#people get hung on 'he was an angel and now he's a demon and Aziraphale won't respect this!'

[tenok]

.

[thesherrinfordfacility]

so i had the bright idea of rewatching s1 today whilst im working from home, now knowing what i know about s2, and so i can ruminate a little more on s1 with the additional context. ive barely made it past five minutes

im pretty sure ive gotten most of the frames accurate from this bit, and im sure it might just be a bit of demonstrative cinematography (which ya know, *chefs kiss*) but at the same time i love going into full year 9 english teacher mode about this shit, and i think there is something to comment on (which someone already might have done but w/e). in any case, this bit of dialogue is very noticeably layered with shots of crowley and aziraphale, but intercut with the shots of adam facing down the lion:

like, i can't help but feel that there is some symmetry in this and either other people have spotted it and im very behind, OR we havent spotted it and s2 spoilers have helped unlock it✨

so who is meant to be who here? for my money it would be that adam is mirroring aziraphale, and eve is mirroring crowley - in so much that at a really shallow level, aziraphale is a platoon leader, a guardian, fought in the war etc. crowley, regardless of his rank, is a starmaker, and let's face it the boy has the structural integrity of a strand of dried linguine. so we could look at it on that level (ignore the lion for the moment ill sort of explain that if it isn't already obvious)

but also we now know that this scene is not their first meeting, and that aziraphale and crowley do in fact remember each other and know that they have met, and in aziraphale's case is probably the teeniest bit shy bc damn heart eyes as an angel, heart eyes as a demon 🥵 but my point is that this is after the fall. after (as far as crowley tells it) crowley fell for 'just ask[ing] questions", and "just hung around the wrong people".

now i have my thoughts on why crowley fell: tldr because it would require another post - both reasons he gave above are bullshit and obvs conflict with each other, so i think that he doesn't actually know why he fell and has just guessed his transgressions so he can rationalise it, that god actually never had an issue with him asking questions, and instead it was actually god's plan to make him fall so he could represent the 'evil' side of free will on earth, as aziraphale's counterpart, and essentially ensure that humankind stays eternally 'in balance'

ANYWAY so the fact that in the lion sequence, 'crowley' is being shielded by 'aziraphale' against an unknown entity; but does this mirror a flashback, or is it foreshadowing? again, id put my bets on the former visually, but the latter... lyrically? idk the word but regardless take the dialogue:

"What if I did the right thing;

with the whole 'eat the apple business'?

A demon can get into a lot of trouble;

for doing the right thing."

so let's rephrase this:

"Was it the right decision to fall;

was I right to choose this for myself?

to choose the right to choose?

Because i feel like i could live to regret it."

so is crowley in essence already asking if aziraphale is on his side? is he asking if falling was the right thing, the good thing, to do (regardless of whether god gave him any choice in the matter)? But was he given the choice, first true free will? did aziraphale try to protect him during the fall, so crowley could get out in time (but ultimately fail? or at least bought Crowley enough time to find a back staircase and fall gently and peacefully, 'saunter vaguely downwards'?), and then get assigned to earth to be the 'good' side of the coin for humanity?

and is crowley asking if aziraphale will continue to be with him? in whatever romantic, platonic, acquaintance context you want - is he asking aziraphale if aziraphale will fight for him again, for them both? aziraphale made his decision, enacted his free will, in giving the humans a sword, and thus brought the concept of war and horror to earth, even if that was never his intention - so now swordless, and now only condemned to watch humanity as it strides out on its own (or was this the plan all along?👀), is aziraphale willing to do it? does he have the power, the strength, the will? would he stretch his finger over the line to fight on their side?

maybe im asking the wrong kind of questions, but all ill say is that in the above sequence? at the end of the dialogue? adam kills the lion.

i think 'their side' began in the job minisode, yes maybe, but also maybe the idea of it, the understanding of it, was planted here.

[avocado-writing]

notes: this turned into a much longer, story-based fic lol. cw for depression. not mentioned: you & aziraphale building a little sandcastle while crowley drinks a margarita. also crowley switches to fem presenting in this fic

pairing: crowley x gn!reader x aziraphale

words: 2.1k

rating: E (smut at the end, minors dni)

Crowley, there’s a problem. Come over as soon as you can. - Aziraphale

Angel, you don’t need to sign your texts off. I know it’s you. 

Usually when he gets these messages it’s because Aziraphale has run out of milk, or there’s a spider in the bookshop. So Crowley doesn’t worry. That’s until he actually turns up and finds Aziraphale staring at the CD rack you put up in the back room, arms crossed and brow furrowed. 

“The Tracy Chapman album is gone,” Aziraphale sighs. Crowley glances over to the calendar hung up on the wall. It’s got pictures of kittens on it. But that’s not what makes him groan, no; it’s when he realises the date. 

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t realise that had sneaked up on us.”

It happens once a year, inevitably. Even when you try to forget it the bloody thing is seared in your mind. It’s almost the anniversary of the day you didn’t die. 

You insist you aren’t sad about it. You insist. But, once when you were very drunk, they got it out of you that for a little while you always feel like you’re mourning. You’re happy with your life how it is now, overjoyed even; and you wouldn’t trade your marriage for anything… but you’re still reminded of the human you couldn’t be. The natural life you never got to live. The children you never had. The family you had to abandon when your death didn’t take. 

Because when it boils down to it you’re not quite human. You’re different. And though Crowley and Aziraphale may not be aligned with their sides any more there are other angels and demons. But there is only one of you. 

And it can get very lonely to think that way. 

So every year you sequester yourself off in your bedroom at your house — since 1988 it’s been with that bloody Chapman CD — and the person they love disappears into a little mist of sadness until you’re ready to be with the world again. 

Crowley slams his hand onto the table, making his husband jump. No. Not this time. They won’t stand to see you like this for another year. 

“I have an idea,” he says, and Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. 

Your house is in quite a nice area of London, plenty of room for three people, but right now you’re sitting in the bedroom all alone. (Of course you have a house. You love your other halves dearly but personal space is a requirement, not a request. Besides you’ve picked up a load of tat over the years you’ve been alive and it’s not fair to make one of them keep it for you). You’ve not seen them for a few days, and that’s fine. You like to marinate in your own misery. Crowley once said people must enjoy feeling sad or bands like the Smiths wouldn’t exist. You couldn’t fault him. 

There’s a knock at your door. Figuring it’s the postie, you drag yourself from your spot in the middle of the bed and wipe the tears from your eyes with your sleeve. You’re a little surprised to find Crowley and Aziraphale standing there, but open the door for them anyway. 

“I’ll stick the kettle on,” you mutter as a greeting. They exchange a look as you shuffle into the kitchen. Before you can even begin to get the mugs out, you’re manoeuvred into a chair and your husbands plonk down in front of you. 

“What—”

“Nightingale, we know you’ve been struggling.”

You deflate under their dual looks of concern, and bury your face in your hands. 

“Sorry.”

You suddenly feel very, very small; but you realise they’re taking your arms and pulling your hands away. 

“There’s nothing to apologise for, my dear. We understand. It’s just that we were thinking, we should all go on a little holiday.”

Cautiously you look up. 

“A little holiday?”

Aziraphale doesn’t do ‘little’. That word simply disguises self-indulgence. “Do you fancy a little treat?” (I saw a whole wedding cake in a bakery shop window and immediately bought it, fancy going halves with me?) or “I’m going to take a little nap…” (time to curl up on the sofa in front of Bake-Off reruns and fall asleep for four days straight) are the examples that spring to mind. 

So a ‘little’ holiday might not be so little at all. 

“Look, we wrote down all of your favourite places and put them into a hat. You just reach in, pick one, and we’ll go.”

They’d spent a solid two hours deciding what made the cut. Edinburgh, obviously. Stockholm. Verona. (You might have had a problem with the Roman Empire, but you can appreciate that nowadays Italy has some of the best food in the world). 

Aziraphale holds out a reporter’s trilby full of tiny white strips of paper, shaking it enthusiastically. Their eyes are wide and full of love. Gingerly you reach out, rustle around in the hat, and pull a single slip. They watch you intently as you unfold it, read it, and widen your eyes. 

You hold it up, and excitement crosses your face for the first time that day. 

“Isle of Wight.”

“Isle of Wight?” Crowley repeats. He doesn’t remember putting that one in there and, from the look on his face, neither does Aziraphale. But no, of course - you love that place. The three of you had spent a summer there back in the nineteen-twenties, when you had gone through your fossil phase. You’d spent hours on the beach searching through rocks for ammonites and genuinely enjoying every moment. 

Plus, with that look on your face, they can hardly say no.

“Isle of Wight then,” Aziraphale says, smiling. 

They help you pack and book the ferry that evening, Crowley making short work of the drive down to the docks. On the journey you’re still a little bit quiet, but when you ask, “can I put on Tracy Ch—” Crowley shouts “No!”, reaches into the glove box to pull out the CD the Bentley manifested to try and please you, and flings it out of the window on the motorway. 

It’s so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh. As a compromise Crowley stuffs Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours into the system so roughly he threatens to break it in half. 

Apart from that the drive is filled with happy chatter. And so is the whole holiday, really. They’ve booked a little seaside cottage to stay in, very sheltered and alone so there are no prying eyes on the three of you. That first night you’re too knackered to do much but curl up and fall asleep, but the next day you go into full tourist mode. Shorts, shirt, big hat and glasses. Aziraphale rubs sunblock on your back in the areas you can’t reach — as luckily the three of you have planned your excursion for the four and a half days that constitute British summertime — and you set out. 

And, really, it’s lovely. You go to the little attractions, play mini golf, pretend not to be annoyed when they miracle their shots to hit better (though you still win, their divine magic isn’t a patch on talent). You get a huge ice cream which drips down your hand in the heat. You watch Crowley spend twenty-seven pounds on a claw machine trying to win you and Aziraphale a teddy each “the old fashioned way”, but finally get irritated enough to click his fingers to make it malfunction. Soft toys are spat out of it like bullets to the glee of the gathered children.  

When you arrive back at the cottage they insist they cook, and even though you offer to help you’re told to go and spend the time looking for fossils. It’s quite miraculous that the beach laid out before your front door is suddenly full of them. It’s equal parts sandy and stony and you busy yourself for the next hour, every now and then a cry of “look what I’ve found!” being shouted over the sound of the waves. 

Aziraphale and Crowley exchange a look and silently agree what they’ve never worded: they’ve married a history nerd. 

It’s still hot as the sun sets and they lay out a little picnic on the soft part of the beach. You’ve changed into swimwear and so have they, and it’s one of those moments when you realise just how different your spouses are. Crowley has her long and hair down, slim body feminine so she can wear a tiny black bikini that leaves very little to the imagination. Aziraphale is wearing a full striped bathing suit that you last saw popularised when Queen Victoria was still on the throne. 

You love them both so much. 

Crowley pours the wine and you spend the evening getting a rosy sort of tipsy. You eat the little smorgasbord they’ve laid out in front of you, and as midnight turns to one in the morning, you totally forget the fact that it’s your would-be-death day at all. 

You stand up on unsteady legs and look at the ocean. It’s still unbearably warm. 

“Nightingale?” Crowley asks. You turn to your spouses and make a show of stripping off, leaving your swimsuit on the sand. 

“I’m going for a swim. Are you coming?”

Crowley needs no convincing, her tiny bikini quickly joining the pile of clothes. You take her hand and rush into the waves, laughing wildly as the water sprays your skin. 

“Angel!” Crowley shouts over her shoulder. Aziraphale hesitates for the tiniest moment. 

“Come on angel, nobody can see us.”

Aziraphale loses a battle against himself, finishes his slice of cake and starts to undress too. Soon he’s joined you and your wife in the water. The two of you pull him close. 

“See? Isn’t it nice?” you hum into his ear. His hand skips your bare waist, his breath hitches. You giggle and float backwards on the water, skyclad to the stars above. Crowley keeps a hold of your hand to make sure you don’t drift away, and you listen to the sound of the ocean in your ears while your spouses kiss behind you. You link your fingers through theirs and close your eyes, warm from the wine, and happy. 

Then you splash them childishly. The noise of surprise they make is fantastic. You cackle like mad and begin to run through the water - albeit very slowly - poking your tongue out. 

“Can’t catch me!” you giggle, which is a silly taunt really because Crowley is able to do so immediately with her long legs, and then she sweeps you up in a kiss. 

The three of you find yourselves laying on the beach, Crowley kissing your chest and neck, Aziraphale the soft area of your upper thighs. You melt against their mouths and drag them each to your lips to kiss them properly in turn. 

“Please fuck me,” you whisper, voice strung out on happiness and a little desperate. They don’t need telling twice. Crowley puts one of her beautiful legs either side of your face and you reach to taste her cunt, a heady mix of salt from the water and her own slick. She throws her head back and lets her flaming hair cascade down her back, moaning in pleasure. 

“Fuck, nightingale, your mouth…”

As your tongue presses firmly against her clit you feel Aziraphale manoeuvre you into his lap, spreading your legs to find your entrance. His hands press against you as his fingers slide inside, getting you ready for his impressive girth. You moan against Crowley’s pussy as he sheathes himself slowly inside you and then giggle as the waves lap up against your body. 

“Ahh,” Aziraphale breathes in pleasure, gripping your hips tightly as he begins to move. With every thrust he gives you mimic the motion onto your wife. 

You know their bodies intimately. You have done for centuries. But each time you make love it still feels like your senses are being lit on fire, the best kind of fire, passion burning hot. 

You love them. You love them so much it hurts, and you let this tumble from your lips as you feel them come, and topple over the edge with them. 

That night they hold you close, sandwiched, one of your favourite ways to sleep. Aziraphale tucks his face into your shoulder and Crowley buries his mouth into your hair, giving you a permanent kiss while you drift off. 

You’ve not felt so light in ages. 

When you get home, you decide, you’re smashing that CD with a hammer. You’ve got everything you need to feel better right here in your arms. 

-

Taglist: @angiestopit @dazed-soul  @foolishprincipalitee@smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @specter-soltare @candlewitch-cryptic @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @willbedecided @bdffkierenwalker @cool-iguana @ilyatan @civil-groupie

[nofomogirl]

What we know and don't know after Good Omens S2

Honestly, it's mostly what we don't know.

This was originally meant to be an intro to Before the Beginning (part 1.5.) - a post in my series of posts discussing what we learn from the opening scene of S2 - but I've decided to make it its own thing after all.

I just enjoy reminding myself and others what we know for sure and what is just a theory or a headcanon. So here I go.

#1 The Fall

I've already written about the Fall shortly after S2 aired: Implications of Metatron's offer

My points still stand, except now that I think about it I might have put too much stock in Metatron's words. I think they prove less than I was willing to believe back then, as it's not difficult to imagine they might have all been a bluff.

In short: we don't know what the Fall is and how it actually works.

All that we know is that it happened once, and in the process, part of the angels were transformed and became demons.

The rest is just a long list of questions.

#2 Crowley's Fall

We're not much wiser when it comes to the circumstances of one specific Anthony J. Crowley's Fall.

Let's look at the very few facts we have:

In S1 Crowley claims that "he didn't really fall, he just sauntered vaguely downwards", "he only ever asked questions [and] it was all it took to be a demon", and "he didn't mean to fall, he just hung around the wrong people".

Neil Gaiman suggested more than once that Crowley isn't the most reliable narrator when it comes to his own Fall, and while he's not as bad as Heaven believes, he's also not as good as he thinks.

In Job's minisode, when Aziraphale is on the brink of questioning God's sense of justice ("Yes. But..."), Crowley tells him that was how it started for him too.

We learned from Furfur that Crowley actively took part in the dubious battle on the plains of Heaven just before the Fall.

In the finale, Metatron isn't the slightest bit surprised Crowley didn't take his offer and comments he "always did want to go his own way. Always asking damn fool questions too."

What does it all tell us? Nothing specific, except that perhaps we were a bit too quick to take Crowley's word that he hasn't done anything that would warrant any kind of punishment.

Questioning God's way of doing things was just how it STARTED for him. Asking damn fool questions was something he did TOO.

In short - we have no idea what really happened.

#3 Memory erasure

It's one of those popular headcanons that have been around at least since S1 and got canonically confirmed in S2.

We now know it's something that exists.

And that's where our knowledge ends.

Everything we really saw in the show was Gabriel getting sentenced to having his memories of being Gabriel removed. Then he very quickly moved his whole self to the fly to save it and we don't actually get to see what the result would be if Heaven did it. Would he be the same returned-to-factory-settings goofball or would he be given some memories to fill the blank spaces?

Is it actually possible to plant false memories in someone's head or can you only delete them?

Are memories really erased or just made inaccessible? Gabriel could still force himself to access some of his old memories. Was it because that's how it works and everybody could do it theoretically or was it because the memory-erasing procedure wasn't performed properly in his case?

We know it can be done remotely, but what is the range?

How precise and selective can it be? Gabriel was meant to forget everything. Perhaps that's the only way and you cannot pick and choose what one remembers or not.

We do not know.

#4 Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship

In S2 we have learned that they knew each other before the Fall. But all we saw was one meeting that appeared to be the first one to boot, judging by the fact that Aziraphale introduced himself.

We don't really know if they met again after that, how well they got to know each other, and how close they became.

It's not impossible, that when Aziraphale insists he knew the angel Crowley was, he's not even right about that...

#5 Aziraphale's and Crowley's memories

Last but not least, whatever Aziraphale and Crowley knew initially and whatever events they were part of or witnessed, we have no way of knowing what memories they've kept AND if they're even aware one or both of them might be missing something.

There may be important things that only one of them remembers but since I doubt they've ever compared notes, he operates under the wrong assumption that the other is aware of it too.

Anything is possible, really.

I've seen many convincing theories regarding all of the above and plenty of delightful headcanons. I'm just listing it to keep in mind all the questions remain open.

[edosianorchids901]

Fortitude

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "pinprick"

Cw: blood, injury, offscreen violence, nonsexual nudity

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said, breathless as he and Crawley stumbled to a halt. “Well. I wasn’t quite planning to get caught up in all that.”

Crawley gave him an unimpressed look. “You shouldn’t have been in the middle of a war zone trying to pick figs.”

“Well, how was I to know it was a war zone?” Aziraphale protested.

“Maybe because it’s been more or less a war zone for the past decade?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say that he could hardly be expected to remember every war going on in the whole world. Then he paused, frowning at the trickle of red running down Crawley’s left arm.

“Are you hurt?” Aziraphale reached for Crawley’s black himation. Crawley hissed and tugged the cloak out of his hand. “Really, Crawley. After you came to my rescue so dramatically—”

“Don’t say that.” Scowling, Crawley tugged the himation tighter about himself and set off resolutely towards a farmhouse downhill. “I didn’t rescue you. Demons don’t rescue angels.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. Crawley had absolutely rescued him, dashing right into the fray to knock Aziraphale out of the way of a spear. “If you say so. But please, if you’re hurt, allow me to help.”

Resolute, Crawley kept marching down the hillside. Blood dripped to the rocky ground. “Wot, this? It barely counts as being hurt. It’s just a pinprick.”

“But you are hurt?”

“It’s a pinprick.” Crawley paused and looked around. The blood dripping from his arm and himation puddled beside his right foot. “Right. So. For my money, we should hide out in that farmhouse until we’re… until… the battle…”

Face ashen, Crawley fell over.

“Crawley!” Aziraphale lunged, grabbing wildly. Crawley crashed into his chest, limp. “Crawley, are you okay? Crawley!”

“Nnngh.” Crawley just hung in Aziraphale’s arms. “Weird. I got… dizzy.”

His voice was faint, dazed. He still hadn’t tried to straighten up.

Aziraphale looked down, and gasped. Blood stained his own clothes now, spreading quickly. “Oh, you absolute idiot! Pinprick indeed. I shan’t be surprised if an entire sword was driven through your shoulder.”

“S’ not sword,” Crawley mumbled. “S’ spear.”

“Oh, because that’s so much better.” Trembling, Aziraphale scooped Crawley up and carried him towards the farmhouse.

He ignored the heavily laden fig trees, heading straight inside. Crawley had somehow gone even more limp in his arms.

“Hello?” Aziraphale called, craning his neck to look around. “Is anyone here? I-I promise, I mean no harm. I just need somewhere to tend to my frien— to this fellow I don’t know!”

“Really?” Crawley managed to sound irritated even though his voice was barely audible. “After I… rescued you n’ everything?”

“You’re the one who said I didn’t rescue you.” There didn’t seem to be any people inside—perhaps they’d fled the war zone. Aziraphale carried Crawley to bed and laid him down on a sheepskin. “Here, now let me see. And I shan’t have any silly resistance, now.”

Crawley gasped in pain when Aziraphale peeled the blood soaked fabric away. “Oh, Satan…”

“Just a pinprick,” Aziraphale muttered. “This so-called pinprick has pierced all the way through your shoulder. I can’t even imagine how painful it must be.”

“Really painful.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Crawley gave a baleful glare, but didn’t answer.

“I’m afraid this is going to hurt rather a lot. You know how it is, holy power and all.” Aziraphale drew a deep breath, then pressed his hand to the wound. Crawley moaned. “Here we are, just a moment now.”

He channeled a miracle into the injury. Crawley howled in pain, thrashing, and Aziraphale held him down. Sweat broke out across Crawley’s ashen skin, seeped through his grey chiton in dark patches.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, blinking away tears. His hands trembled, and he couldn’t even find it in his heart to make a sarcastic comment about Crawley downplaying the wound so much. “I suppose it’s not wonder you didn’t want to tell me you were hurt. I wish my healing didn’t hurt you, too.”

It was better than Crawley discorporating, at least, and he tried to keep that in mind. He got some water, eased Crawley the rest of the way out of his clothing, and gently bathed away the blood.

He couldn’t get all of it. Not without turning Crawley over. The poor old dear had gone quite silent and still, and the thought of disturbing him was unbearable.

Finally, though, golden eyes flicked open again. Crawley looked for him, dazed, and quirked a faint smile. “Hi. Sorry. Fainted a little.”

“Yes, I’m afraid you did.” Aziraphale miracled the blood off his own himation, and spread it across Crawley. “I’m sorry the healing was so painful.”

“Nnnh.” Crawley just laid there, but his smile widened as Aziraphale took his hand and held it gently. “S’ not why I didn’t tell you. About the spear thing.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, not wanting me to douse you in holy energy does seem a valid reason.”

“I mean, yeah. But.” Crawley ground his teeth, then hissed. “Look, I don’t wanna say this, but you’ll feel guilty if I don’t. I held off because if I’d told you back then, you woulda…”

He cut off. But now, Aziraphale understood. If Crawley had admitted to the injuries, Aziraphale would have insisted on stopping to tend to them. And Crawley had wanted him to be safe.

Smiling, Aziraphale nodded and squeezed his hand. He wouldn’t force Crawley to talk about it, wouldn’t rub it in his face, although he had every intention of bringing up the “pinprick” again later once Crawley felt up to being teased.

But the knowledge that Crawley had risked himself not just once but twice to keep Aziraphale safe… that knowledge, Aziraphale hugged close to himself as he held Crawley’s  hand and settled in to watch over him as he recovered.

[embervoices]

With gratitude to @cuubism for letting me borrow Bookstore Cryptid Dream's Library.

The phone rang.

Once he had determined that it was possible to have a phone only ring at certain times, or for certain people, Aziraphale had seriously considered disconnecting the landline for his bookshop in favor of having the number forwarded automatically to the device Crowley had acquired for him.

This sufficiently worried his vintage phone that it promptly began call filtering for him to prove to the angel its continued worth. Aziraphale hadn't so much noticed, as determined that the landline wasn't really enough of a bother to be worth altering.

Thus, when the landline rang well after the bookshop's (admittedly dubious) business hours when Crowley was already sitting across from him in the back room, Aziraphale nevertheless did not hesitate to answer.

"Aziraphale, I need your help!" Anathema explained in a very slightly (read: incredibly) distressed tone.

"Whatever is the matter?"

"I lost the book."

Aziraphale blinked. Anathema's hands weren't exactly audibly flapping, but Aziraphale had no trouble picturing them nevertheless.

"Well, not lost, exactly. I… burnt it."

"You what!?"

"I burnt it!"

Aziraphale's eyebrows furrowed. "I thought it was already burnt in the fire-that-wasn't? I still have the little slip of loose paper from the final prophecy here in my desk."

"Oh! No, not that one. That one is fine. Yes, singed still, that's true, but I have all the index cards so it's ok." She kindly didn't mention that she'd noticed the missing prophecy. She was a touch relieved to know whose hands it had ended up in. "No, what I mean is, the next day a whole second book arrived, and Newt helped me decide I didn't want to be a professional descendant for the rest of my life. So I burnt it!"

"Oh dear."

"YES 'Oh Dear'! Now everything has gone strange again and I don't have the book!"

Aziraphale nodded to himself, peeking out the windows into Soho. "Things have gone rather strange, haven't they?"

Crowley snorted in the background. Aziraphale waved him away with a hand.

"Hmm. I may know a solution. How soon can you get to my bookshop, Anathema?"

She hummed. "Well, I suppose Newt could drive me. So, what, an hour?"

"That will do nicely. He always did keep late hours."

"Who, Newt?"

"An old friend, of a sort. Or a rival."

"Crowley?"

Aziraphale laughed. "Of course not! Well, perhaps he is a bit like Crowley in some ways, come to think of it, but not in any personal sense, anyway. This is more of a professional rivalry. You'll see."

"Okay, we'll be there soon."

Aziraphale hung up the phone, and turned to his beloved demon.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"You're taking her to the Library? At this hour?"

"It's not as if his hours are any more coherent than mine."

Crowley snorted, nodding. "So what's she looking for? An impossible grimoire? You know he won't give those out to just anybody."

"And nor should he, considering what happened last time one of them got out!"

"Right. So you're introducing the known, actually-rather-talented hereditary witch to the Library because…?"

"Oh come now, you know she can be trusted. Besides, this is more a matter of family business."

"Whose family?"

"Hers."

Crowley grinned. "Oh, this should be interesting."

Aziraphale gave him a mischievous smirk. "Indeed!"

[hybridempress]

Of course it makes sense that Aziraphale would ask Crowley to go back to Heaven with him.

Of course it makes sense that he believed Crowley would be happy to come back to Heaven with him.

Think about the way that Crowley talks about or views his Fall. Every time he mentions it, he is either super vague or he is extremely sad and remorseful. Either way, he doesn't actually take responsibility for his Fall.

"An Angel who did not Fall so much as saunter vaguely downwards."

"I didn't mean to Fall, I just hung around the wrong people."

"I only ever asked questions. That's all it took to be a demon in the old days."

It is always made very clear that he never wanted to Fall. It was never what he intended. It is something that he regrets. It is something that happened to him, not something that he did. Something that was undeserved. Something that he is extremely distraught over and that he doesn't want to be blamed for or even properly admit that it happened.

Crowley is also fundamentally a good person. He pretends not to be because it gets him in trouble. He refuses to let Aziraphale say that he is a good person, whenever he does something good he comes up with an excuse or an ulterior motive, but his excuses don't even always work. He's been punished before. And yet, over and over again we have seen him put his own life at risk to do the right thing.

He is devastated at the idea that God is going to flood the world and kill all living things. He saves Job's livestock and his children and makes sure their family is saved and reunited. He drinks literal poison and convinces Elspeth not to kill herself and helps her get a head start on a new life so she doesn't have to suffer anymore. He redirects Nazi bombs to kill Nazis. He convinces Aziraphale to form an "Arrangement" with him where they both either do a temptation and a blessing or neither of them do anything at all because it "balances out" and he doesn't actually try to make an effort to do bad things. He mostly leaves the humans alone. All of the "sins" that he has invented have been either inconvenient, frustrating, mildly mischievous, or actually kind of funny and have an equal amount of good effects on humans as they do bad. He's never shot a gun before. The only times we ever see him bring actual harm to something is when he (accidentally) drops some graveyard watchmen down a deep hole, kills Nazis, and (assumedly) throws a potted plant into a wood chipper. He refuses to kill Adam because he's "personally not up for killing kids." He convinces Aziraphale to stop Armageddon with him because he loves the world, he loves humans, he loves life on Earth, and he is fundamentally against the idea that humans should be "tested to destruction." He is a better person than all of the other angels and he is even a better person than Aziraphale in a lot of scenarios.

Of course Aziraphale would think that Crowley would want a chance to go back. And not just to go back to the same system that had hurt them both before, but to go back to a Heaven that Aziraphale was planning on recreating in their own image. A Heaven where both of them could make a difference on a massive scale and be able to protect the Earth and all of the humans in it without having to worry that they would ever be in danger again. A Heaven where Crowley would never be cast out for asking questions or making suggestions. He truly believes this is the best case scenario for both of them, where they can be together without having to hide themselves anymore and they can do things their own way forever, and they can always help people in the process.

So when Crowley says no, it sends him spiraling. He panics. "No, this isn't how this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to be happy about this. That's the only reason I said yes, because I thought it would be what you wanted. I already told them yes, I can't take it back now, you can't just abandon me with this when I did this for you." He means it when he says that he needs Crowley. He is begging Crowley to reconsider. When he says "nothing lasts forever" he doesn't mean that his and Crowley's life on earth can't last forever, he means that he is willing to give it all up if it means that Crowley will be happy, if it means that the two of them can be together unconditionally and that they can make a difference together.

Aziraphale tells the Metatron that he doesn't want to go back to Heaven. He only changes his mind when the Metatron says that Crowley can come with him. And after Crowley leaves him, and the Metatron comes to collect him, he seems now so unsure of himself. He starts to say something along the lines of "I think I--" forgot something? changed my mind? whatever it was, he is hesitant to leave. He doesn't want to anymore. It's just that I don't think he can back out of it now, or at least he thinks that he can't back out of it, he doesn't think he's allowed to change his mind--or maybe he really can't. And for him, Crowley kissing him and then leaving the bookshop feels like an act of manipulation. And it's Crowley leaving because things are hard. Crowley does this a lot. He leaves when things get hard. He usually ends up coming back, but he does always leave. Aziraphale feels like he's being abandoned, and he doesn't know if Crowley can come back this time. He's just hoping that Crowley will.

[starsandlightning]

Listen y’all I know we don’t KNOW KNOW that Crowley was traumatized by his Fall, but I think we have some pretty compelling evidence that he was. Not hating if your headcannon is that he’s exactly as unbothered about it as he acts like he is, cause I won’t lie that shit is funny. Still, I don’t think it’s just us projecting our queer religious trauma onto him when we headcannon him as being traumatized over it.

I mean, take Angel!Crowley from the beginning of season two. That man is PURE. Like, yes, he’s got questions, but he is also excitable and joyous and sweet (Angel!Crowley altered my brain chemistry he’s so fucking precious I can’t). And, I mean. Demon!Crowley is still all of that, but he hides it under about ten thousand layers of snark and sarcasm. Wonder what could’ve happened between then and now to make him put his guard up 👀

Plus while the whole “sauntered vaguely downwards” and “just hung around with the wrong people” stuff could absolutely be how he honestly feels (again no hate to people who headcannon him this way), it’s also very possible that it’s another of his defense mechanisms. Yk the whole acting like it’s nothing when it’s very much not nothing thing.

There was also how he reacted when Aziraphale asked him to be an angel with him again. Don’t think I have to go into much detail here honestly (y’all know what I’m getting at here).

Anyway. Again, no hate whatsoever to people who don’t headcannon this. Really the point of this post is just let people believe what they wanna believe. We all have our own takes and that’s great cause at the end of the day we all love our little guy-shaped being and that’s the important thing

[darkhighness]

Good Omentober Day 24 - The Them

Prompt by @disaster-dog

Adam learns the true identity of the quaint bookseller in Soho, inching closer to the answers he seeks.

(Continuation from day 23)

Aziraphale was stunned by the question and took a moment to answer, “My father was, yes. Can I ask what all this is about?”

“We think our friend Adam sees your Dad in his dreams!” One of the kids laughed.

Aziraphale felt some sense of relief wash over him, “Adam, was it? May I talk to him privately?”

There was some shuffling on the other end of the line before it eventually went quiet. After a minute or so, he answered, “This is Adam.”

---

“Oh Adam, it’s lovely to hear your voice again. You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. My name is Aziraphale. We met not long after your 11th birthday.” The kind old man explained.

“My 11th birthday? That’s when The Dream started!” Adam noted, a newfound confidence in his voice, “Maybe you can help me. I’ve been having this dream where there's a whole bunch of people and a big red monster and the world is ending.”

Adam heard the man let out a sigh before be began to explain, “Well you see Adam, when you were younger, there was almost a big war that happened. Your memory was supposed to be wiped afterwards but it seems as if it failed at some point. It’s very possible that some of the people you remember are myself and my dear friend Crowley.” 

Adam tested the names on his tongue, “Aziraphale and Crowley. You wouldn’t happen to be…” 

Adam struggled to find the right words. It was hardly the done thing to go around and ask if people were ethereal beings but Adam needed to know. This could’ve been the only chance he had to get more information.

“Do you have wings?” Adam sputtered unsurely.

Aziraphale laughed softly, his beaming smile almost able to be heard through the phone, “Yes, my dear. I must say we do.”

Adam just about dropped the phone in shock as the puzzle pieces started to come together. He remembered the angel and the demon, and remembered the kind words they said to him. He could almost remember another angel and demon as well but they weren’t nearly as friendly.

Whatever happens, for good or for evil... we're beside you.

“Why did my memory get wiped though? Why couldn’t I remember you?” He asked unsurely, feeling some kind of pang in his chest at the lost connection. It’s like he found out a part of him had been missing that he didn’t even remember having lost.

“Everyone did, dear. It was just what had to happen for humanity to return to normal.”

“So…You saved the world? And I was there?” Adam tempted, hoping to clear the rest of the fuzziness that had been plaguing his brain for years.

“Adam, you saved the world.”

He simply couldn’t believe it. Saving the world isn’t something that you just did one afternoon and forgot about. Its the type of thing people won big shiny gold trophies for or got oversized keys to the city for doing. If Adam had truly saved the world, why did no one remember?

“Adam? Are you still there my boy?” The angel asked softly from the other end of the phone.

“I think I need to go now, Mr Fell. Thank you for your help.”

Adam abruptly hung up the call and handed the phone back to Pepper. He scooped up his belongings and stormed out of the library. He needed to go to the woods and collect his thoughts. He knew there was a chance of The Them following him but he couldn’t be in any enclosed spaces. It felt like his head was about to explode.

As he sat on a raised tree root in the Hogback Woods, he was almost overwhelmed by the intense deja vu. He could remember the perfect weather on the airbase that day that was in many ways tainted by the licks of sulphuric residue in the air. He could almost remember his father’s car driving up the runway to tell him off. And The Them were there with him. 

“Aziraphale….Crowley….” He tested these names on his tongue, his brain struggling to get around the ideas. He had a few more of the puzzle pieces yet somehow he still couldn’t see the full picture and it was simply infuriating. 

Dog was lightly licking Adam’s leg, having settled to laying beside him. Adam was resigned to the fact that he may just have to go see this bookseller after all. He just needed to find some reason for his father to need to go to London. Certainly easier than done.

Adam raced home and burst into the house, Dog eagerly prancing behind him. As he slammed the door open, Arthur was shocked at his son’s urgency.

“You alright, Adam?”

Adam huffed and puffed, taking a moment to regain his breath before answering, “We need to go to London.”

“London? God my boy, why would you want to do that?” He asked, pouring a glass of cool water for his son.

“Bookstore. Someone there we have to meet,” Adam panted slowly, before taking the glass of water and downing it quickly. That helped him regain some of his composure, “There’s a man at a bookstore I want to meet.”

“I mean if it’s truly that important we might be able to make the trip over the weekend but are you sure? It’s a bit of a drive. Surely we could just pop into Reading?”

Adam shook his head. “Specific bookshop, specific man.”

Arthur let out a sigh and took the glass from Adam, “I’ll have to ask your mother, you know.”

Adam nodded before racing back upstairs, prepared to spent yet another night researching. But he had a lead tonight. A particularly angelic one, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was finally close to getting some of the answers he was desperately seeking. 

[mushiver]

In s1, during Crowley's grief after Aziraphale died, he seemingly blamed himself when he said "I never asked to be a demon." If they were both still angels, they would've been allowed to be together without danger, hesitation, or "sides". Every time Aziraphale showed contempt for Crowley being a demon, Crowley clarified that he hadn't meant it to happen in the first place (he hung out with the wrong people; he sauntered vaguely downwards)

NOW imagine the shattering grief in the finale when he thought he wasn't good enough for Aziraphale. Crowley's worst fear coming true

Crowley let go of Hell. It was the two of them, their own side, and he always wanted it to be. I think Aziraphale loves Crowley the way he is, but he saw an opportunity to do good, and for them to be together safely. He knows Crowley enjoys doing good, and he's a good person, but fails to see the corruption in Heaven. He remembers how happy he was as an angel, not the fact that getting kicked out wasn't his fault in the first place

Now I'm wondering if Crowley will blame himself and spiral, or if he KNOWS Aziraphale has problems, and he's willing to wait for him to work it out. Either way. Aziraphale apologize right now challenge

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Single white feather

warning : heavy angst, trauma, nightmare, happy ending, fluff, kissing, cuddling

Summary : A single white feather. A feather that had a deep meaning for both of them. A meaning of love and pain. A pain, a trauma that haunted the demon in a nightmare. A nightmare that only his angel could help him through, right?

Info : Needed to write something for them after the season 2 finale (which destroyed me by the way (It destroyed everyone) but the pain turned into something angsty and traumatic). I listened to the song while writing it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dark concrete walls of the demon's room were dark. They were cool and did not allow any warmth. The fallen angel radiated a natural warmth. No light penetrated the thick red velvet curtains, plunging everyone into darkness. A darkness that the two creatures of heaven and hell approved of. The angel had his light around him.

He had his demon who was his personal light. It was a safe darkness so that they could sleep on. The white-haired angel had lost his sleeping cap with the white pom-pom in his sleep. It lay somewhere under their blankets and pillows.

A soft breath lay on the angel and his chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm. He slept peacefully, probably dreaming of crêpes and books to add to his collection. But this was not so with his partner. While the angel slept peacefully, it was not so for his fallen friend.

His partner, on the other hand, had a different breathing pattern. The red-haired man, who a few hours ago had joined his hand to the angel's, was tossing and turning, muttering and grumbling.

His body seemed to glow, his red strands clung to his skin and his narrow eyes seemed to see things that terrified and panicked him.

His mind had plunged into the worlds of dreams and he could not free himself from them. Could not escape. Could not escape his personal hell.

But the angel, sleeping peacefully, sensed the imbalance, sensed something was wrong and his instincts woke him up. ,,Crowley?" he asked in a murmur, opening his blue eyes wearily.

His white hair was frizzy and his pyjamas hung a little askew on his body. But no sooner had he switched on the bedside lamp on the wooden table beside the bed than concern was in his gaze. ,,Crowley!" came the angel's worried lips as he saw the extent of the nightmare Crowley was experiencing.

The demon had unconsciously brought out his wings, turned from a straight position to the side and seemed to writhe in pain.

The black wings would have been invisible in the complete darkness, but now. In the light of the bedside lamp he could see the dark raven-like feathers.

The darkness of the demon and yet they both knew that the wings had once been white. When there was another life for Crowley.

When he had not yet been banished from heaven to hell. To the hell he was now living through again. Uncertainly, Aziraphel reached out to Crowley and stroked the red strands. ,,You're glowing," he murmured anxiously and looked around hastily for a glass of water to give him.

He wanted to wake him up and help him say it was only a dream. But people say you shouldn't wake a dreamer, he remembered and the panic grew inside him. He couldn't see him suffering like this.

Not when the suffering was so great that Crowley no longer had control over his appearance. Instead, he let his fingers wander over the other's arm and recoiled as Crowley turned to the side, groaning muffledly.

Crowley presented his dark black wings to his partner Aziraphale. His blue eyes ran anxiously over his lover's body, searching for a solution.

But apart from the unspeakable heat that resembled hellfire, he saw nothing that could help. He was about to get up to look at the books he had brought with him.

When he stopped and saw something sticking out from between the black wings. At first he thought he was mistaken and moved closer to the sleeping man. He swallowed as he remembered what had happened.

Of what he tried to repress. ,,It can't be," he murmured as he brushed aside the black feathers with his fingers, revealing the single white feather that was invisible in the black plumage. ,,What have I done?" came a whisper from the angel's lips as he stroked the white feather with his fingers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A relationship between an angel and another angel had never existed before. The angels were created by God and built into the plan of the almighty to watch over the people, help them and wait for the day of the supreme judgement to fight against the demons and, of course, to win. There were many different angels.

The archangel Gabriel, a slightly haughty and impudent angel, Muriel, a naive and yet friendly angel. Aziraphel an angel who just couldn't say no and was full of fluffiness and believed in the good in everything.

As well as the angel Crawly an angel who was full of joy, full of enthusiasm for the creation and beauty around him.

But an angel who asked too many questions, an angel who asked too many questions about God's plan. Who questioned him.

An angel who was a thorn in the side of heaven. But a relationship between angels at a time when one should focus on the plan was something that could not be done. Was something that had to be stopped. A way to make an example.

An example that the demon haunted again. A memory, a trauma that was going on in his mind again. ,,You can't do this!" he protested as two angel soldiers grabbed him and tore him towards the court. The place where it would happen.

The place every angel feared knowing what it would mean. ,,I didn't do anything wrong!" he tried to break away and his wings tried to get rid of the soldiers.

But it didn't work, he wasn't strong enough against the two angels. What about him? the question came to his mind as he reluctantly walked with the two and his dark eyes caught sight of the edge of the sky.

He could see the abyss, he could already feel the sensation of falling. His wings would not help him. They would support him down. When he was brought to the place he saw Gabriel and Uriel standing there with Michael.

Even though they were all angels, it was the three who always seemed to shine the brightest.

They never seemed to have done anything wrong. They had all asked no wrong questions. He heard the soldiers say, ,,The deceiver," as they threw him to the ground. He felt no pain, he couldn't, and yet he felt anger, shame and something like hatred.

Wanting to stand up, to defend himself, to explain that it was not his intention to doubt anything, he suddenly felt something cold on his wrists.

Maintaining a kneeling position, he saw that it only took a wave of Gabriel's hand to put him in chains. A thing that kept him in place, a movement in which he could not possibly fly away. The golden chains felt cold, it was a coolness that unsettled him.

He felt he was being held in the way people held birds. His dark eyes went to the abyss and saw that the bright white office was over. ,,Crawly, you are condemned for doubting God's plan.

As punishment for your actions you will be banished from heaven and cast down into hell," he heard Uriel's accusation say and yet his gaze was only on one person.

A person he did not want to leave. ,,He did nothing!" he heard the voice of his angel, the white-haired one had stepped forward. He saw the fear in the bright blue eyes, saw how the white-haired angel tried to make everything work out. There is no plan, no way out, my solution the red-haired one thought, knowing there was no trick to wriggle out of this.

They had lost. ,,Silence! The verdict is in, angel, he is banished," Gabriel demanded, and the purple-eyed man's disapproval of the white-haired man was clear to see.

They had never liked each other. ,,Is it no longer allowed to be curious?" asked Crawly, giving the three angels a mischievous grin. Aziraphale stop trying, he wanted to say but the words did not leave his lips. He didn't want his light to be dragged into it.

He didn't want him to be punished as well. ,,I am the...sinner, I alone have dared to question the plan" he said more calmly, his voice was softer almost pleading. But his gaze was distant as he looked at the three angels. He hated them as much as he could, knew of the mean things they did to his Aziraphale.

Moving his wings again, he tried to rebel once more, but the chains of the Archangel Gabriel held him down. He was trapped.

A trapped angel. ,,Judging by your actions, we will take away your wings and give you new ones," he heard the sentence and felt his heart beating faster, his body, his shell showing fear.

How a tremor gripped his fingers and he clenched them into fists so that it could not be seen. ,,No! No, you can't do that!" Aziraphale shouted and came towards the angels.

But the three did not dignify him with a glance. He would have thrown himself on the ground, Crawley was sure of it. He would have sacrificed himself for him.

I lost my heart to you first, he heard his thoughts and suddenly felt a heat coming from behind him. It was still distant, but he could see the hellfire coming towards him. ,,Stop it!" he screamed at his heart out of desperation and heard the whimpering of the white-haired man who already had tears in his eyes. He would only make it worse.

The last thing the redhead wanted was to show his hurt. Didn't want things to get worse. He wanted to leave, he just wanted to leave with Aziraphale. ,,Bring the fire and burn them," came the order and Crawly swallowed, knowing he would lose his wings. He would no longer be an angel, he would lose his existence.

At least for the next few moments until hellfire engulfed him. He didn't have to look behind him to see the two angels with the jar full of fire. He didn't have to look at Aziraphale to see his grief and guilt.

He only had to kiss his lips once more. Just once more before he fell. ,,Do I get any last words?" he asked, infusing his voice with as much sarcasm as he could muster. He tried to swallow his fear and ignore the blue eyes.

The three angels looked at each other, annoyed and uncertain, before they said, ,,For all we care, but hurry up". They had never had a heart before. They had never felt anything as powerful as him.

They had never felt love before. ,,Aziraphale...close your eyes...please" he said to the white-haired man and gave him a melancholic, knowing smile.

He had long since finished with being an angel. It was over. ,,N-no Crawly no I don't-no why?" Aziraphale whispered tears running down his cheek and his wings drooping. He did not understand.

For a moment he thought the angel would faint. Wouldn't be able to cope. But the red-haired angel only shook his head slightly. ,,I don't want you to see me like this. Not broken not like this" he admitted even if it was a lie. A demon lies...an angel doesn't...maybe I was meant to be he thought, but let it go.

Instead he looked again at his heart and saw the tears and the suffering. ,,Just do it, please," he begged and was relieved to see the white-haired man nod shakily and close his eyes. 

One kiss...one last kiss he thought and was about to speak again when he felt the heat directly behind him. Looking over his shoulder, the hellfire reflected in his dark eyes and made them burn. It would begin and no one could stop it.

His soul could not be rescued. ,,Begin," came the command and he turned his gaze back to the endless expanse of the galaxy that surrounded them. It was beautiful, it was as beautiful as Aziraphale. But then the fire hit his wings and it hurt. It hurt. He felt pain.

And yet the pain was nothing compared to his inner pain. The pain of being separated from Aziraphale was worse. But then he screamed. The fire burned through each of his feathers, burned down his wings, burned down his angelicity.

Burned down the kisses Aziraphale had left on his wings. Burned down the love. It burned down all the feathers. As he screamed he heard the crying of Aziraphale calling his name and trying to help.

As a swaying went through the weakened angel, he suddenly felt his friend's hands on his shoulders. ,,My...angel" he mumbled and cried out again as the fire reached his back and burned his body. ,,I am here...it will all-" but he did not finish the sentence, his voice breaking and he put one hand on the redhead's cheek.

,,Nothing-nothing will be...fine," Crawly replied and he stifled a scream as the fire was slowly taken from his body. It smelled disgustingly of burnt flesh and death. It was a sickening sight, an angel with wings and no feathers.

Only bones. The rattling of golden chains could be heard as he moved them towards Aziraphale's cheek. ,,Archangel Gabriel, there is still a feather on him," he heard the muffled voice of an angel before pure panic flowed through him. The feather...your kiss he remembered the first time Aziraphale had come to him.

Had embraced him from behind a gesture he had seen in humans. The feather had been their first kiss. Aziraphale had called him his star when they created a galaxy together. Looking panic-stricken at his angel, he was confronted with guilt and panic.

Appathetically, Aziraphale shook his head and was about to rise to plead with the angels when Crawly clawed at him, his hands scraping the angel's back. The seven burning points of Hell's whip had worn across his wing bones, over his feather and down his back.

It seemed hell itself. Crawly heard the soothing words of Aziraphale pleading for it to end, pressing him closer, and smelled the scent of books and holy water.

He tried to drown in the other and gathered his last strength. Aziraphale put his hand on his cheek he looked into the weeping blue soul mirrors. Beautiful he thought before kissing his angel one last time.

Touching him one last time. Before Aziraphale was torn from him, crying and screaming, begging him to let go. With one last blow he was let go.

The fire was extinguished. ,,One feather more or less, what does it matter?" Gabriel resigned himself to this before loosening the chains with a wave of his hand and telling Crawly to move to the edge.

His wings, or rather what was left of them, trembled as he lifted them. Pathetic. They were bare and only the feathers were visible.

As if the feathers had been plucked out one by one. Limping slowly and with a bleeding back, he shuffled his way step by step to the edge. Turning to Aziraphale, he stood with his back to the galaxy.

He looked at his galaxy, his star. He wanted to look at its beauty one last time. ,,Goodbye my angel...my Aziraphale" he said and forced himself to smile slightly.

One last look that somehow it would get better. A look of devotion and love. He looked one last time into the blue eyes, into the face he loved. He looked one last time at his heart. Before he allowed himself to fall backwards, he heard the cry of Aziraphale screaming his name.

But the red-haired man had closed his eyes and tried not to think of what was coming. He tried to think of him. Of his heart. Before the flames of the cave engulfed and burned him. Turned him into a demon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All at once the demon opened his snake-like eyes. The nightmare, the fire that surrounded him was gone and only dull light was in his field of vision. The first thing he felt was a presence next to him, a presence touching his wings. A presence that touched a certain feather. Pushing the still unknown presence onto the mattress, he clasped its neck with his hands.

Just a moment before breaking it, taking revenge on the angels who had hurt him and his Aziraphel. ,,Cro-Crowley" he heard a familiar voice rattle out his name, full of worry. Squeezing harder and still not seeing clearly, he backed away in panic as he felt the presence touch his cheek.

As if holy water had been poured over him, he hissed, a pain went through his wings and he fell backwards out of the bed onto the hard floor.

It was like being banished. ,,Crowley, it's Aziraphel!" he heard the angel's voice and looked up at the blue eyes in confusion. Confused, he looked around slowly taking in his surroundings and saw that he was in the shared bedroom. Aziraphel" he whispered the name and saw the angel come to him and kneel in front of him.

The white-haired angel nodded in concern and Crowley saw the tears in his eyes. ,,It was just a nightmare, I'm here," the angel murmured and placed his cold hand on Crowley's hot one.

The snake eyes looked from her hands to the face. ,,Aziraphel...it wasn't a nightmare," he said, wincing as he felt the angel's hand on his cheek.

The white-haired being stroked his cheek with his thumb and tried to calm him down. To show him that it was just a nightmare. ,,I know...it was my fault, I should have-" but Crowley interrupted his heart.

A sad, even sympathetic smile appeared on his face. Before the demon shook his head. ,,No, no, don't say that, Aziraphel, your kiss saved it for me...the feather," he explained, his black wings spreading out like the angel's white ones.

They did not let go of each other. The angel sniffled and his lip trembled slightly as he tried to say something. ,,I-I should have done more" he cried and put his head on the demon's pupils to cry. But the demon shook his head again and let his still slightly trembling hands wander over the angel's back.

As if the roles had been reversed. ,,I have a confession to make," the redhead began and swallowed as he felt his voice becoming more fragile.

It threatened to break again, showing his weakness. ,,I-I um lied to you," he said, avoiding the angel's gaze as he turned his head towards him. ,,What?" Aziraphel sniffed and fear flashed in his blue eyes as he looked at his demon. He was looking for something to tell him that the demon was not serious. He was afraid, afraid of the truth.

Crowley nodded before looking down at their hands still holding each other. ,,I told you to close your eyes because?" he asked, seeing the uncertainty in the angel's face as he reluctantly remembered the moment.

The moment that had hurt him just as it had hurt Crowley. ,,I wasn't supposed to see how...broken...you looked," he said, seeming to immediately add something, but was interrupted by a reassuring look.

,,That was a lie," the demon admitted and felt fear and relief flow through him. Aziraphel blinked several times as if he had not understood the question. ,,But-But why?" he asked and seemed to collapse out of emotion at any moment.

Reassuringly, the demon squeezed the angel's hands lightly. ,,I was afraid... I was afraid that you would be afraid of me. I didn't want you to be afraid of me when we met again," Crowley confessed and he felt a single bloody tear run down his cheek before it fell and burned as a small flame.

,,Crowley," the angel said his name and placed his hands on his cheeks. ,,I have never been afraid of you...in all this time...I only had love for you," the angel confessed before the demon did the same and pulled the angel into a gentle kiss.

A kiss that said more than they could. A kiss that reminded them that they had each other. A kiss that seemed like the first. A kiss between an angel and a fallen angel who became a demon to protect their love. A love that lasted for centuries and was eternal. That was true love. The love between the angel Aziraphel and the demon Crowley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@kedamonomonoligh maybe you like it or want to read it

[seven-stars-in-his-palm]

My dear August! 💖

for the fanfic writer asks

:🤡🛒✨️🦅⏳️🤭🤲

Have a lovely day!

mari i need you to understand that sending me 100000 emojis doesnt get me to answer faster in fact it makes me TOO happy and then i have to stare at it forever and now you have to wait :(( [i wrote that nine hours ago, i swore i'd finish the spreadsheet first then answer but here we are 💀) oh well… here is my labor of yapping about myself for Many Paragraphs!

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

mmmmm this is difficult. i have a terrible judgement for humor and i only ever remember the emotional parts of my fics so let me think. if i have to pick from recently it'd probably be something from one demon's peril but now that i think about it, one big one that sticks out to me is this old ass fic from whumptober. it feels very first drafy to me (much potential but in need of much polishing). reread to grab the things i love the most and i have thirteen but im narrowing it down to three. here (context: crowley has been locked and tortured in a dungeon for like two months and its 537 ad. aziraphale came to rescue him. he's having a Time)

Crowley takes a look at the blown up door, which displayed the hall very graphically. From his vantage point, he can spot three bodies of silver peeking from under various fallen rocks and smoldered torches. They mustn't've had a chance to realize. "Y' kill'd 'em?" "What? No!” This sobers Aziraphale right up from his near tearful confession. “No, no, it was just a product of their own actions! I didn’t make them stand under the ceiling when it caved in. Nor did I put them in any of their comrades’ sword lengths, or make any torches fall on them, because it was all the walls! Damn rickety infrastructure. It doesn’t count, Crowley. Technically. Therefore I feel no remorse. You know how Heaven is with those consequences. They’re not even all dead!”

--

"So..." Crowley drums the rusting cuffs on his wrists, which are currently hung over his head very tightly. He’s sat so he can face to his right, where another human is hung a few feet away. “What brings you here, fellow human?” The human remains silent. Their head rests lolled on their chest, neck twisted in an unnatural angle and skin molting off like grey badly-melted wax. Their clothes—which, maybe a few years ago, were a noble knight’s chainmail—have fallen off in between all the bits and bobs of the human skeleton. One of the eyes has rolled out and onto their lap. It is covered in a fine coat of dust. The hollow socket has a maggot crawling out. Crowley huffs, and turns away. “Touché.”

--

Crowley starts missing his shirt, for Satan’s sake. Things really were getting dire.

they're not the best but they're MINE. ily an angel who goes along with heaven (as far as he can) <3

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

mmmmmmmmmm so so so so much. ill start with words themselves. there's certain word structures i use and idk if people can tell but i use them a LOTTT because they work and i like them. here's a list of a couple of many

"[talking about a big topic]--well. [realization]"

"there are [#] reasons why this is happening"

"if [character] wasn't a coward/awkward..."

(pov character is feeling intense emotions) "there this, and there's this, and this, and this, and this and this and this--"

anddddd so much more. as for more symbolism things,,, i loveeeeee bookshop fire connections. i loveeeee experiencing grief as an immortal being who shouldn't theoretically have a concept of this emotion. i loveeeee argument scenes. i loveeeee using inner coflict as a drive to.make them grow closer in the end because despite meaning everything they said they can still work through it. i loveeeeee being Too Late to save the day despite theoreticslly doing everything right. i loveeee exploring heaven's hubris being the very thing that makes them flawed and ends in their downfall (assuming aziraphale isn't worth dealing with until its too late and/or its flawed system begging to be brought down organically/being too proud to consider amyone being intelligent enough to ousmart them/mirroring them as human society as large). i like the concept of heaven being flawed and the exact opposite of what i've been taught of it as a child okay im OKAY (no)

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

errrrr its very distinct. i read my work in a very specific caedance i can't do for any other work so i'm glad i've found that personal rhythem :)

🦅 - Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

ohhhh let me TELL YOUUUU. the process. step by step. please (short answer is yes, long answer is Complicated)

so i use Notion to organize my notes. its very useful, has a lot of features, etc. i have one page to be the hub for all my outlines (i'm on my phone in bed so bear with me)

this masterpage is where all the outlines go. they became so long i gave them their own pages. i shall be using the "fairytales" fic as an example of a typical outline...

we begin with an image of an.image of what the fic would theoretically look on ao3 s o i can remember shit quickly (as well as a short catchy summary under it). i covered most of it up but its there

then we get to the bg info. the details i thought of as the fic was first ever being written down plus some new sources i found to back uo the existence of it. i stay ORGANIZED. also there's atimeline if i need it (which is usualy only for historical fics because i need to keep track of multiple time periods).

then we FINALLY get to the nitty gritty. i put whatever notes i need for the overall tone of the fic on top, then separate chapters into togglable bullet points that can collapse on themselves with the working chapter titles. if possible, i divide them to acts to feel more accomplished. :) (✅️ means the chapter's completed) (chapter one had no outline, those usually dont).

THEN its divided even more inside the bullet points as u can see, headed by time period anf what scene it is. i then just start writing down stuff i want to happen as if i were telling a friend the story outloud. gives it a Real Feeling (talking about it as if it is real and already happened to some you know as gossip) to the story. sometimes its as incoherant as "crowkey is on a bus" to taking whole sections line for line in the firsrt draft because well when ur storytelling to ur friend u wanna be FUNNY so some natual gems do come out once in a blue moon..

also here's an example of jusy how shitty it can get

and then i turn it in an actual THING because im like this makes PERFECT sense surely i xan see it playing out in my mind (which I CAN!). very cool. a bit of a Process and kindaaa rigid, but it works for me!! :D

⌛️ - How long does it take you to write a fic, or a chapter?

the fastest i've ever done is turning 2k words of dogshit into 11k words(3 chapters) of Good Shit in 5 days. alas that was an outlier, because usually, it takes months for me to sit my ass down and write something new if i dont have an external deadline. i plan to try and fix that once my bangs are over, but for now, i'll stick to reading and bringing out 5k words ever six months :) (WATCH. THIS YEAR WILL BE MY YEARRRRR [hasnt posted anything before last week since january])

🤭 - Do you have a favorite tag to use when posting your works?

im getting so close to a mega long post so i wont elaborate but i will say mmmmmm ily "aziraphale&crowley thru the ages" "whump" "comedy" "graphic depictions of corpses" and "au - canon divergence" <3

🤲 - Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

FAIRYTALE WIP BECAUSE IVE BEEN MENTIONING JT A LOT (i need to SLEEP GOOD NIGHT EBERYONE AND THANKS MARI FOR THE WONDERFUL ASK!!!)

Aziraphale is gone for ten minutes when Crowley plays that last sentence back in his head. He hadn’t really been thinking about it before, not when the rush of victory had been prevalent and he’d been sitting there staring out the window like a lovestruck idiot, but now that he’s had to sit with it, Crowley finds something very wrong with that last comment. Amber. Crowley knows colors. Knowing colors is a part of his job. ‘Amber’ implies a yellow-ish hue, which would be fine in a context like complimenting the walls or noting the center of a baby’s breath bud—but as far as the florist knew, his eyes were meant to be brown. Crowley jumps out of his chair the same moment Eric deems it alright to re-enter the shop. Whatever overly-grovelish apologies he’s spewing are inaudible to Crowley as he comes up with the brilliant idea of using the window glass as a mirror. He leans in, cursing himself for removing his sunglasses to get that better view because of course he needed perfection, anything but would be outright unthinkable, and— —he’s met with unmistakable yellow bleeding on the edges of his eyes.

BEDTIME NOWW

[whispsofwind]

You know, I was thinking about Crowley (I know, big shock), and a few exchanges I had about one line specifically.

From the book:

He’d been an angel once. He hadn’t meant to Fall. He’d just hung around with the wrong people.

And from the TV show script book:

I didn’t fall. I didn’t mean to fall. I just hung around the wrong people.

(If I remember correctly, that first "I didn't fall" didn't make it into the show, but it's still echoed in the "I didn't fall, I just sauntered vaguely downwards" dialogue. So the sentiment is there).

On one hand, it's interesting to see the contrast between the book (he'd been an angel once) and the script (I didn't fall).

But what I want to concentrate on is the "I just hung around the wrong people" part, which stays identical.

Because I've seen the argument that we shouldn't take it at face value. The idea there is that Crowley is telling himself he just hung around the wrong people in order to comfort himself. With that sentence, he would be absolving himself of any wrongdoing, and putting a moral wall between himself and the rest of Hell, where he paints himself as better than they are.

The idea here, I think, would be that he's reframing himself as an innocent bystander as a way to cope with the trauma of falling, while in reality he wasn't an innocent bystander at all. It's basically a pretty white lie he's telling himself.

However, I feel pretty confident in taking that sentence at face value, and not just because of my personal headcanons. I think there's a strong argument for Crowley to have been an innocent bystander in the Fall, exactly like he says he was.

My reason for this is the way the TV script reframes the Fall as a workers' revolution kind of deal:

I was just minding my own business one day and then, looky here, it’s Lucifer and the guys, they say, hey, Crowley, my man, we’re just on our way to discuss the whole job conditions and career advancement thing, so, okay, the food hadn’t been that good lately, I’d got nothing on for the rest of that afternoon, next thing I know I’m doing a million-light-year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulphur.

The other reason why I feel pretty confident in taking these affirmations at face value is this book section (I apologise if it's a bit long but I need it to make my point);

Aziraphale had tried to explain it to him once. The whole point, he’d said—this was somewhere around 1020, when they’d first reached their little Arrangement—the whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. Whereas people like Crowley and, of course, himself, were set in their ways right from the start. People couldn’t become truly holy, he said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked.

Crowley had thought about this for some time and, around about 1023, had said, Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, okay? You can’t start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle.

Ah, Aziraphale had said, that’s the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have.

Crowley had said, That’s lunatic.

No, said Aziraphale, it’s ineffable.

Now this is an obviously fascinating bit and a meta analysis gold mine in terms of how free will works, the nature of angels and demons, and how Heaven's machine works (hey fun fact faith in the Church has historically been at its highest when things really, really sucked).

But the important bit I need is the bolded one. Crowley as a character believes that people should be treated equally and fairly. He believes it's not fair to judge people's actions and choices, and the morality thereof, without considering the circumstances they came from. He particularly believes that expecting people to be better, morally, by keeping them miserable is, in his own words, "lunatic".

So there it is, I think. What I get from this passage is that Crowley believes that class/economical differences play a part in making the world in general, and Heaven's system of judgement in particular, unfair.

So if we assume- and I think it's a fair assumption- that he held these ideas before the Fall, then it makes total sense that he would be attracted to the idea of a Revolution.

Heaven is a theocracy with a pretty rigid class system. If Crowley was, as I believe, middle-to-low in the angelic hierarchy, and Lucifer came to promise rights and "job conditions and career advancements", you can see how everything lines up quite nicely, I think. Especially because the Fall happened presumably towards the end of Creation, when angels like Crowley (involved in building the universe) were kind of about to lose their jobs. And with their jobs, their only purpose in life, because what's an angel's purpose if not their job?

Basically, what I am trying to say is, I 100% think that Crowley isn't lying to himself when he says he "just hung around the wrong people". He isn't comforting himself or making excuses for past sins, he's telling exactly what happened: he was looking for a more equal Heaven, and instead he got dragged into a War by a power hungry (or possibly just mistaken?) leader.

Basically, this whole thing is a giant "Crowley did nothing wrong and I stand by that" meme.

From this point onward, I actually think you could go into pretty interesting commentary re: the Cold War allegory, capitalism vs communism, the history of the URSS, and the fact that Crowley's philosophy when performing his job is basically the Industrial Revolution of temptations. I don't feel qualified enough for all that meaty stuff, so I'll stop here. Have fun tearing my reasoning apart (but please be nice about it, I am emotionally fragile and I just love GO very much).

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Ok now I can’t stop thinking about Good Omens and The Old Guard taking place in the same universe. Both sets of immortals canonically hung around some of the same places and events at the same times, and over a long enough time scale I think they’d have to notice each other.

- I think Aziraphale and Nicky meet first, maybe on the way to the Holy Land, maybe in Jerusalem. The Crusades seem like the kind of self-righteous project GO Heaven would 100% be on board with and Aziraphale would absolutely fucking hate, but he does what he’s told. Maybe he notices there is something...different...about this particular holy warrior, but he doesn’t want to interfere. Maybe they meet after Nicky’s already discovered he’s immortal.

- Neither of them wants to reveal what they are but maybe Aziraphale sees something that Nicky doesn’t want anyone to see, Nicky panics and tries to kill him, that doesn’t go well obviously, and then they have to sit down and have a chat.

- Honestly when you’ve had multiple core components of your worldview completely upended all at once, meeting a literal fucking angel is not even that weird. Sure why not.

- The fact that this angel knows all the best schwarma spots and seems surprisingly enthusiastic about your newfound gay love is somehow the weirdest bit.

- Tbh I don’t think either Nicky or Joe would find "hi I’m an angel” that much of a challenge to their worldview. Nicky was a priest and there are angels in the Quran and honestly their lives are weird enough at this point so they just roll with it.

- When Aziraphale invites them to have dinner with him and his friend who is also definitely not human it has some weird double date vibes but there’s not really a polite way to inquire further about that.

- As they get to know each other better, Nicky and Aziraphale start having long conversations about what it means to be a soldier of God and how do you know that your side is really the good side and various intricacies of theology and metaphysics and ethics. Aziraphale tells himself he is giving comfort and wise counsel to a questioning human but these conversations always leave him deeply unsettled.

- Whenever Aziraphale crosses paths with Nicky and Joe, who seem to just fall more ridiculously in love as the decades pass, the two humans leave with a quiet angelic blessing for peace and safety wrapped around them. He knows they are quite capable of taking care of themselves. But still.

- Eventually Andy meets the two of them. She doesn’t really believe they’re an angel and a demon in the Abrahamic sense, but they’re clearly some kind of powerful immortal beings and they’re surprisingly chill about her lack of commitment to monotheism. And hey, she let people call her a god so if they want to call themselves an angel and a demon, whatever. And, loath as she is to admit it, she sort of gets on with Crowley. He’s angry and cynical and weary in a way she understands, and yet somehow maintains a spark of hope in humanity in a way that she would never admit she envies sometimes. He’s also the only being she’s ever met who can drink her under the table. So. Respect on that front.

- And at the end of the day there are only so many people you can talk to about the mundane problems of immortality, and everyone else is sick of hearing her complaints about how nobody makes That Thing from 5th century Beijing anymore.

- So she doesn’t exactly seek them out, but if they happen to cross paths (and the two of them seem to be together an awful lot more than you’d think an alleged angel and demon would go in for) she can be convinced to have a drink or seventeen with them.

- And she has to admit that not-angel has an uncanny ability to procure rare first editions when she happens to be looking for them.

- A number of people over the years have noticed that the dusty antiquarian bookshop on a particular corner in Soho looks like it hasn’t changed since the early 19th century. A much smaller number of people are around long enough to notice that the owner also looks likes like that.

- Nicky and Joe are the ones most likely to stop by when the team is in London, and Aziraphale always greets them with a smile like the sun and the culturally appropriate number of cheek kisses, and he can chatter away all day in 12th century Genoese or Maghrebi Arabic with a smattering of Jerusalem dialect, and he’s the only person they’ve ever met who can follow the meandering combination of the two they use with each other.

- Sometimes Crowley is there when they visit, sometimes not. On the most recent visit, not only is he there but he and Aziraphale are sitting next to each other, their knees comfortably brushing and Crowley leaning into Aziraphale’s arm on the back of the couch, and the two humans think fucking FINALLY.

- Andy visits the shop a lot less frequently. But they all remember the time someone mentioned lost dessert recipes and Andy and Aziraphale went off on a joint multi-millennial baklava reminisce that lasted until four in the morning.

[commander-diomika]

Fear and Faith

WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT MY FIRST FIC IN FIVE (???) YEARS! Fandom: Good Omens Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~6000 Additional Tags: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Trans Male Character, Trans Crowley, Spanking, Restraints, Service Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley, Established Relationship, Pining .

(YES it’s true, they’re established, yes they’re banging, but also somehow still pining at the same time! Read on to find out how I managed that mess.) Summary: Aziraphale gives Crowley a little payback for his outburst at the convent. This is a “deleted scene” fic where we pretend that Aziraphale doesn’t spot the book in the backseat, and instead they flow nicely from business to pleasure that evening. "Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another.

They played a different game in private. Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do." Read on Ao3

Or

“Not one single person would say bebop.” Crowley draped himself over the Bentley in what he thought of as an enticing manner. He dangled the topic change like bait.

Aziraphale took it, though in an unexpected direction. “I don’t think that’s really what we ought to be discussing, you know.” Crowley’s eyebrows arched up over the frames of his glasses as Aziraphale came round the car, heading for the door to the bookshop and opening it. With a tiny motion of his head he indicated after you. “Do come in.” There was flat fall at the end of the cadence, almost like an order.

“What ought we be discussing then?” Crowley asked, heading inside, hearing the order and unable to resist biting back. “We can’t contact anyone til the morning, angel, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do about it tonight.”

“No, I completely agree on that front.” They both automatically headed to the back room, treading a well-worn path with both their feet and their words. Crowley took off his jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, before finding a perch on the edge of the couch. There was something expectant in his posture, as though he wasn’t planning on getting comfortable there.

“I think what we ought to be discussing,” Aziraphale said as he hung up his jacket, smoothing creases out of it, “is your little… outburst at the convent today.” He turned and fixed Crowley with a pointed stare.

“Oh,” Crowley said, and despite his lanky frame, he suddenly looked a little smaller under the heat of Aziraphale’s stare. He was in trouble… which meant things were going exactly to plan. He felt a smug throb of self satisfaction.

It was not that angels and demons didn’t have genitalia, as such. It was more than, unless they were thinking of it, the bodies beneath the clothes simply didn’t exist. In the same way that their wings waited, just off this plane, so too did anything not immediately needed to give the appearance of a human. The clothes were the body, for Crowley, willed into existence so that other beings could perceive him.

So until a stimuli brought what was under the clothes into this reality, it usually didn’t exist.

Usually.

That day, Crowley had been painfully, achingly aware of the juncture between his thighs, and the way Aziraphale now looked at him with a dangerous, thrilling intent only intensified that feeling. Perhaps the looming end of the world was playing its part in the heat that Crowley felt dripping from his heart, to stomach, to crotch.

“You seemed so upset for me to have called you nice, my dear boy, and the way you behaved was simply atrocious.”

“Yeah?” Crowley asked, tilting his head back to reveal the line of his throat, almost daring his angel to go for it.

Aziraphale still hadn’t sat down, and he took a single step closer to the couch, chin drawn slightly down, gaze dark and indulging. He understood perfectly what Crowley was playing at.

“Stand up,” he said, breath popping slightly on the end of the word. This had not so much the air of a command as the earth, fire and water of one.

A taut moment passed, where Crowley deliberated. He could continue being generally insufferable, or he could lean into the energy building in the room, and obey the command given by his oldest friend.

Crowley decided he’d been bratty enough for one day. He swallowed. Unfolding a seemingly endless amount of leg from his perch on the couch, he stood.

“Forward a few steps, there’s a dear,” and Aziraphale’s voice never lost that buttery sweet quality, even though Crowley could hear the knife’s edge of desire underneath.

Aziraphale, unlike Crowley, had brought his body, and the ability to feel sexual desire, fully into this reality centuries ago. It had happened in Rome, when he had sat across from Crowley and watched him eat oysters for the first time. Since then, he had inhabited his earthly body to the fullest, draping it with cloth the same way as humans did, hiding his sexuality as Adam and Eve had once learnt to do.

Crowley’s heeled boots gave a series of dull clicks on the wooden floor of the shop, and he stood for Aziraphale’s inspection. He had the air of a naughty schoolboy awaiting a telling off, one hand in a pocket, the other hanging loosely, weight on one foot and hip slightly popped. He licked his lips with a tongue that was looking slightly more split than usual.

Aziraphale took deliberate steps forward, and asking permission with his eyes, reached for Crowley’s glasses. He folded them with care and placed them aside. He might as well have stripped Crowley naked. Well, plenty of time for that later.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. The posture was still full of attitude but the eyes… the eyes told a different story. This was the beginning of a change in mood, stepping from one role to another. They played a different game in private.

Aziraphale liked it that way. He liked people thinking he was a perfect gentleman, liked being on the arm of his tall demon in public. It was only Crowley who he allowed to see the bastard in him. Probably because it was Crowley who encouraged the bastard in him, through near-constant needling and teasing. It was, after all, something only a friend and lover of thousands of years could do.

Aziraphale nodded, a wordless acknowledgement of the shift in the air. He began a scrutinizing walk around Crowley, a mockery of the what the demon usually subjected him to in public

“Yes. Very… nice.” Now Aziraphale was the one dangling bait. Crowley made a noise like he’d be punched but didn’t move an inch.

“What, no protestations? No manhandling me against a wall in a most undignified fashion?” Aziraphale teased. Crowley shook his head. “It’s almost like you were trying to get a rise out of me in the convent today.” Aziraphale watched, delighted, fascinated, as Crowley ducked his head, mouth twitching one way and then the other, as though the sly smile was trying to fight its way to the surface.

“You truly are an awful man, aren’t you, accosting me in public when you know I’m far too nice to do anything in retribution.” He wasn’t too nice by half, but he did have an image to upkeep.

Crowley glared down his nose at Aziraphale. “Pfft, don’t you try that with me, angel.” Aziraphale simply stared back with mild reproach, then continued to pace around him slowly.

“What have we here?” Aziraphale said, as he reached the empty space behind Crowley. Though he had his back to him, Crowley could still see Aziraphale, every atom of the angel clear and singing in Crowley’s perception of the world, as it always was.

Aziraphale pressed in, front suddenly flush to Crowley’s back, threading his arms around Crowley’s waist in a possessive gesture. The sudden physical contact was agonisingly intimate. Outside of moments like this, they rarely touched. Crowley’s little stunt at the convent had flouted an unspoken part of the Agreement.

They lived with the fear of being watched from all sides. But the shop was specially warded against such prying eyes. Customers and angels alike could enter the open shop, but once that sign flicked to “Closed”, they were safe. Safe to close that gap, for Aziraphale to hug Crowley to his chest, to turn his cheek and press his face into one lean shoulder.

One hand slid up to curl into the satin of Crowley’s shirt over where his human heart sat, brought into this reality by his aching need to feel the pulse of his own blood.

Aziraphale’s blunt nails scraped Crowley’s chest through the deliciously thin black satin shirt. The other hand moved in a firm slide from Crowley’s navel and down, stuttering slightly over the belt buckle on the too-tight jeans and stopping over Crowley’s fly. Where one might expect to find a bulge.

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s single syllable was all feigned surprise and dark delight. “My dear boy,” he began, emphasizing by sliding the hand a little lower, to dip into the vee of Crowley’s thighs. “Does this mean you’re in the mood to be had?”

Crowley made a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between a gulp and grunt, that if it had to be given form sounded like “Urnghk.” To Aziraphale’s ears, well-practised in translating such noises, it sounded like a cavalcade of words, like yes and please and fuck me, Angel.

“Take off your boots, please.” Aziraphale said as he let go.

Crowley obeyed. This was part of it, the orders, the undressing, the vulnerability of standing in front of his angel, eyes bare and feet resting on the warm wooden floor. “And your shirt and trousers, too.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks redden at this request, but his gaze remained steady.

Crowley raised one hand to click away the offending items of clothing, a hurried, twitchy energy burning off him, but before he could complete the action Aziraphale caught the hand, firmly.

“The old fashioned way, if you please.”

“Oh come on,” Later, Crowley would deny that this was, undeniably, whiny.

“Plenty of time for that later,” Aziraphale was warming up to it now, something wicked in his eyes. “You know I like to watch this part.”

Crowley, denied instant gratification, undressed speedily, clothes flung in all directions.

Aziraphale folded his hands, perfectly composed as he watched Crowley’s little display, expression indulgent as a sock hit him square in the face. With a gesture from Aziraphale, all the scattered clothes, the black shirt, the inside-out jeans, socks and tie appeared draped over the back of the couch. Something in their folds seemed apologetic for the mess.

“So you’re allowed to do that and I’m not, is that it?” Crowley challenged, bold despite the fact he was wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. His belligerent tone was betrayed by his naked eyes. His longing was clear in the warm lighting of the bookshop.

Seemingly without taking a single step, suddenly Aziraphale was standing very close to Crowley, almost nose to nose. The small height difference between them was eaten up by the fact that the demon was barefoot, semi naked, and Aziraphale was still dressed, standing tall in his soft leather boots. “That, my dear, is exactly it.” They stared at each other, breath mingling for half a second.

Aziraphale took half a step back and his face softened, something so tender writ clear in the lines between his eyes. “Before we go any further, do you remember the safe word?” he asked.

“It has been awhile, hasn’t it.” Crowley murmured. It had been almost five years. Crowley remembered every second of their last tryst, back when he was still fond of playing the role of Nanny Ashtoreth, even in her off hours. He had worn her, but she wasn’t a costume. The only thing Aziraphale had said on Crowley’s presentation was an uncharacteristic enjoyment of the easy access allowed by skirts with no panties.

Time had a way of slipping by when you were 6000 years old.

“Crowley.” There was a soft reprimand in the way he said it. A pleading, a need for them both to be safe

Crowley sighed, acquiescing. There was nothing in the world he wanted more than for Aziraphale to feel safe. “Eden.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply, simply reaching out to run his hand gently through Crowley’s hair, letting his hand come to rest on the back of his neck. The skin there felt cool to touch, and unbearably soft. The provocative energy the demon had been radiating moments ago shifted to something slow and fervent. He blinked, eyes closed for a whole second as if rocked by the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Now, my dear, what is it that you want?”

The question was asked so that Aziraphale could be certain he did not misstep, but he already knew what Crowley wanted. He just liked to hear him say it.

“Want you topunifhshd.” Crowley trailed off to something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked cheerfully.

“Want you to punish me.” Crowley’s eyes were anywhere but on the angel’s face.

“Why?” Aziraphale lifted a hand, and with a firmness belied by his soft fingers, caught Crowley’s chin. With gentle but inexorable pressure, he turned Crowley’s head until their eyes met.

“Because I’m bad,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Now… we both know that’s not true.” Aziraphale released his grip to slide his hands firmly down Crowley’s arms, and without thinking about it too much, took both of Crowley’s hands in his. “But I will give you want you want, because I am the giving sort.” And because I love you, he thought. It was yet unsaid between them. One didn’t simply go around saying these things to their hereditary enemy. Besides, Aziraphale thought, as he drew Crowley over to the leather ottoman at the foot of the couch… surely he already knew.

“Kneel, please.”

Crowley knelt, quiet and obedient for the moment. Aziraphale knew it wouldn’t last.

Aziraphale settled on the couch as Crowley draped himself over the lavish footstool, acquired sometime around 1855 for this exact purpose. A plush rug, previously elsewhere in the shop, had understood where it was needed without being asked and appeared beneath their feet, giving Crowley’s knees some protection against the wooden floor.

As Crowley settled, he turned his head to face the other way, but Aziraphale had other ideas. With a tug at the hair on the nape of Crowley’s neck, he guided the demon to turn and face Aziraphale. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled the legs of Crowley’s briefs up a little, bunching fabric into the demon’s crotch and revealing the sweet spots of curved buttocks.

Crowley shifted, wiggling a little at the sudden pressure of fabric against his cunt. “You really are a bastard, you know,” he said, half-mumbled into the leather of the ottoman.

“What was that?” Aziraphale asked innocently. “Didn’t hear you, my dear.”

“I said, you’re a basta-AHrd!” He yelped into the latter half of the word as Aziraphale planted a firm smack on Crowley’s behind.

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale admitted, a little breathlessly. “I suppose I am.”

One hand resting firmly in the dip of Crowley’s lower back, Aziraphale set about spanking him with the other, relaxed and rhythmic. Crowley turned his head to press his damp forehead directly into the firm leather, breathing deeply. He relished each impact, stinging at first then settling into something deeper. A beautiful, slow-growing ache.

Aziraphale savoured it. Each muttered pant, each slight whine, he responded. They barely needed words after all this time, but they still used them, because what was the point of having these amusing human forms if not to wring every possible pleasure out of them?

“You look so perfect, my dear,” he murmured, massaging warm buttocks in his hands. Crowley whined and pressed his head against the leather, each sound saying need and want as clearly as if he were shouting it.

“Not nice,” was all he managed to choke out, arching his back up, begging for the blows to continue. He felt sweaty, and annoyed, and deeply in love.

Aziraphale smiled fondly, and resumed.

Angels and demons don’t get tired. They don’t get interrupted by hunger or full bladders or cramped knees, so when they are properly engaged, they can sink into that activity. Time becomes secondary.

Their bodies might not get tired, or interrupted with mere mortal concerns, but they can bruise, especially when their human bodies feel so present and raw. They can feel red welts begin to raise on sensitive skin, or they can see and marvel at the slow rise of blood, deep mottled purple under fair skin.

Aziraphale was murmuring steady praise now, my beautiful demon, my dear, you horrible, wonderful creature. He felt warm from exertion, so lost in the flow that he barely noticed his own arousal, his erection pressed into his trousers. He paused to run gentle hands up Crowley’s spine (which was still blessedly cool to the touch), and was overcome with his own desire.

“My dear,” He spoke more clearly, breaking the spell.

Crowley acknowledged with a wordless mewl, sounding dazed and a little pissed off.

“Would you mind if we took these off?” Aziraphale tapped a finger on the waistband of the black briefs. Crowley gave another muffled grunt and turned to stare up at Aziraphale. His eyes were glassy, the dusky yellow leaking outwards, pupils huge and dark.

Sudden worry seized Aziraphale. Perhaps he’d gone too far. “What is the safe word?”

No reply but for a long, slow groan, and more alarmingly, Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as though to hide from Aziraphale’s concerned gaze.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale spoke sternly.

As if dragged up from a great depth, he opened his eyes and finally replied. “Eden. C’mon angel, I can handle it.”

“Be that as it may, I asked you a question.”

Crowley lifted his head slightly and stared, surprised. He looked flushed, not dissimilar to how he would look after an evening of wine and whiskey. “Eh?”

“Your pants.” Aziraphale repeated, shifting. His worry assuaged, the distraction of taking care of Crowley briefly paused, he shifted part of his awareness back to how hard he was. “May I take them off?”

Crowley gave a lopsided grin, showing all his teeth. If they looked a little more pointed than they might in public, it was not a worry. If his eyes were blown fully wide, now golden right into the corners, it meant only that he felt safe. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Is that a yes?” Aziraphale knew the answer, knew the dance well enough by now, but he still had moments like this, where he felt uncertain that it was right to take what Crowley so wantonly gave.

“Yes angel, please, you can do whatever you want with me right now.”

Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his throat. It was right, and it was hot, and it was sacred. His friend and lover knelt at his feet and offered himself up, this time the same as ever and somehow different.

Aziraphale found his way to the floor, kneeling to one side, running hands delicately down Crowley’s flanks, curling his fingers beneath the waistband and tugging them down over narrow hips. Aziraphale’s hands felt sensitive and tender; even the soft fabric sang against his skin. He deliberately dragged the bunched briefs across the raw flesh of Crowley’s behind, his mouth twitching with the edge of a wicked smile as Crowley gave a soft yelp.

It was awkward to pull the underwear down thighs, helping his demon lift one knee then the other to remove them completely. Ungraceful, but Crowley’s body was so painfully real now, brought so fully into this world by desire and impact. In this moment, to miracle clothes away would have felt sinful.

Crowley settled his naked form heavily back onto the ottoman, sighing. In the soft light of the bookshop, Aziraphale admired the lines and angles of the demon, the hollow dip of his spine leading tantalisingly down to tenderised buttocks, to the wet slit between. The sun would yet rise on one of the last days on this blessed earth, and they would have to deal with what that meant in the light of that penultimate sunrise, but for now, there was this. There was them.

Aziraphale started on his own buttons; Crowley in this state would wait for a time, the impatience literally spanked out of him. So Aziraphale savoured the undressing like he savoured everything, wanting this moment to last forever. It felt like it would, and that time would continue the way it always had. If not for the unpleasant knowledge, looming in the distance, that the clock was ticking for all of them.

Aziraphale swallowed, brushing away the tickle in the back of his mind that this may well be the last time. They would find a way through this. They would.

He let his movements be slow and considered, pausing between each item of clothing to run warm hands over Crowley reverently, across shoulders, down his neck, fanning out over angled shoulder blades to the places where Aziraphale could feel the wings sprouting into the plane just next to them, unreal but ever-present.

Once he was naked, he carefully moved Crowley’s ankles apart, kneeling between them but keeping a polite distance. Massaging the tender, bruise-flecked skin of Crowley’s backside with one hand, he touched himself properly for the first time that evening, relishing the feeling of the hot skin of his cock on a tenderised palm. “My dear, you are beautiful.” Aziraphale sighed, taking a hold of himself and stroking.

Crowley’s response was to exhale through his teeth argumentatively. The rippling arc of his back muscles and slight press back of his hips, cunt needily pressing toward Aziraphale, spoke his true feelings.

Aziraphale smiled with that same fondness. He let his massaging hand stray, thumb slipping between wet lips. “Was this what you wanted, dearest?”

Crowley’s response could only be described as a hiss

Flipping his hand to let four fingers dip between Crowley’s legs, cupping his whole sex, Aziraphale let the full length of his thumb slip inside.

Crowley keened, jamming his hips back hard. If there was a flash of dark wings, spread wide to fill the room, or a ripple of scales down his back, no human eyes could have perceived it.

Aziraphale felt winded for a moment, to feel the wet heat on his hand, to feel the way Crowley consumed the single digit and pressed back for more, looking so perfect, divinely his. Normally never an issue, he felt lost for words and uttered a simple, breathless, “Oh.”

But as much as he enjoyed giving Crowley what he wanted, somehow a little denial first made it all the sweeter. Aziraphale squeezed his hand gently, momentarily, pressing down into the sweet spot and rubbing teasing fingers across Crowley’s clit, before drawing the hand back.

“Oh no you bloody don’t-” Crowley lifted one hand from its resting place on the floor and planted it on the ottoman, lifting and twisting his body as if to reach back, movements desperate and unrefined.

Before he could achieve anything with this quick movement, Aziraphale responded. He surged forward and flattened Crowley back down against the leather, strong enough to knock the wind out of the demon. The same amount of measured force Crowley had used to slam Aziraphale into the wall that very afternoon.

There was a puff and a wheezing sound as the air in the cushioned footstool was pressed out. There was also a slight puff and wheezing sound from Crowley, but he was undoubtedly playing it up for dramatic effect.

Aziraphale knew exactly what Crowley could take. Knew exactly what Crowley would like. And he liked this very much, to be flattened down by Aziraphale’s solid weight, squashed from thighs to neck against the sticky leather. This was the closest they’d been physically in years, and Aziraphale felt all the tension and attitude melt away from the body beneath him.

“Now then,” Aziraphale panted into an ear. “I can’t have you writhing around like that, Crowley. Wouldn’t be proper.”

There was a breath, and two anchor points came into existence. Without taking his weight off Crowley, Aziraphale slid sure hands down Crowley’s arms and guided each wrist to the loops, cream silk ties appearing then binding wrists to the side of the footstool. Crowley was safely secured in this position, kneeling with his arms wrapped and bound to each side of the ottoman. Aziraphale straightened up.

“You absolute cocktease. Give me that right now or I’ll call the whole thing off.” The epithet, despite not being applicable right this very second, still made sense. Crowley did have a cock sometimes, after all. Aziraphale made him beg for it even then.

“Safe word?”

“EDEN!” he yelled, hammering hands on the side of the footstool with as much momentum as the slack would allow him

“Are you using it?”

“No! You- arrghbfr.”

“So, what you’re saying,” Aziraphale leant forward and laid the line of his chest against Crowley’s back again, cock pressed between his stomach and the crack of Crowley’s buttocks, “is that you like me teasing you.”

“For sata- for FUCK sake I- you,” Crowley started about three different sentences before giving up, though he still wiggled between the angel’s weight and the ottoman.

“Say it,” Aziraphale said. He felt dizzy with it, the joy of feeling Crowley’s skin pressed so close to him, their bodies salt-sticky and warm.

“You’re a TEASE.”

“No, say that you like it!” Aziraphale was lost in it now, “Say you like me teasing you.” He wound a hand into Crowley’s hair, pressing him with just enough firmness down into the cushioned leather.

Crowley resisted upwards into the grip. If he wanted to be free, he could be back in his own apartment in the blink of an eye. Or maybe… he couldn’t. They had never tested their powers against each other in this realm. They had never needed nor wanted to. There was a thought, momentary but bright, that maybe Crowley actually couldn’t escape. And that if he tried, he would find himself blocked not just by the heavy body across his back but by the full might of Aziraphale’s heavenly power. Such a concept sent a wave of arousal coursing through him. He was hot, achingly wet, and he couldn’t even rub his thighs together, so firm was he being held, neck down to his knees against the ottoman.

One moment passed in which Crowley pushed his body back up against Aziraphale, but with no way to gain purchase or momentum, he collapsed down in submission.

“Angel… I love you teasing me.”

“Good boy,” he murmured in Crowley’s ear, before moving his hips back just enough for the head of his cock, wet with precum, to skim deliciously first against Crowley’s asshole then finding its way to the entrance of his slick cunt, sliding in to the hilt in one fluid motion.

Aziraphale sighed, and without moving, pressed a kiss to the back of Crowley’s neck.

Crowley froze at the tender gesture. His breath, which had felt so present up until that moment, disappeared completely. The love he felt, unspoken and bright, seemed to replace the air in his lungs. If he didn’t say something right now the next words out of his mouth were going to be I love you. And that simply wouldn’t do.

“Angel, if you don’t start fucking, I’m going to discorporate,” he said instead. “I’m serious.”

The only response was a low chuckle. Without taking his weight from Crowley’s back, Aziraphale ground his hips down, eliciting a wet choke from Crowley. “Like that?”

“Sure, if that’s the best you’ve g-“ Crowley stopped at the sensation of another sensual grind, Aziraphale making sure that as much of his fleshy hips were pressed into where Crowley’s skin was most tender. The witty riposte died in his mouth, and he moaned instead, breath returned but that same dazzling feeling in his chest. If not now, when?

The issue of the end of the world and when would be the right time dissipated as Aziraphale straightened back up, to curl assured hands into Crowley’s hips, and start moving.

The pace he set was steady, eyes shut and lips parted. It was Crowley who forced the pace, rutting back. The enthusiasm with which he rocked back, wordlessly begging for more, harder, would have been strong enough to drag the footstool along the floor. But Aziraphale wanted it to remain immovable… so it stayed put like a good footstool would.

Crowley was desperate, little grunts of exertion escaping his lips as he pulled back on his bonds, trying to drive Aziraphale deeper. It was rough and urgent but he felt undeniably gleeful. If Aziraphale just gave him what he wanted, if he didn’t have to wrestle for it, it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.

Aziraphale was in control. Until he wasn’t.

Without being conscious of the moment he lost the tease, he started to meet Crowley’s needs. He plunged forward as Crowley pushed back, meeting in the middle with a growing urgency. To give Crowley what he wanted was the agreement, after all. When Crowley’s frantic motions slowed just enough to declare his satisfaction with the pace, Aziraphale leant forward to grip Crowley’s shoulder. His hand wrapped all the way round, fingertips brushing a clavicle, pulling Crowley back into each thrust, to give him more.

This was what it was, for an unknowable amount of time. When the moment was right, as was his decision to make, Aziraphale slowed, then paused, untying and guiding a sweaty, mussed demon to the couch. Aziraphale knelt between Crowley’s legs. They looked at each other for what felt like the first time in a long time. Sweat and exertion had ruined Crowley’s careful quiff. Aziraphale brushed a strand off his forehead.

“My dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was rough and low. “you look divine.”

Crowley gave a manic half-laugh, half-sob. Without Aziraphale’s cock to distract him, the fear that this was ending, that everything was ending, was about to overwhelm him. He took a shuddering breath to steady himself and came back to the moment. “More?”

Aziraphale huffed out a disbelieving laugh, and without speaking leaned forward and kissed him.

This was divine, thought Crowley, as he turned his face up into the kiss, not allowing Aziraphale to take his mouth away once it was given. Aziraphale navigated by feel and experience to slip his cock into Crowley again.

The energy had shifted. Crowley had taken his punishment, and now it was simply time for mutual reward. Aziraphale could have continued to tease and deny, but he didn’t even break the kiss as Crowley snaked a hand between their bodies to touch himself.

Aziraphale fucked Crowley steadily, body an anchor for Crowley to writhe and squirm against. The angel kept his body forward, letting his weight rest, firm but gentle, on Crowley’s chest.

Aziraphale buried his head in Crowley’s neck, and automatically long legs and arms came up to wrap around and pull Azirphale close, both panting with each stroke.

This is what Crowley had wanted all day, had been begging for it. The need had been spoken by twitchy energy and a violent shove and Aziraphale had heard it, had read Crowley like he always did and given it to him. Gave him everything he wanted, except for the words I love you.

For some reason, the sex and the games they played felt safe in a way the words didn’t. Both still held a fear in their otherworldly hearts. The fear that perhaps those words, like a prayer, would be heard above and below, and that the power in them would shatter the wards they had built to keep this space safe. Fucking and love weren’t the same thing after all; it has been clear for hundreds of years now, that this particular activity was no more visible or condemnable than all the eating, drinking, and doing each other’s damned or blessed chores had been.

Aziraphale paused and took a deep breath. They could truly stay in this rhythm forever, but all things had to have an end, didn’t they? Wasn’t that divine will?

Cupping one hand behind Crowley’s neck and winding the other around his waist, Aziraphale lifted and drew Crowley’s body forward on the couch, moving him so his hips practically hung off the edge. All this Aziraphale without separating their connection. This position curled Crowley’s head into the back of the couch, but he was a bendy creature, and quite pliable in his current state.

“Crowley, my dear?”

“Mmrf?”

“Would you like to come for me?” Technically, it should have been impossible for a demon to look so wrecked, but Crowley was unique in that. His only response to the question was to bring his hand back to his clit and let his eyes flutter shut. He ran fingers up and down his wet slit, dipping down to explore around the shaft of Aziraphale’s cock where it entered him, thick and full, stilled for the moment.

This time, Crowley’s wordless response was enough of an answer for Aziraphale. With Crowley more forward on the couch, Aziraphale was able to bring Crowley’s legs up. Delightfully flexible was his demon. From this position he could stroke into Crowley with the full length of his member, deeply, thoroughly. Aziraphale lost himself in giving, enraptured as he watched Crowley circle his fingers over his clit, eyes half closed, incoherent with it all. Together they brought him to an orgasm.

The sound he made was choked back, as it always was, some part of him still scared that somehow, someone would overhear them. Some part of him needed to hold that shining love safe, and protect it. At least in that moment, he was blissfully free of the fear that the world that they so dearly loved, the world that gave them these moments of hedonism and pleasure, was about to end.

Aziraphale ground his hips in Crowley, as deep as he could go. Aziraphale was breathless, delighted as ever to be the one to reduce Crowley, debonair, quiffed and elegant Crowley, to such a state. Aziraphale shuddered as Crowley came around his cock, but the angel was not yet spent. Crowley was floppy, fuck-drunk, pliable and warm on the other side of his orgasm. Aziraphale slid his hands up long thighs to hold the backs of Crowley’s knees, knowing exactly how much weight he could lean there as he finally allowed himself to get lost in the sensations of Crowley’s warmth around him. In his own blissful moment after he came, Aziraphale couldn’t escape the thought that truly, this felt sacred. Perhaps the thought was profane, but he had learned long ago that even the Almighty could not see inside his mind. Or if she did, she did not disapprove.

As they untangled themselves, unfolding Crowley’s long body, the sweat and ejaculate simply disappeared, without thought or action from either of them. The pleasure they shared was indescribable, and it was the marvel of the sweaty, sticky human bodies that made it all possible. But why worry about a clean-up if you didn’t have to? A cosy blanket knew it was needed nearby, and the two of them settled on the couch and pulled the tartan fabric over them, Aziraphale tucking his back against the seatback, and drawing Crowley close to his chest.

Crowley had regained just enough of his faculties to start to feel something akin to nausea as he settled his back to Aziraphale’s chest, firm arms drawing him close. If not now, then when? If he didn’t speak the words that gave shape to the luminescent glow inside him now, would he get another chance?

He knew what Aziraphale would say if he asked something like that. Hold fast, my dear, we’ll sort it out, there won’t be a war, you worry too much, I have faith in the Almighty, pip pip

Crowley felt ill with fear even as he felt all the tension melt out of his body, warm in Aziraphale’s arms. Their bodies somehow fit so perfectly together. Almost as though they had made these forms for each other. He was afraid that perhaps, despite everything, he hadn’t gone fast enough, and that they were both about to run out of time. Overwhelmed from the spanking, the sex, and the safety of the space the two of them created inside of the shop, he closed his eyes, feeling tears squeeze out.

Navigating by touch, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s wrist to his mouth. He wished that he could draw a little of that faith into himself through the pulse there, so he kissed the inside of the wrist. Feeling the gentle throb of Aziraphale’s blood on his lips, he sent out a prayer he feared fell on uncaring, callous ears.

Please Lord… just give us a little more time.

 Notes:

*arrives two years late with starbucks* "Why are so many people determined to see Crowley as the top in this dynamic?" I ask my partner. They reply "It's because some people confuse brat energy with top energy. I can see where the mix up comes from."

Hope you enjoyed this piece, the first I've written in about five years. I may write a follow up where they actually DO get their love confessions out, but I couldn't resist the angst of it all.

[inkwell1013]

Paint the Streets With Rainbows - Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley, Aziraphale & OC, Crowley & OC

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Oneshot

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Homophobia, disownment

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale accidentally end up at a pride parade after a rather nice dinner date, and meet a cheerful boy named Jordan. A week later, something terrible happens, and they step in to help out their new acquaintance.

- - - - - 

Crowley and Aziraphale had chanced upon the parade quite by accident, taking a wrong turn on the way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop after spending the morning at a nearby café. Aziraphale would have assumed it was a mere coincidence, but his more fanciful belief in fate and the divine plan belayed this assumption. The way Aziraphale saw it, nothing happened without reason. Them arriving there when they did was fate, nothing more and nothing less.

There were rainbows everywhere. That was the first thing Aziraphale noticed. There were so many rainbows: hung from trees, worn on t-shirts, draped over shoulders like capes, waved from flagpoles, and even fashioned from balloons. He noticed that there were other flags too mixed in with all the rainbows, like flowers growing in a garden, all bright and beautiful and unique.

He wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but he assumed it was good as everyone seemed delightfully happy. And there were so many people, more than he could possibly count. He had never seen such an impossibly huge crowd before.

Glancing toward Crowley, he saw a content smile playing across his partner’s lips. “What is this?” asked Aziraphale, gesturing towards the raucous procession.

“It’s a pride parade. Have you never seen one before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

Crowley chuckled. “Wow. You don’t get out much, do you?”

Aziraphale huffed - secretly a little grumpy – mostly because he knew it was true. His significant aversion to socializing meant that he spent most of his time alone when he wasn’t with Crowley. Some might call that lifestyle sad, but Aziraphale preferred his quiet life to the alternative.

“Basically,” continued Crowley. “A pride parade is a celebration of the many differences of humanity – from sexual orientation to gender – as well as a way to protest inequality.”

“Well, that’s rather nifty, isn’t it?” said Aziraphale, adjusting his bowtie.

Crowley stifled a laugh. “I suppose it is.”

“Rather a lot of rainbows, don’t you think?” quirked Aziraphale. “I always liked rainbows. They’re a symbol of hope, and it never hurts to have a little hope these days.”

“I agree.”

It was at that moment that a boy pattered up to them. He was young – perhaps sixteen by Aziraphale’s best estimate, though he had never been good at guessing ages – and was tall for his age. He reminded Aziraphale rather a lot of a golden retriever, with his long, floppy blond hair and cheerful smile, which he leveled at them both, joy painted clearly on his features.

“Are you too here for the parade?” he beamed, cocking his head.

Crowley smiled back at him. “We are. Why do you ask?”

“That’s so cool!” exclaimed the boy. “I saw you and your boyfriend—”

“Husband,” interjected Crowley.

“Sorry, husband. And I just got super excited. You guys seem so happy together, and its nice, you know? Knowing its possible. That there’s a future for me, I guess. You know, you see all the sad stuff in the news, and it gets to you. It feels like there’s no hope left, but there’s always hope. I’m probably rambling. I’m sorry for bothering you two.” The boy turned to leave, but Crowley stopped him.

“Wait. Are you here with your parents?” he asked. “We could help you find them.”

“My Dad doesn’t know I’m here,” mumbled the boy. “He isn’t exactly cool with all this stuff, and I’m too scared to tell him. And my Mum… Well, she’s in heaven now.”

Crowley frowned rather instinctually, and the kid immediately backtracked. “It’s fine though. He’s not so bad. It could be worse.”

In a spur of the moment decision, Aziraphale pulled a newly miracled business card that hadn’t existed seconds ago from his jacket pocket and pushed it into the boy’s hands.

“What your name?” asked Aziraphale.

The boy gave him a quizzical look. “Jordan. Jordan Stewart.”

“It’s been nice to meet you Jordan,” beamed Aziraphale. “If you ever need help, call the number on this card.”

“Okay.”

“Good lad,” said Crowley. “Now go have fun. You’re at a pride parade after all.”

Jordan smiled, tucking the business card into his jacket pocket before sprinting away, throwing his arms around a boy with dark, curly hair. The boy stumbled back, only just catching his balance before he tumbled over.

“Ash! You made it,” exclaimed Jordan.

Ash laughed. “You thought I was going to miss your first pride? I’m not that bad of a friend,” he smirked. “Seriously though, how did you get away? I thought your dad was giving you trouble.”

Jordan shrugged. “I told him I was hanging out with some friends at the park.”

“And he bought that?”

“Yeah. I’m surprised too, to be honest. If he asks, tell him we were hanging out at the park with the others.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it.”

Crowley and Aziraphale watched the boy leave with his friend, firmly believing that would be their last encounter. They were both equally surprised when they received a phone call from Jordan just one week later.

Aziraphale was doing a little late-night reading before bed, and Crowley had wrapped himself around his husband, rather like he was trying to constrict him. Neither of them expected the phone to ring.

Crowley had whined and grumbled but Aziraphale insisted on fetching the phone just in case it was something important – a call from a supplier or customer, perhaps.

Aziraphale answered the call and Crowley buried his face in his pillow, still grumpy that Aziraphale had pushed him off. He immediately shot up when he heard Jordan’s voice on the other end.

“I didn’t think you’d pick up,” mumbled the boy. His voice was cracking and coarse, and Crowley knew that he had been crying. “I’m really sorry to bother you so late. I just didn’t know who else to call.”

“Is everything okay?” asked Aziraphale. “You sound upset.”

“My father found out about everything, and he kicked me out. He said that he’d rather have no son than… than me. I can’t believe this happened,” choked out Jordan. “I never did anything wrong.”

Aziraphale cast a helpless look at Crowley who hastily took the phone from him. “Jordan, can you tell me where you are?” asked Crowley.

“The McDonald’s on Main Street. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s okay,” said Crowley, scrambling out of bed and throwing on the first pair of trousers he could find, an effort that was made difficult by the fact that he only had one free hand to do it. “Stay right there. We’ll pick you up.”

“Thank you.”

Crowley’s trusty Bentley got them there quickly, and Aziraphale suspected that Crowley used some of his demonic influence to turn all the traffic lights on the way there green. He wasn’t complaining though. Anything that got them there faster was worth it, regardless of the possible consequences.

Jordan slipped silently into the car, eyes still puffy and red from crying. There was a short silence, before Jordan spoke. “Why doesn’t he love me?” he asked. “What did I do wrong?”

“This wasn’t your fault kid,” said Crowley. “It was never your fault. Some people are just trapped in the past. I understand how you feel. I do. Being disowned by the people who are meant to love you is shitty. It was shitty when it happened to me, and it’s still shitty now. There will always be shitty people in the world, but they’re becoming less common these days.”

“I agree,” said Aziraphale. “Barring the excessive swearing. Let’s try and limit the swear words in front of the young one, shall we dear?”

There was just the barest hint of a smile showing on Jordan’s face, and Aziraphale smiled a little to himself in turn.

“Do you have somewhere to stay?” asked Aziraphale.

Jordan shuffled in his seat. “Not really. Ash always said I could stay with him if something happened, but his parents are super strict, so I dunno if they’d be too pleased about that. I wouldn’t want to make things hard for him.”

“You can crash with us if you’d like,” said Crowley. “We have a spare room, don’t we Angel?” Crowley cast Aziraphale an expectant look, almost asking – begging – for permission.

Aziraphale hastily conjured an extra room in his bookshop, complete with fresh sheets and a newly vacuumed carpet, before nodding in agreement. They did now.

“Are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” asked Jordan.

“We’re certain,” said Aziraphale.

“Thank you, it means a lot.”

“It’s really no bother at all.”

They arrived at Aziraphale’s bookshop a little while later and Crowley and Aziraphale lead Jordan to the spare room. The moment he walked into the room, Jordan crumpled, tears streaming down his face.

“Are you alright?” asked Aziraphale. “Do you not like it?”

“No. Its perfect,” whispered Jordan, blinking through tears as he looked around his surroundings. The room was small but neat, with a single bed on one corner, adorned with bright blue sheets. There was a wardrobe in the other corner and a small bedside table as well.

But the thing that Jordan couldn’t stop staring at was the rainbow flag hung up on the wall.

He was safe here. For the first time in years, he knew he was safe.