the good Friar was in the habit of entertaining angels”. Aziraphale laughs in his face over it, but he’s blushing the whole time.

Later on- “Angel, do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I suppose that would depend on what I was looking at.”

-adoring gaze- “Well?”

-Crowley has a tendency to climb the wall and sneak into Aziraphale’s rooms through the window. Since nobody knows him as Hood without his signature... hood... this is completely unnecessary, but no one ever accused Crowley of not being unnecessary and extra.

“You know my dear you could always just use the door.”

“That’s not nearly as fun.”

“All right but don’t say I didn’t warn you when you fall and break your neck.”

-Early days Aziraphale refuses to put out because they’re not married, which drives Crowley up the wall because, like, he’s pretty chill with being celibate but he’s pretty sure kissing should be fine.

-leans in for a smooch-

“Ah ah ah. No ding ding without a wedding ring.”

-snaps fingers disappointed-

-They do eventually get the Friar to marry them in secret. Now they can smooch whenever they want, and sometimes they hanky or even go so far as to panky.

“Friar, we wish to get married in a hurry!”

“Married in a hurry? That’s my favorite kind of married!”

-Anathema is their main messenger because all the bandits know that Hood dotes on her so Aziraphale makes her deliver all of their letters. After Crowley picks up Newt for his band, the pair really hit it off and she enjoys this task a lot more.

“They call me Big Newt. Uh, but don’t let my name fool you. In real life, I’m kind of skinny.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

-The night before he met Crowley Aziraphale’s bedtime prayers were basically along the lines of “Oh dear lord, if you see fit to send me the man of my dreams...”

It took him a little while to decide that Crowley was the answer to his prayers but he got there eventually.

-One of the prince’s men is visiting Nottingham and Hood crashes the feast being held in his honor. He causes a bit of a ruckus and spends the whole time flirting uproariously with Aziraphale, but somehow the next morning the rumors are flying that Hood is in love with Lady Anathema.

“But I’m old enough to be your father!”

“I’m aware.”

“I used to give you piggy back rides when you were so high!”

“I’m aware!”

“I used to give your /mum/ piggy back rides when /she/ was so high!”

“Crowley! I’m aware!”

#ineffable hood

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solongsssuckah · 5 years

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Delivering the Antichrist

I just came across a brief speculative one shot on AO3 concerning Crowley’s line “I delivered the baby” that had me rocking back in my chair overcome with Ideas and Pondering.

It’s pretty well established that Lucifer/Satan is the father of the Antichrist, we know that, but there’s very little even posited about who was the mother or even the surrogate for the Antichrist. And according to what I recall from the book, the Antichrist still maintained some level of occult/otherworldly power after renouncing Satan as his father, so we can reasonably assume that whomever the mother was, they were at least some level of a supernatural being.

So...

What if ‘delivering the baby’ entailed not a basket and a courier job, but something a little more... Labor intensive.

Like, Crowley gets a summons from the Head Office, goes off, finds out he’s being volun-told for a very Auspicious Position. And, well, it’s bloody damned Satan, the big Kahuna Down Below, and for all that Crowley has managed to keep in the ‘good’ graces of the Management, he can’t very well turn down such a prestigious ‘honor’. It’s not fun, it’s not something he wants, but if there was ever a time to grin and bear it, it’s at times like this when there’s no other safe choices to make.

And Crowley makes it back to Earth, immediately decides the Last Thing he wants to do is get his Angel mixed into all this, so he leaves a vague message at Aziraphale’s bookshop about a long distance job he’s having to undertake, nothing Arrangement worthy but he’s going to be gone for a long while, don’t wait up. Crowley effs off with the skittish mulishness akin to a cat finding a spot to lick its wounds after a nasty fight, and manages to keep under the radar for a good few months before things take a turn (as things do). And Crowley is miserable and tired and lonely and he sneaks back to London to poke in on Aziraphale, not actually looking to do anything more than maybe peek in a window to make sure things are alright but it looks like no one’s actually in at the moment, maybe he can just pop in for a moment to make sure...?

Aziraphale returns to his bookshop to find his missing friend conked out on the couch in his back room, looking exhausted and worn out and not at all himself in a manner that has the angel immediately bristling with protective guardian instincts that never really went away when he left the gate. Crowley wakes up, feeling more rested and comfortable than he has in months, wrapped up in a thick soft blanket with a pillow tucked under his weary head, rumpled clothes miracled into a pajama set that’s just the right amount of snuggly. It’s more caring and comfort than he’s felt in what feels like a lifetime and Aziraphale returns with a tray of tea and small nibbles and Crowley can’t help it, he’s so TIRED and his Angel is right there, being all fussy and wonderful-

It’s not the first time Aziraphale has seen Crowley emotional or even sad, but it IS the first time he’s seen it without any bluster or cover ups, the demon too tired and stressed and lonely to even bother trying. And Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even really think about it, and as he sits with his friend all but sprawled in his lap, gently running his fingers through auburn curls, he hears the barely audible mumbled confession and make a personal vow to find the Spear of Longinus and stab it right up Satan’s backside.

With everything piling up, it doesn’t take much convincing to get Crowley to stay at the bookshop with Aziraphale, and as time passes, the pair of them living in close quarters, things slowly come to light and things shift in understanding. It’s comfortable and almost painfully domestic and it soothes something longing in the soul neither of them knew they were missing.

But it doesn’t last, and when the time comes, Crowley has to go through with delivering the Antichrist and then is forced to go through with the baby swap on top of it all. It hurts more than he cares to think about, let alone admit, and the stress of it all puts him around the deep end for a little bit. The Universe adjusts, the Antichrist still ending up in not quite the right hands, and Crowley stumbles into the bookshop after everything two sheets to the wind wishing not for the first time that snakes could cry. Aziraphale is there, a comfortable welcome constant, and that more than anything else helps with the aching empty spot where something Crowley didn’t want but came to love despite the beginnings has been ripped away from him.

They still go through the eleven years struggling to balance infernal and celestial influences with the wrong child, since the defenses of the Antichrist surely would hide the boy no matter whatever connections, and Warlock is mostly raised by a Nanny who is equal parts almost suffocatingly doting and eerily distant while the Gardener teaches a very young boy about consent and safety and how to be a Good Person. When the Hellhound fails to appear, Crowley barely manages to keep his composure, torn between relief and panic, and it’s only thanks to Aziraphale’s steady presence that Something Drastic doesn’t happen.

Heavenly and Hellish Hosts both carry on as the Great Plan entails, the Four Horsemen ride, a Hellhound is named Dog and a witch is found. A bookshop burns and a demon dies. But Crowley can’t drink himself into a stupor, he can’t, he has to find the Antichrist, he has to-! Losing Aziraphale and his everlasting support is like being cut down at the knees and stabbed through the heart, but for all his grief, there are two boys out there that deserve to have a world to live on, one he raised and one he delivered. Agnes Nutter’s book of prophecy survives, and Crowley had been helping with the whole deciphering/triangulating thing once Aziraphale talked him through what he was trying to do with the book’s help, so he knows where to go, where to be.

The Bentley still burns, Aziraphale finds Madame Tracy, and Crowley doesn’t even bother to care that the body is a timeshare when he hugs his Angel. Then they’re racing across the air field in the stolen Jeep, and there’s four children and little terrier dog facing down the avatars of Humanities greatest horrors.

A boy stands in the middle of it all, and he turns towards the sound of the noisy engine or maybe something else and honey-gold meets yellow. Crowley very nearly wrecks the Jeep at the force of the connection he feels, protective and primal and deep, and the Antichrist beams like the sun.

“Mum!”

There’s a boy, a precious beautiful boy, warm and safe and alive in his arms, and suddenly serpents can cry because those are tears blurring his vision as he buries his face into sun lightened curls. Warlock is still a dear child in his own right, one can’t raise a boy for near eleven years and not get attached, but Adam- Oh, Adam is the missing note, the lost cog, the presence meant to fill that emptiness.

“I found you, I finally found you-!”

Aziraphale watches the reunion with tears in his borrowed eyes, Madame Tracy delicately dabbing at the moisture with the edge of her shawl. But there are still the Horsemen to fight, and a Great Plan to halt.

Only this time, when an angel and a demon join hands with the Antichrist to face Satan and shout him back down into Hell, the boy is comforted, feeling a love he always knew existed but never got to meet until now.

“Mum?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“When I grow up, will I have eyes like yours?”

#good omens #stuff cell made #crowley #adam the antichrist #yeah this got away from me i don't know what im doing either #body dysphoria #warning for male identifying character becoming pregnant #delivering au #should i also include tags for non consentual implications?

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alphacygni · 5 years

Link

Near the Dowling Estate

Five Years until the (Not) End of the World

If there was one truth in human history—one distillable constant to Crowley’s millennia spent among the generations of humanity—it was this: no matter when, no matter where, being a woman was, on balance, always a little bit harder.

There were the shoes, for starters. Crowley had stopped manifesting arches and toe joints to accommodate, but that only helped so much. And then the undergarments. Satan, the undergarments. She’d heard women throughout the ages curse the Devil Himself for subjecting them to whaleboning and girdles and control-top pantyhose and push-up brassieres. Crowley could definitively say, however, that none of those had been the work of her lot. That was usually about men.

And, let’s face it, men were also often one of the harder parts of being a woman. Crowley found she spent a large chunk of her time in female form thinking of how one might creatively discorporate a male starting with his most tender bits.

In fact, it was the very thing she was ruminating on now.

She shouldn’t be. It was a lovely day, and there were plenty of other lovely things to ruminate on. Summer announced itself in the ripe green of grass and the lazy hum of bees and the scent of lavender from a further field. The sun beat, breeze tempering a stodgy heat. Warlock and the other children were squealing with joy, and for once it wasn’t because of some game on one of those infernal tablet computers. Warlock was playing his first game of the season out on the pitch, and, if Crowley remembered the rules correctly, his team was, in fact, winning.

Crowley, however, was losing.

“That—that’s a free kick, right?” The man, a member of Mister Dowling’s ever-present staff, had been sitting beside her in the stands, inching closer and making ever more intrusive chitchat since the match had begun. His smile exposed perfect white teeth. His manner exposed something more crooked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know.” She gave a half-hearted shrug as she imagined how much blood there’d be if she decapitated him right then and there.

“I thought you Brits knew everything about soccer.” A meaty hand clapped her shoulder.

She dusted at her sleeve and decided to forego the correction. “And I thought you Americans didn’t like football.”

“Oh, we like football. Real football.” He stretched a little and gave her an up-and-down look he didn’t try to hide. “Do you know anything about American football?” As was often the case, Crowley had noted, the man asked a question he had no interest in her answering. “That’s a real game. Soccer’s alright for kids, sure. But football’s a game for men.”

The image flashed through her mind again. No, no. That much blood would ruin her frockcoat. And she quite liked this one. It had terrific pockets. “Is it.”

“Gets quite rough, football.” Fricatives wafted the smell of lager. The hand found its way to her knee. “But some people like it like that...” And a centimeter higher.

With a barely concealed yelp, the man withdrew the hand as if he’d gotten a sudden and nasty shock. Which, of course, he had.

It did not, however, have the desired effect.

“Oh. A spark.” He leaned in to whisper. “I knew there was something there.”

“Sir, we are at a children’s sporting event. We are both in the company of our employer. That sort of behavior is absolutely inappropriate, and I’ll thank you to control yourself.”

“Mmm. Tad said you were the stern, uptight type. Tell me, Nanny. Am I being naught—“

“Lilith, me darlin’!”

It took Crowley a moment to place the over-rounded bend of the vowel and the over-rounded stretch of belly. Luckily she remembered just before he wrapped her in an affectionate embrace.

The American moved back, as much to avoid the gardener’s girth as anything else.

“Sorry t’be tardy, love, but the rosebeds don’ mulch themselves. Hope I din’ miss too much of young Warlock’s debut?”

The American found his voice again. “I…I’m sorry. You are…?”

“Oh, bless me.” He shook the other man’s hand with off-putting enthusiasm and what Crowley could tell was more pressure than was comfortable. “Francis Fell. Gardener and, uh, doting swain.”

When the angel leaned close to plant a chaste kiss on her cheek, Crowley was absolutely unaware of anything but the sudden warmth of lips and the strangely not-off-putting tickle of sideburn. The angel had whispered something, she knew, but she couldn’t have said what it was for all the tea in hell[1].

When she didn’t respond, the angel leaned in to kiss her other cheek. This time, she rallied.

The angel repeated his words, hot and near. “You look like you’re about to call up hellfire and brimstone.”

“I’ll forgive your tardiness this once, angel. Come, sit close.”

Somehow, Aziraphale managed to squeeze himself into the impossibly narrow space between.

The American looked as if someone had just burned his country’s flag and tossed the ashes down in his lap. “You…you two are--?”

“I’m a blessed man,” the angel said with that ridiculous, toothy smile.

Even like this—Satan help her—even like this, there was something refreshing in the angel’s sweetness. Crowley always felt it, soft in her chest, like the brush of wings.

Primly, sure to stay in character, she reached across and took one of Aziraphale’s hands in her own, threading finger through finger.

His hands were warm and smelled of gardens.

The American stared, eyes on the angel’s teeth. Though he didn’t ask it aloud, the question on his face was clear: why?

This American needed to go. She was having a moment here.

She gave the man a cool look, wishing she could remove the sunglasses and pin him in yellow. Instead, she settled for allowing a little of the serpent to seep through. “He’s a blesssssed man, as he says.” She cut her gaze in the direction of the large gardener’s lap meaningfully.

Even after the American slunk away, looking confused and more than a little disgusted, Aziraphale stayed close.

Their shoulders touched.

“Uh, thanks, angel.” It sounded softer than she’d intended.

When Aziraphale turned her way, past the bushy eyebrows and the buck teeth, Crowley couldn’t miss it. The man underneath. Blessed.

He gave her hand a squeeze. “Don’t mention it.”

Out on the pitch, Warlock had taken down the other team’s striker with a savage tackle, and his father gave a whoop of approval that was taken up by most of the American crowd.

Crowley couldn’t help but beam proudly herself. “That’s right, Warlock, dear! Put forth your Scythe and Reap, love!”

The boy stopped to find her voice. Smiled. Waved. And then, graciously, he bent down and offered the other player a hand up from the grass.

The angel’s let out a smug hmmph of delight.

The two of them sat, hand in hand, until the whistle blew and the game was over.

[1] All the tea in Hell is, of course, of the Long Island Iced variety. While not originally of demonic origin, the drink had brought so many otherwise innocent souls into sin that Satan adopted it officially.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #nanny ashtoreth #my fic

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