#the way Aziraphale KNOWS he has that snake wrapped around his finger

[joycrispy]

"I'm a little bemused as to why Crowley should risk destruction for you..."

As angelic methods of communication go, the bitchy raise of eyebrows is quite versatile. For example, Aziraphale's meant:

"Where the hell have you been? He's pined for me since Eden, and here's you sitting in our car --somehow unaware types were invented the moment he laid eyes on me --he burns his feet on church floors for me-- talking shit."

[ps1snake]

day 1 of @book-omens-week : character design!! commentary transcript is under the cut :)

from top to bottom, left to right, aziraphale's commentary reads as follows: - in the top left, some floating text reads "doesn't change his clothes enough (doesn't need to), so it tends to droop & mold to his body. he's worn his shoes for so long that the lace-ends have fallen off!" - an arrow points to the cartoon aziraphale's sideburns, and reads "cloud poof sideburns" - an arrow points to his fingers, and reads "manicured (duh)" - an arrow pointing to his thighs reads "STAIN CITY!!!!! (he miracles them all away. he knows it's there, but that doesn't stop him)" - an arrow pointing to his shins says "a little baggy" - an arrow pointing to his shoes says "popular with nurses & fast food workers" - an arrow points to the semi-realisitic aziraphale's hair, reading "hair tex based on a man from my local post office!" - an arrow points to his neck, reading "droopy bowtie" - detail drawings of his earrings, rings, finger braces, necklace, and bookshop key are blown up. each is labeled as such. the earrings and necklace are matching pearls. the rings are all simple silver bands, with the exception of the right pointer and middle fingers, which are simple silver finger braces, similar to the style used by people with ehlers-danlos syndrome. the bookshop key is the solo key on a large carabiner, hidden in the drawing by his sweater, but shown in the detail image. an arrow points to the key, and reads "just one key, but he wanted a "ring of keys" sooooo bad (he's not a lesbian* but he believes in their beliefs)." the asterisk on "lesbian" leads to a footnote reading "usually." - an arrow pointing to his shoe reads "woman's orthopedic"

from top to bottom, left to right, crowley's commentary reads as follows: - an arrow points to the semi-realistic crowley's head, and reads "F. mercury shades." the shades are mirrored aviators, similar to the style freddy mercury is known to have worn. - detail images of crowley's sunglasses, rings, and earring are blown up and labeled. the earring is a simple black hoop stud. the rings are a snake that wraps around your finger, and a simple dark band. the sunglasses are at an angle that obscures the style of the lens, but the arms are more visible then in the main drawings, revealing that they bend in a severe up-and-down wave pattern between the lens and the ear rest. - an arrow points to his nails, which are painted black, and reads "manifests pre-chipped" - in between the semi-realistic crowley and the cartoonish crowley's feet is text reading ""white" snakeskin shoes match belt and watch" - an arrow points to the cartoonish crowley's head, reading ""he looks like a bug" shades. the sunglasses this crowley is wearing are large circular lenses. - an arrow points to his left ear, reading "pretend this is the gay ear (i forgot)." forgot is misspelled as "forgor." - an arrow points to his chest, reading "this hot pink bitch is named breakfast" - floating text near his leg reads "magic pockets mean the line of his suit is never ruined (which he never rmbrs to take advantage of) - text below his feet reads "those are his hooves you bitch"

the shared commentary is as follows: - between aziraphale and crowley is a line with a starburst in the middle, showing that they are making eye contact. - above this, they are both thinking in a shared thought bubble "i should send him a spam email.*" the asterisk leads below the eye contact line; to a footnote, also in a shared thought bubble. it reads "*in a sex way" - on each character's detail image of thier rings, one ring for each has a asterisk. this leads to a footnote between them, centered in a large patch of negative space, reading "gay ass wedding rings"

[doctorcrowleywho]

December 8. Christmas Sweaters (Aziraphale x Crowley x gn! reader)

25 Days of Ficmas - Day 8

Christmas Sweaters (Aziraphale x Crowley x gn! reader)

Word count -   1273  

Warnings - None just tons of fluff

Pairing(s) - Aziraphale x Crowley x gn! reader

Summary - The husbands and you get matching Christmas sweaters

There wasn’t a doubt in your heart that Christmas was going to be interesting this year. Having a demon and an angel as partners made for a very interesting mix. You never knew what to expect, and that’s what made it fun.

Nothing was too much for your partners. You wanted to go to Paris and try some crêpes? Just say when! You saw a cute sweater at the store one evening? The next morning it was on your bed with the sweetest handwritten note. You wanted a puppy- well that one you were still trying to convince them on.

 But, the point was they would do anything for you and you for them. The love that was created in Azirapahles bookstore was unlike anything in the world. It was like Aziraphale’s favorite hot cocoa mug, constantly overflowing and warm.

 They had both seen so much over the last 6,000 years. Not all of it good and not all of it bad. But, what they found at the center of it all was love. Pure utter love. The love a mother had for her child, the love a friend had for another, and the love they had for each other. The love they didn’t think they’d ever find with anyone else, and then they found you.

Crowley and his angel wanted to do something special for you this Christmas season, it was your first one together as an actual couple. Crowley wanted to make sure it was a good one. Which, was really sweet for the demon to do but he would never admit it to anyone’s face. He was willing to discorporate anyone who looked at you or his angel the wrong way.

Surprisingly, he was a huge hopeless romantic. So, when he heard you and Aziraphale talking one day he got a fantastic idea.

 “You know I never had matching Christmas sweaters with someone before.” you thought mindlessly out loud your eyes still on your book.

Aziraphale stuck his head out from around the bookshop his eyebrows furrowed in confusion at your random comment “Oh I mean I’m sure we can figure something out” he gave you a small smile before returning to his daily task of organizing his books. He mainly did this to ward off some recurring customers, just in case they had a book they were coming back for. This way it would be harder to find.

He was an angel but he never said he was good at his angelic job.

A little light bulb went off in Crowley's head and he immediately ran up to your shared bedroom to prepare. “Right Christmas sweaters,” he mumbled to himself as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.  With a simple snap of his fingers, his usual black attire was replaced with a bright itchy Christmas sweater with a large green cartoonish snake stitched onto it. The big boy wrapped all around his chest and its head popped out upon his right shoulder.

The first reaction Crowley had upon seeing his new look was he wanted to take it off, his right eyebrow curled up as if asking his own reflection ‘What the heaven are you doing exactly?’ But, with a quick shake of his head, he turned away from the mirror and got to work on yours and Aziraphale's.

Slowly but surely, he finished your sweaters and a soft proud smile found its way to his lips. He hoped that you two would like your early Christmas presents. There was a certain feeling that swelled up in Crowley’s heart as he looked at the finished product, and he couldn’t wait to give them to you guys.

So, he didn't. He scooped the two sweaters up in his arms and ran down the stairs practically crashing into Aziraphale's study. There he stood in the doorway waiting for you or Aziraphale to notice him, and the cheeky bastard even let out a little cough letting the world know he has arrived.

You were the first to pick your head up from your book, and your mouth practically fell open. There was no way that was your Crowley. The red-headed man standing in front of you with the cutest red Christmas sweater had to be someone else. But, there was no way in heaven or hell that was your Crowley.

 “Oh….my…god…” you finally mustered out as you stood up slowly making your way over to him.

“Eh, let's not bring her into this love.” he blushed almost as red as his sweater as you reached out to feel the material. It was properly scratchy causing you to laugh a little in disbelief.

“Where on EARTH did you get that sweater?” you asked your eyes flicking back up to his which were conveniently hidden by his sunglasses, probably waiting for your complete reaction.

“I made it, do you like it?” he asked doing a spin for you and that’s when Aziraphale walked in. Upon seeing Crowley he dropped the books he was carrying on his desk with a loud thunk.

His sky-blue eyes were wide with utter amusement as he made his way up to you and Crowley. “Oh, I think you look just lovely my dear boy! Look at you getting into the Christmas spirit!” He beamed giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t think I forgot about you two, here! I heard what you were saying earlier darling and I thought it would be wonderful if we all matched!” he explained presenting you and Aziraphale with your sweaters.

Happily, you reached out taking yours as a few tears brimming in your eyes. This was truly one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for you. You still weren’t totally used to all the affection and love these two supernatural entities showed you. It was unworldly, and you would never get over it.

As you tugged it on over your T-Shirt you saw Aziraphales and couldn’t help but laugh. It was perfect for him. An adorable puppy and kitten were stitched being tangled up in Christmas lights in the front, and the cherry on top had to be the pair of angel wings on the back.

Yours was a whole different story, and you didn’t even know where to begin. The whole thing was a beautiful blue which was covered in tiny stitched presents and stockings, and to make it even better ‘You’re the best present’ was knitted on the front. On your back, a pair of devil horns and a halo with one black wing and one white wing sat underneath them.

You and Aziraphale gazed at each other in wonderful shock as Crowley held his breath in anticipation. The whole shop was silent for a few moments until Crowley decided to break it.

“So…..how’d you like them?” he asked shifting his weight between his feet awkwardly. Half of him expected you two to absolutely hate them, while the other half- well the other half didn’t even expect what happened next.

“Crowley I love them!!” You cheered practically tackling him in a hug that he very gladly obliged to. You were practically beaming with happiness, this sweater was something that you were going to cherish for forever and a day.

“Course you do, I knew you would,” he said that same red blush creeping up the back of his neck as Aziraphale decided to join the hug. Suddenly, you were surrounded by warmth and comfort and you knew without a shadow of a doubt that you had found your home.

[muriel-not-the-dim-one]

@actual-changeling explained, beautifully in my opinion, what happened that afternoon in the bookstore. I did look in the window but only for a moment to thank Mr. Fell for the book Mr. Crowley gave me. At that moment, I realized what “broken heart” really meant.

I decided to write down some things for Mr. Crowley in case he ever came back by. I’m only a 37th scrivener, but I keep very good records.

From the journal of Muriel, 37th Scrivener, Assistant Bookstore Keeper to Mr. AZ Fell: Entry #1

It’s been *7 hours and 15 days*, since Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley left. I keep finding things to keep myself busy, but I find myself missing them both.

I love the books. The rich smell of them. The sweet bergamot, leather, Earl Grey and Talisker that lingered in the back room especially.

Sometimes I take Mr. Fells soft, grey jacket off the coat rack, where it has lived since he left, wrap it around my body and sit in the sunlight, my body tucked into the chair I have come to love. The first time I did this, it was almost a guilty feeling. Like peeking into someone’s private memories without their permission. But as time went on, it became soothing, calming, loving.

I close my eyes and see flashes of memories. Meeting the snake/demon in the garden. Feeling that first rain, and the overwhelming feeling to protect the demon. To cover him with his wing, when what they really wanted to do was wrap him tightly, hold him close. To take away the pain they felt within.

Sometimes I never even opened the blinds in the shop. (That came as no surprise to anyone who was familiar with the bookshop and it’s strange hours.) The memories flooding through me, transporting me to a time that only a deep love can take you to. As much as I loved reading the books, wearing Aziraphales jacket was like BEING in a book, like living each moment.

Standing with Crawley/ Crowley feeling the rain on their face as the flood was beginning. Sensing the pain inside the demon as he looked at the kids playing. I knew something was wrong with this, but God had to do it, right? I just couldn’t put my finger on why.

Being in Rome, hearing Crowleys voice. Aziraphales heart (even though angels and demons didn’t need them) leaping in excitement, only to feel the overwhelming anger, anxiety, deep shame (?) not because of Crowley or what he had done, but because of the human capacity for evil, far worse than even hell and it’s demons were capable of. Trying to joke with Crowley about still being a demon, only to have it backfire in his face. Telling Crowley he was in Rome to go to a new restaurant. (I really need to try some of the human food. If it was as good as the cuppatea and cocoa I had tasted, I was pretty sure I would like it.) Aziraphale offering to tempt Crowley with oysters and the warmth that surged through their body when Crowley looked at Aziraphale, that half smile radiating like the sun within them.

Standing in a crowd, watching the horror they were inflicting on this beautiful, kind soul. Hearing Crawley/Crowley come up beside him. Turning to look at the demon, her beauty radiating. She cared deeply for the carpenter, and couldn’t understand until Aziraphale told her the message the carpenter was delivering, why they would choose to hurt him. That memory seemed the most painful to me.

Realizing Crowley would face a horrible death if Hell ever found out about Job and what Crowley had done. The pride I felt knowing that Aziraphale, his love of Humanity and Crowley, would be willing to sacrifice his life as well.

On and on the memories went, flashes of joy, love, and a never ending relationship between them.

The Globe and Shakespeare. Why did Aziraphale deny Crowley so much? I couldn’t decide if it was fear or protectiveness.

The way Crowley would do anything for him.

Saving him from the Bastille when he could have saved himself.

Realizing Crowley was always watching out for his Angel. The nazis and possible discorporation, saving Aziraphales beloved books. The touch of his hand as he gave him the sachel. The almost breathlessness I felt at that moment revealing the depth of love that Aziraphale felt for Crowley. The magic show Crowley gave him the confidence to do.

Crowleys note when he asked Aziraphale for insurance. The complete HORROR he felt when he thought Crowley wanted it in case he needed to destroy himself. It seemed to Crowley the way Aziraphale acted, he was appalled at him for asking. Like he thought he wanted him to possibly get into trouble for it. In reality, Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of a life without Crowley, the pain and terror showing on his face.

Later hearing about Crowleys “little caper” scared Aziraphale. It made him almost go mad with worry. He knew no one involved but he, understood what even one drop of Holy Water could do to Crowley. As much of a danger, sneaking Holy Water to a demon could be for Aziraphale, he was NOT going to let this happen. He was not going to allow a chance that anything could happen to Crowley.

The sense of relief, the deep love, the rush of feeling, I heard the words almost spoken with an ache, “Aziraphale DOES love me as much as I love him.” The power so strong, so beautifully pure it slammed me in the chest. I had to stand and take the jacket off.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and as I touched the wetness on my cheeks, unbelievably aching for an Angel and a Demon that were kind to me.

*End Journal Entry for the day*

I began sorting through the books, anything to keep myself busy, willing the tears to stop.

[ineffablyyours]

Good Omens Imagine ❁ Fluff/Romance ❁ Aziraphale x Crowley ❁ Come Heaven or High Water

Aziraphale is cuddling with Crowley. Crowley's lying back in the angel's lap, and Aziraphale has one arm wrapped protectively around the demon's thin waist, the fingers of his free hand carding through Crowley's rust-colored locks.

Aziraphale is the first to break the comfortable silence that has befallen them. "Not even Heaven could keep us apart, my dear. And that is a promise."

Crowley tilts his head to look up at Aziraphale, uncertainty muddling his features. "If promises are anything like rules, then they're meant to be broken."

"Let's make it an oath, then. Would you believe it then?"

Crowley gives a scant nod of approval. "Hard to weasel your way out of those. And trust me, I've tried." He purrs as Aziraphale massages his scalp, his fingers persisting in all the right places.

Crowley believed to have erradicated that nasty habit at least a dozen centennials ago. Who ever knew of a snake that purs? The angel has the strangest way of teasing out these latent behaviors. It really is rather... lovely. "Do enlighten me on how you would prevent such a divine intervention on our behalf. The wrath of Heaven is just as formidable as that of Hell, if not worse."

Aziraphale carresses the demon's cheek with his thumb. "You would know far better than I." Crowley shrugs.

Aziraphale attempts to lighten the mood with a smile and leans down to press a chaste kiss to the unsuspecting demon's lips. He succeeds. Crowley's amber orbs are locked on sapphire blues. "I know because I am Heaven, Crowley. And I stand for love in all its forms."

"The angels could learn a thing or two from us, huh?"

"If they stopped fighting long enough to listen to reason, then maybe so. But before they find room in their hearts to forgive us, they'd have to learn to forgive each other. And that road is long and steep and riddled with pitfalls... But perhaps someday."

"Yeah... when Hell freezes over," Crowley mutters.

Aziraphale laughs and links his fingers with Crowley's, their hands coming to rest gently on the demon's lower belly. Aziraphale can feel the rise and fall of his every breath. "I fear so. Come Heaven or high water with you by my side."

[spoofymcgee]

how do i love you (a crowley-centric good omens ficlet)

(read on ao3)

Crowley asked Aziraphale once.

They were both drunk enough that he’s surprised he remembers it, and he’s almost certain Aziraphale doesn’t. He’d tipped over a cliff off the mountain of self-control he usually maintains around Aziraphale, and figures, you know, why the hell not. Aziraphale’s an angel, there’s gotta be a reason he’s stayed like that. Inasmuch as Crowley remembers, being an angel had a lot more to do with doing than thinking, which makes his situation fairly odd, as Aziraphale has been a thinker for at least as long as they’ve known each other. So he’d slumped in his chair at the filthy pub they’d meet at, tilted his head back to examine the stained ceiling and asked: “Do you think she planned it out this way, and just didn’t tell us?” “Who?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from his half-empty glass.

“You know,” Crowley said, waving a hand vaguely upwards. “Her.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, suddenly sounding uncomfortable. “It’s possible, I suppose.” “Do you know,” Crowley said, pushing himself up sharply and pausing for a moment to regret it as his stomach throws a hissy fit. “Do you know, I still remember what it feels like? Being an angel, I mean. That–that feeling, you know.” “Love?” Aziraphale hazarded, his shoulders relaxing involuntarily just at the mention of it. Crowley snapped his fingers. “Yes! See, you can still feel it, and it’s the most precious thing to you in the whole world. It feels–it feels indescribable, because there’s nothing else quite like it.” “Where are you going with this, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, in a tone that pretended to be tired in order to hide the curiosity. “I remember it…” he whispered, sinking slowly back into the overstuffed, cracked leather of his seat. “Think about that. And ask yourself; if someone stole that feeling from you, just took it away, pulled it right out from under your feet. Left you sitting there, more alone than anything has ever been. Wouldn’t you hate them?” Aziraphale shuddered, dropping his gaze back into his drink. “I don’t…” Crowley sighed, slumping down. “Don’t answer that, angel.” It was quiet after. A charged silence that sat between them like a familiar friend. They ought to buy it a drink, with how often it comes around to their get-togethers. Aziraphale broke it. “Crowley,” he’d said, lingering on the word like someone crossing the first step of an old wooden bridge above a deep canyon. “How. How did you Fall? If you don’t mind my asking, that is.” Like a shooting star, Crowley wanted to say. Burning up alive and every moment glorious. Quickly, there and gone in a second. Confused. He’d shoved all these words back inside his head, and answered the question Aziraphale is asking. “I asked a question,” he said, pasting a careless grin on his face and tossing his head back to hide the way his eyes were brimming with tears. “And the funniest part is that I don’t even remember what it was,” he lied, when Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask. Lies. He knows exactly what the question was, can feel it leaving his mouth, wrapping around him like ropes, dragging him off the edge. He remembers looking up at Michael, into the unseeing fire of her eyes, set in stone. The crunch of his fingers as she’d stepped on them, the way he’d cradled them to his chest as he burned, pulled downwards by the words. “Ma?” the angel asks, folding his wings as he drops down on a cloud of stardust. “You wanted to see me?” “Yes, sweetheart,” she says, or something approximating it, because of course the word ‘sweetheart’ hasn’t been invented yet. “I want to show you something.” The plans seem to unroll themselves on the starry backdrop, a tiny transparent world covered in colors the angel’s never seen before, snaked with oceans and sectioned off by continents. Next to it, a seemingly endless list of creations cycles, culminating with something labeled ‘Human’. “What is it?” he asks, frowning up at it. “Are you making a new sort of angel?” She laughs. “Not quite. These ones are a little different.” “How?” he prods, spinning the model. He can feel her smile more than see it. It’s like the heart of a star has settled in his ribcage, spreading heat down his arms and wings. “You know I love you, yes?” Well, of course he does. It’s the first thing he ever learnt “Yes.” “These humans will be able to love me back,” she explains, and the figure’s chest lights up like a galaxy shoved into a box of bone and blood. “They won’t know my love the same way you do. And they’ll have to teach themselves to love me back, and in doing so they’ll learn what it feels like.” The angel considers this for a moment. A solar wing from the nearby sun ruffles through his hair and throws the plans all into disarray. They roll themselves back up and disappear into the black. “Ma,” he says slowly, sounding the words out loud, though they don’t get farther than his mouth. “How–” “Shh,” she interrupts. “Don’t ask me that, not yet. A little more time. You’ll know when.” *** He’s on his knees on the battlefield, the war raging silently around him. The stars are brighter from here, shrap enough to burn deep into his memory the last time he’ll ever get of them this close. His wings are starting to go already as he kneels at Michael’s feet and watches her heft her sword above his head. Smoke curls from the edges of his primaries, vanishing in an instant in the constant motion of the fighting. He never wanted this, he’d never asked for any of this free will nonsense. He’d just wanted to know why. He would do whatever She told him to, but it might be nice to know the reason first. All this, over humans. What was so special about them anyway? “Please,” he gasps, doubling over as his ribs twinge again. “Please, I don’t–” Michael brings her sword down. It cuts into his shoulder and comes away dripping a darkening gold. He can feel her love pulling away from him and cries out more from that then from the pain. “No, please, mother!” He’ll wonder forever afterward if he was simply discovering the deleriating effects of blood loss for the first time in the history of the universe, but at the moment he’d have sworn he heard a whisper telling him “Now!” “How do I love you back?” he mumbles, and Michael shouldn’t hear him, there’s no atmosphere to carry the sounds, but her brow furrows as she pulls her sword back for the final blow. And the ground opens up beneath him and he falls, falls, falls.

[thefatedthoughtofyou]

Another possible chubby Az prompt for you my dear 😊 Crowley sees him in a form-fitting robe for the first time, all white and curve-hugging and pretty. In the sun it’s almost translucent, and every plump part of Az is on display. He looks like a painting come to life. Crowley genuinely has a nosebleed over it. Like, a real one. It’s really embarrassing. He needs a tissue. Maybe he snakes out a bit, gets scaly and can’t say his S’s right for a while lol

( Thank you so much nonny!!!! i loved both the prompts you sent!!!! so much!!! this one ended up shorter than i intended but i am so very tired! it turned out super cute though i think so it’s still a win!!! thanks again i hope you enjoy it!!! )

Ao3

The Garden In Between

It had been… days. Since the ark. Maybe weeks… Possibly months. Crowley squinted up at the sun, looked at the smooth stone buildings around him, let his fingers drift over the cool surface. It may have been years. But not many years. Not enough years for the buildings around him to look like ruins. So not many years at all. He wandered through the streets, moving nimbly around some giggling children as they ran past, chasing each other, smiles on their faces. Crowley smiled as he watched then stumble around the nearest corner. And then he smelled it.

An Angel.

He sniffed, his tongue running along his lip to get a better scent. He closed his eyes and focused. He’d been thinking about the Angel just yesterday. He’d seen some children eating something that looked sickeningly sweet and he knew, the Angel would love it. He sniffed again, deeply, and opened his eyes. It was his Angel alright. Now he just needed to find him.

He checked the market first, eyes moving over the food stalls quickly. He didn’t have to focus hard, Aziraphale was easy to spot. He nearly always stuck out like a sore thumb. Crowley supposed he must stick out as well, he only ever used the bare minimum of his magics to hide himself. And these days it was really just his eyes he needed to hide. People tended not to notice, or if they noticed, they didn’t say much. Either way, he couldn’t be bothered with that now, there were more pressing matters at hand. Matters like where an Angel might go in the city. An Angel who loved food and wasn’t anywhere near the food.

The garden.

The words had barely crossed Crowley’s mind before his feet were carrying him away. Down two side streets, three alleys, and a short cut through a rather grim looking building. He reached the garden gates and peeked inside. The garden was enormous, and beautiful, full of flowers and trees and life. He couldn’t see the Angel, but he could feel him. He stepped inside, wiggling his toes in the soft grass beneath his feet, as he walked.

He moved slowly, his fingers dragging over tree bark, and thick leaves, a gentle smile on his lips as sweet smells rushed through his nose. The sun shone through the trees at their thickest, shining rays of light illuminating the greenery beneath them. Crowley’s chest felt lighter and lighter the deeper into the garden he walked.

He could hear a stream now, the water gurgling in a far-off whisper. He followed the soft sounds, eventually meeting with the small path of water. He dipped his toe in, shivering at the chill. He followed the stream, this garden reminding him so much of the last one he’d been in. The day he’d met the Angel. He squinted into the sunlight passing through the trees, he could see something now. Something bright. He thought it might be sunlight reflecting off of water. He stepped through the trees, onto the banks of a small lake. And it was there that he found his Angel.

Crowley gasped, a strangled sort of sound, at the sight of the Angel. He was standing on a dark flat rock that reached out into the lake, the water just covering his ankles. But it wasn’t the rock that had Crowley gasping, nor was it the water lapping at the Angel’s pale skin. No. It was the sunlight. And the way it shone just behind the Angel, lighting him up. Crowley could see everything. Every curve, every dimple and roll. He tried to swallow, his throat closing around a strange clicking noise. The Angel turned then, toward the sound, and oh, this was so much worse.

The light was hitting him from behind now, his hips now outlined a beautiful shadow against his robes. Crowley could see him smiling, smiling at him, as he walked closer. His brain began to boil, his knees shaking and bumping together as the Angel moved closer.

“Crowley? Is that you?” his voice sounded far away, but he could hear in that voice that Aziraphale knew it was him, of course it was him, who else would it be? Crowley tried to answer, tried speak, to say anything, anything at all. His hands were shaking now as his eyes fell to the Angel’s thighs, the light behind him illuminating the way they moved when he walked, so perfect, so soft. Crowley longed to touch them, to feel them move that way beneath his palms. To know what it felt like to sink his fingers into the meat of the Angel’s thighs, and hear what heavenly noises he might make.

“Crowley?” there’s concern in that voice now. And Crowley knows his eyes have changed, he can feel them. And he can feel other things as well, scales. Along his arms, and his neck, and maybe a few along his face, he can feel them, pressing up out of his skin the closer the Angel gets to him. And then he’s there, right in front of him, looking like Heaven and making Crowley burn.

“Dear me, you’re bleeding.” His voice is much higher now. And it’s now that Crowley’s throat begins to work, how well it’s working remains to be seen.

“Ngk.” Is all that come out. And then the Angel’s fingers wrap around his wrist gently. He leads him to the water and makes him sit. He miracles a cloth and begins wiping at Crowley’s face, just under his nose. His nose was bleeding. How embarrassing. He blinks, slowly, his brain so very fuzzy. The Angel being so close not helping that. He shakes his head and comes back to himself, a little. He swats at Aziraphale weakly, trying to push his tending hands away.

“Now please. Let me help you. What happened to you?” the Angel sounds almost mad now. And it clicks, after a second, that he thinks someone has done this to Crowley. He nearly chokes on the irony. He moves his hand to Aziraphale’s wrist. Halting his ministrations.

“Sss’okay Angel, it jussst happens ssssometimes.” He takes the cloth from the Angel slowly, and he lets him, but only just. He doesn’t move away but he let’s Crowley tend to himself. He wipes at his face until the rag comes away clean.

“What on earth happened? I haven’t seen you this… snake like, since… well, since the beginning.” He says, sitting a little straighter and looking out over the water.

“Right. Yeah. It’ssss gardensss.” He says, internally flinching at the drawn out S’s, his tongue was in shambles in mouth, he could feel it, forked, flicking over his teeth restlessly. The flinch may also have been due to the completely, and badly, made up excuse, but Crowley was going to aim it at the tongue situation and not think about it any further.  

“Gardens?” the Angel asks, looking at him, brows furrowed. Crowley swallows.

“Yeah, gardens… they…” he has no idea where he was going with this.

“Bring back memories?” the Angle supplied.

Sure. Let’s go with that. Crowley nods, not trusting his mouth.

“Oh course. I’m so sorry, I didn’t think. I didn’t realize.” He said, sounding so very sincere.

“Ssss’nothing.” Crowley said, waving his worries away.

“Your scales seem to be fading.” He says, an offering, an attempt to make him feel better. Of course they were fading. Crowley was all but forcing them out, he hadn’t looked at the Angel since they’d sat down. He was so close now. It wasn’t safe to look directly at him this close up. Crowley was genuinely afraid he may just turn fully back into a snake. He glanced toward the Angel, he could see his robes bunched and resting on the soft curves of his thighs, his round stomach nestled perfectly above them.

“Oh, there they go again.” Aziraphale sighed. Crowley looked away again, feeling scales pressing forward, across his cheeks and down his neck, and thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be a snake right now. He could just… slither away.

“Are you certain you’re alright?” the Angel sounded worried now. Crowley did his best to meet his eyes.

“Sss’fine. Nothing to worry about.” he shook his head, not sure if he was shaking it to go with his words, or if he was trying to shake his tongue into submission. He was sure it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was still giving him that look.

“It’ll fade Angel. I’m fine.” The look in the Angels’ eyes didn’t fade.

“Thank you.” Crowley said, and watched the worry dissipate as the Angel looked away, finally.

“Well if you insist you’re fine I suppose I’m inclined to believe you.” The Angel said, his body moving in one of its little wiggles as he sat up straighter, Crowley felt scales run down his back like a chill in the night.

“I do.” Crowley looked away, his eyes falling back to his lap.

“You do what?” The Angel asked, not looking away from whatever his eyes had seen across the water.

“I inssissssss- oh really?!” Crowley growled, catching the Angel looking at him from the corner of his eyes. Crowley glared and the Angel laughed. He laughed. He tossed his head back, and laughed. Crowley sat there, scales breaking out across his skin like the plague, tongue twisting and turning in his mouth, begging to be free, eyes, locked on the Angel. The light was still shining on him, the sun had fallen a bit as they’d been sitting, turning a wonderful soft golden color, bathing Aziraphale in a warm glow. Crowley’s eyes tracked the way his hands fell to his stomach as he laughed, and watched the beautiful curve of it shake with laughter.

He watched the way his legs pulled up a bit, as he rocked backwards, and begged whoever might be listing these days to let him touch, just once, some day. Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not for hundreds of years. Maybe not thousands. But someday.

He sat, and he watched the Angel laugh, and told himself that this was enough. For now. If this was all he could have of the Angel, just moments like this, just the two of them.

It was enough.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Lessons and Lamentations

Crowley has been alone for so long, he doesn't remember any other way to be. And then an angel in a tavern tries to tempt him.

A lesson in music, and what it means to not be alone.

Another Good Omens fic for @bingokisses - this one for the prompt “Learning Guitar/Piano together” (well, lyre, close enough) which on my card was paired with “Over-the-shoulder kiss.”

Available on AO3, with detailed history notes for those who like that sort of thing.

Crowley still wasn’t sure what had happened.

“Start by placing your hands like this,” Aziraphale instructed him. “The lyre goes against your thigh, here.” The curve of the tortoiseshell pressed into Crowley’s leg, partway between knee and waist. The angel’s arms wrapped around him, lightly holding the instrument. “Go on. I can’t show you how to play if you don’t take it.”

Five hours ago, he’d been sitting in a tavern, looking forward to getting comfortably black-out drunk and sleeping off the rest of his assignment. Five hours ago, he’d been just about ready to write off the entire ridiculous planet and all the useless beings who inhabited it. Five hours ago, he’d been alone, as he’d always been alone, for so long he couldn’t remember a different way to be.

And then an angel had tried to tempt him.

“Good. Now, when you actually play, you’ll have both hands on the strings. One behind, one in front. But for now, just keep it tilted just like this, so you can see what I’m doing.” One soft hand stayed on the back of Crowley’s helping him cradle the instrument. The other, the right, brushed across his skin as fingers reached to pluck a few notes.

It wasn’t that Crowley had wanted dinner. He ate, when he wanted, but not oysters. If he was going to put something in his mouth, it wouldn’t be a slab of barely-cooked meat that smelt of salt and had the consistency of a particularly phlegmy cough.

But, bless it, that angel was so determined to be friendly and how could anyone resist that? Crowley’s specialty was the irresistible. He knew when something was a lost cause.

“Now the simplest method is plucking, like this, and you’ll notice if I press down here,” his left hand shifted to rest on the strings, “the note is – is sort of abbreviated. Muted and quick. But if I leave the string free…” A soft note reverberated through the atrium. “Then it holds for quite some time. So you can combine several of those to make a chord, like this.” He plucked three strings rapidly, and their sounds combined into a single, rich note, warm, almost liquid, flowing together into something even better.

It had taken some time to warm up to each other. They disagreed on everything. Politics. Morality. Whether or not Caesar had deserved to be stabbed quite so many times. All the big questions, really.

But then, Aziraphale had taken a mouthful of the sharp red wine and spat it back out. This is no sort of wine! My dear fellow, how can you stand it?

S’Rome. You drink what they have. Not any worse than that beer in Uruk.

It absolutely is! My word, how your standards have fallen.

“Now once you have that down, you can start strumming – and you have to make sure your fingers are exact, or it won't work. Hold down all these strings from the back, here and here and here…like that. Then, instead of plucking, you just run your thumb across them all like this—” Seven notes all rose through the air, one sound that was everything together, pure and clear. Crowley gasped and, without thinking, leaned back a little against Aziraphale’s chest. “Mind your legs,” was all the angel said, shifting his knees and feet to hold Crowley’s legs in position.

The argument about wine had turned into a long digression about the drinks of a hundred different cultures. They agreed the pear wine to the north had been the lightest, smoothest of all, that Egyptian beer was superior to Sumerian but really the whole concept needed work, that the plum liqueur drink of the far east was simply delightful, though they disagreed on whether or not it should be drunk by the jarful.

From there they moved on to the decoration of the jars – the simple patterns of the northern cultures compared to the elaborate (and often erotic) scenes of the Greeks. And then to art generally, to paintings, to sculpture, to the general agreement that the emperors’ enormous monuments were rather on the gaudy side. After some discussion, they determined the best work in the city to be a simple but beautifully carved statue of the goddess Hygieia stepping from a pool, located by one of the city’s many baths. Crowley particularly liked that she carried a snake, and Aziraphale had laughed at that.

“Do you want me to play a song for you? So you can see how it goes?” Crowley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Alright, let me think.” Aziraphale leaned closer, resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, arms absently tugging at his waist to pull them more firmly together, before returning his hands to rest on the backs of Crowley’s. Now every part of Crowley pressed against a part of Aziraphale. It should have felt like an intrusion – Crowley hated to be touched, hated other people in his space – but somehow it felt the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got one. Now watch.” He rested his left hand against the back of the strings, and with his right lifted a wedge of tortoiseshell, which he used to pluck one string after another, a slow and stately rhythm.

Speaking of art had brought them to talking about the theater, which they both confessed to enjoy. They’d discussed whether the current plays could ever be as good as the classics – a difficult conversation, as apparently the angel preferred slow-paced bore fests whereas Crowley liked the ones with good jokes and fast dialogue. Eventually Aziraphale conceded that Plautus was one of the best playwrights in recent memory, and Crowley agreed to go see Seneca’s take on the Agamemnon story.

Are all angels so obsessed with tragedy? The restaurant had brought a bowl of figs, which were much more to Crowley’s liking. Makes sense, I suppose. Predestination and the plans of the gods and all that. Humans learning to accept their fate.

Oh. Aziraphale’s face had fallen. No I…I rather think I’m the only one. He’d shifted uncomfortably. That is…theater isn’t considered a particularly angelic pursuit. Nor is sculpture, or food or…well…really any of the, you know, human arts.

Crowley had cocked his head, rolled over to lie flat on his couch and stare at the ceiling. Makes sense, he had started in his usual cool, detached manner. They’re very demonic pursuits. All those, you know, delicately carved ladies, that just inspires lust and…and envy and all sorts of sins. And the theater! Comedies about sowing confusion and throwing the entire world into disorder. Mocking power structures. Tempting young men into lives of romance and – and fun, instead of duty and war and whatever else? Yes, very demonic.

He had grinned to himself, satisfied with his explanation, until a glance at Aziraphale’s face had made his chest ache. The brilliant smile had vanished completely, leaving the angel looking downcast. Hopeless. And alone, so blasted alone, in a way that resonated deep in Crowley’s soul.

So, thankful for the glasses that hid his eyes, Crowley had sighed with as much drama as he could muster. Least, that’s what I tell my superiors. Don’t think they really buy it, but I keep trying. Aziraphale blinked at him in confusion. Don’t think I’ve ever had a chance to, you know, talk about it properly, not with anyone who understands. So. S’nice. A look of understanding dawned on the angel’s face, with an entirely new kind of smile, and Crowley had to turn away before it burned him alive. Yeah. So. That’s theater…nh…what do you think of music?

Which brought them here, to the villa of the family Aziraphale had been assigned to, and the lyre, and a music lesson that so far had been an education in something very different.

Each note fell like rainwater, gliding up and down the scales. His hands began to move independently, sometimes plucking notes from the front and back of the instrument, sometimes gliding across the strings, sometimes one finger would rest on a single string, making it quaver and reverberate. Every time Crowley thought he knew the pattern, it would change, faster or slower, higher or lower, a sweeping glissando to bring a chill up his spine.

It was a lament, infinitely sad and alone, and yet filling the air with a bright rhythm of undeniable, unremitting hope.

Crowley couldn’t keep up with the movements of Aziraphale’s fingers, dancing up and down in an incomprehensible pattern. Instead, he half-closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head more comfortably against the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale said nothing, intent on his music, but he tilted his head so that their cheeks rested together.

Nobody liked Crowley, not really.

They tolerated him, or were impressed by him, or flattered by his compliments, or drawn in by his intrigue – all the tricks of a tempter. He could roll into any city or village in the world and have the locals eating out of his hand in a matter of days. But once he’d done his job, once he’d accomplished his goal and could drop the pretenses…nobody ever stuck around, and it was on to the next job, the next temptation, the next act.

He didn’t miss the company. He didn’t need it. He had passed four thousand years on this planet quite happily alone, and could do the next four thousand the same.

And yet.

And yet here he sat, on the floor of a fancy villa, surrounded by Aziraphale, wrapped in his arms and his legs and his music. Welcomed. Accepted. Wanted.

Just for the length of a song, nothing else needed to exist. No Heaven, no Hell, no sides, just two beings enjoying each other’s company, just the smell of Aziraphale’s perfume and the brush of his toga against Crowley’s arms, just two heartbeats dancing to the sound of the lyre.

The song wound to a close.

Crowley tipped his head back, trying to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, but could only see a round cheek, a pursed mouth, a snub of a nose.

He wished the song could go on forever. He wished…something. He didn’t know what, but he wanted it more than anything.

Aziraphale plucked the final notes.

And, as the last chord reverberated through the room, their lips met.

Quick as an echo, just as soft and mysterious. An unmistakable brush of lips, the slightest parting, a hot stream of breath. A greeting. A thank you. A promise of…something, someday, Crowley couldn’t imagine what, but he would gladly wait ten thousand years to find out.

And then – the last note faded, and Aziraphale pulled away.

“Well. There you have it. Quite a tidy little instrument, isn’t it? Quite – quite clever, I really prefer it to the cithara, you know.”

“Yeah, um.” Crowley turned his face away. He didn’t actually remember starting the kiss, but it must have been him, the eternal tempter, always pushing for whatever he could get. Pushing too far. Already, he could feel the tension building in Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Perhaps that’s enough for one night?” Crowley’s heart fell. “Yes, I – I rather think…yes, probably sufficient…”

“Can you—” Crowley gripped the instrument a little tighter. “Can you show me a few notes? While you’re here. While I’m here,” he corrected.

“I…you still want to learn?”

“S’why I came, isn’t it?” He shifted his hands and tried to pluck a note; it came out more sour than sweet. “Something like this?”

“Nearly.” Aziraphale’s fingers came around to nudge his, but they hesitated. “Perhaps I should, er, sit facing you? That might be less…”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said, far too quickly. “I mean. S’easier this way. Facing it the same way, hands on the same side, all that. You don’t…you don’t have to move.”

“Ah. If. If you’re sure.” Crowley nodded. “Right then. Ehm. When you pluck, you should pinch your fingers like this…”

The lesson went on until the early hours of the morning, Crowley nestled against Aziraphale, as the warmth and the music filled him.

[lady-divine-writes]

Rendezvous (Rated M)

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale take a break from their duties in Egypt for some alone time together. (1143 words)

Notes:  Written for @whiteleyfoster DTIYS challenge, which was open to fanfic as well, based off this picture they posted.

Read on AO3.

“A-zira-phale …” Crowley sings, picking a path through the rushes growing high along the banks of the Nile, winding around the labyrinthal rows to the secluded hut his angel messaged they should meet. “A-zira-phale … where are you?” Farther and farther he walks till the drone of humans building and shouting and existing soften, fading beneath the gentle lap of water kissing the shore. Crowley strolls leisurely through blades that grow taller as he steps past (a little demonic miracle of his own) to better shield the woven dome with the faint angelic glow inside. “You said you wanted to see …”

Crowley ducks through the narrow doorway … and stops in his tracks.

The vision that greets him would arrest the heart in his chest if he had one.

He swallows hard in its stead.

“… me.”

Aziraphale smiles.

“Hello, Crowley.”

The angel doesn’t move an inch while his demon looks him over, basking in this moment he’s been eagerly waiting for. He has traded the modest clothes worn by the people where he lives for the kind of lavish – and revealing – garb that Crowley seems to prefer.

Showing too much skin and dripping in gold is how Aziraphale once described Crowley.

Showing too much skin and dripping in gold is what Aziraphale is now – bare chested; jeweled bracers binding his wrists and ankles so blinding he’s not entirely certain whether Crowley is attracted to him or them. The shendyt wrapped around his waist, pale blue like Aziraphale’s eyes, hangs longer than Crowley’s, secured at the hip by a winged medallion – just a touch of angelic vanity.

“Aziraphale …” Crowley sighs, yellow eyes traveling from the top of Aziraphale’s head down to his toes and back again too many times to count “… what on Earth are you wearing?”

“We’ve determined that it would be a bit difficult for you to blend in on the side of town where I live. So I thought I would try my hand at blending in on yours. For the afternoon at least. What do you think?” Aziraphale raises his arms and twists side to side to give Crowley a better look. “Do I blend?”

“Definitely,” Crowley says, his cheeks turning pink as he approaches, too afraid to touch Aziraphale in fear that he’ll dissolve into the sand - just one of a dozen dreams Crowley has had about Aziraphale that have yet to come true. “I could get used to seeing you like this, angel. You’re quite the temptation.”

Aziraphale chuckles, lowering himself carefully to the hard-packed ground. He extends a hand to Crowley, and Crowley rushes to join him. “Maybe I should be doing your job then.”

“No,” Crowley says, unable to keep his eyes off him. “You’re too good. Too pure. That’s part of what makes you irresistible.”

“Irresistible, huh?” And now Aziraphale's cheeks have gone pink.

“Yes.” Crowley reaches for him slowly, fingertips caressing only the air around his body for as long as he can stand not touching him. But Aziraphale doesn’t want to wait, doesn’t want to waste time they don’t have. He scoots closer, closing the gap between Crowley’s hand and his own. Crowley takes it – takes it and holds it like he has no intention of ever letting go. His gaze settles there, on their joined hands, fingers threaded, nothing obvious indicating that his is demon flesh and Aziraphale’s angelic. Here in this hut, in these forms, they’re simply men.

Men, dare he say, in love?

“Stay in my temple with me,” he whispers, pulling Aziraphale into his lap, bucking his hips gently so the angel can feel the hard press of him against his rear. “I can shower you in gold and jewels, linens as soft as your wings, fine wine and exquisite food …”

Aziraphale shakes his head, turns shy eyes away from the utter adoration in Crowley’s voice. “Oh, no. I don’t think all of that extravagance would suit me.”

“Why not? You deserve it, more than anyone I know.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Aziraphale says instead of admitting it’s mostly the way Crowley acquires his wealth that concerns him. Crowley could miracle himself chests overflowing with gold, call to him hidden treasures from all over the world. But playing the part of Snake God of the Egyptians, Crowley gets his riches from the hands of Pharaoh.

Hands stained with the blood of thousands of innocent slaves.

But Aziraphale isn’t here to judge Crowley. That’s not why he asked him to meet in secret.

“Do I suit you?” Crowley asks, chancing a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek.

One to his jaw when he doesn’t object.

Then another to the soft, sensitive skin of his neck.

“Yes.” Aziraphale exhales deep, bends to Crowley’s kisses, silently begging for more. “Very much.”

Crowley’s lips pave a trail down the column of Aziraphale’s neck to his collarbone, each one signed and sealed by the tip of his tongue dancing over the same spot. But he stills at the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck when he hears him gasp – a sound that should fill him with unquenchable heat. The razor’s edge of desire. Instead, it spirals through him like a chill breeze, freezing him to the bone. “They … they won’t let me keep you.”

“Who?” Aziraphale asks with a sarcastic huff. “Heaven or Hell?”

“Either. Take your pick,” Crowley returns so sadly it nearly shatters the shard of hope burning in Aziraphale’s chest for the two of them.

“True,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “But we’ve never been big on following their rules, have we, my dear? Not when it comes to you and me.”

“I suppose not,” Crowley agrees, albeit unconvincingly. His lips don’t move again, neither to speak nor kiss. Aziraphale won’t have that. He leans back a hair to catch Crowley’s eyes.

“Let’s not worry about Heaven and Hell this afternoon,” he says, running his fingers down the length of Crowley’s spine, delighting in the shivers he uncovers with his light touch. “Not now. It’s only you and me here. Let’s enjoy the time we have.”

“And how should we enjoy it?” Crowley asks, struggling to break through his melancholy.

“With your arms wrapped around me, and my body so full of you I can barely remember where you end and I begin. Do you think you can do that?”

Crowley’s eyes, wonder wide, snap to Aziraphale’s face. They don’t make love that way. Normally they go the other way round. But Aziraphale has chosen this for some reason.

Who is Crowley to deny him?

Crowley smiles at his angel, love and affection lifting his cheeks, but with a hint of wickedness at the corners.

Of course, Aziraphale wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Yes,” Crowley says, working open the winged medallion, removing this symbol of Aziraphale’s true nature and setting it aside. “I can do that.”

[pluckydean]

It takes Aziraphale a while to notice that Crowley won’t leave him alone. They leave St. James’s Park and dine at the Ritz, and Crowley comes back to the bookshop with him and… stays. He miracles them some wine and then watches Aziraphale putter around the shop, taking in the few minor changes Adam saw fit to create (thankfully all additions). They don’t speak much as the night wears on, but Aziraphale feels Crowley’s eyes tracking him from shelf to shelf. At one point he turns back to show Crowley a book with an ancient looking cover that is completely blank inside, only to find him coiled into his snake form, fast asleep.

“Oh, my dear,” he says softly. He miracles some added warmth into the room, and continues his inventory.

It must be hours later (the sun is suddenly shining through the front windows) when he feels a pressure along his calf, and he looks down to watch Crowley wind up his leg, around his waist, until most of his weight has come to rest across Aziraphale’s shoulders. His tongue sneaks out to taste the air and Aziraphale smiles at him. “Good morning, Crowley.” He carries his friend with him for a while when he opens the shop and they both ignore the strange looks from the few customers who venture inside.

Aziraphale carries on a one-sided conversation happily; chattering on about the weather, and the Beethoven he plays on the gramophone, and about the little patisserie that opened around the corner until he’s worked himself into quite a state of hunger.

“Crowley, dear, would you mind?” He gestures to the chair Crowley had spent the night in. “I think I might pop out for a bite to eat.”

Crowley bumps his snout against his cheek and slithers to the ground where he shifts back into his human form. “I’ll go with you,” he says.

Read on AO3, or

It isn't far, so they walk. Crowley doesn’t order anything for himself, simply watches Aziraphale enjoy a light sandwich and a generous slice of red velvet cake layered with raspberry jam and custard. It would be a comfortable silence if it weren’t for Crowley’s tense shoulders and the restless way his eyes dart from one end of the restaurant to the other behind his sunglasses.

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asks between bites of cake, which only succeeds in Crowley tensing further.

“It’s nothing, angel,” he replies in a tight voice.

Aziraphale hums. “I do believe that’s the first outright lie you’ve ever told me.” And Crowley winces so forcefully that Aziraphale immediately regrets his words. He reaches out to lay his hand gently over Crowley’s on the table and they let the moment pass.

Later, Crowley steals the last fresh raspberry from his plate.

-

They walk back to the bookshop and Aziraphale’s hand, now that it got a taste of it, brushes against Crowley’s twice. Feeling bold, he opens his mouth to invite Crowley inside again for a drink. Crowley beats him to it, and there’s an edge of desperation to his voice as he says, “I- We- Nggh- Ah, maybe I could stay a bit?” and quickly follows that up with, “Could I tempt you to some wine? It’s been a while since we had a decent Masseto.”

Aziraphale takes in the way he’s folded in on himself, hands half tucked into his pockets and his shoulders bowed forward. “Please, come in, my dear,” he says, trying to keep the worry from his voice. “That does sound rather lovely.”

Crowley nods stiffly and shuffles past him through the door. Aziraphale follows him to the back room where Crowley immediately drops onto the plush couch as if his legs suddenly lost the ability to hold his weight. Aziraphale settles into his armchair and watches him carefully. Crowley tears off his sunglasses and tosses them onto the cushion beside him. Aziraphale is at a loss for words as he watches his friend press his hands over his face and release a deep, shuddering breath.

“Crowley,” he tries, but the demon shakes his head and in the next breath he transforms back into a snake. He makes a beeline for Aziraphale and slithers his way back into the position that he had spent all morning enjoying.

“Assssiraphale,” comes the quiet hiss when Crowley has him almost completely wrapped in a pseudo-embrace.

“You can stay as long as you like, you know,” Aziraphale says. He strokes lightly at the head currently tucked beneath his chin.

Crowley tightens his hold slightly, just enough for it to feel like an acknowledgment.

They don’t drink that evening, but Crowley dozes on his shoulders while Aziraphale enjoys a good book and ponders this strange behavior.

The next day much like the one before, only Crowley spends some of the time hiding among the bookshelves in an attempt to scare away potential customers. Aziraphale is positively delighted. He closes the shop in the afternoon and finds Crowley enjoying the last of the day’s sunlight pouring through a window.

“My dear,” he says, and he reaches out to caress the sun warmed scales. Crowley uncoils and shifts back to his human form, perched precariously on the windowsill, and Aziraphale quickly retracts his hand. “Dinner? I thought perhaps the Wolseley, I do love their salmon. And their vanilla millefeuille… oh it’s scrumptious.”

Crowley smiles slightly and gestures for Aziraphale to lead the way. And if Aziraphale deliberately chose to dine nearby in order to enjoy a fine stroll and perhaps touch Crowley’s hand once or twice, well, that is certainly no one’s business but his own.

-

The evening finds them back at the bookshop where Aziraphale once again settles in for the night with a book and Crowley wastes no time in making himself comfortable in his lap. They wile away the hours in silence, only broken by the soft turn of a page or the sound of skin moving smoothly against scales, until a sudden sound at the front door startles Crowley from his lap. He hisses menacingly and shifts back to human.

“Crowley-” Aziraphale tries.

“Sssssh. Sssstay there, angel.”

Aziraphale watches him with a great deal of apprehension, not because he’s worried about the noise but because Crowley looks positively <i>serpentine</i>. There are scales along his cheekbones and down his neck, on the backs of his hands, and his fangs haven’t retracted. He hasn’t manifested his sunglasses and Aziraphale can see his yellowed scleras. When he slinks around the corner and toward the front door, Aziraphale stands to follow him. He lets Crowley edge closer to the door, watches silently as he first scents the air and then pulls aside the curtain to look out onto the pavement.

Crowley’s shoulders immediately fall into a slump and he drops back against the wall as if his legs are about to fail him. Aziraphale is there in an instant.

“Oh, my dear,” he says sadly, and he feels the way Crowley’s arms tremble beneath his hands.

“Ssssorry, I thought it might have been…” he gestures upward and a string of garbled noises fall from his lips until Aziraphale takes that final step forward to crowd him against the wall in a tight embrace. He holds on as Crowley shakes and stammers, and he feels Crowley's hands clawing desperately at the back of his coat. “I thought I’d lost you,” Crowley says, and the words feel wet against Aziraphale’s neck.

“You didn’t, my dear. You haven’t,” he murmurs, and then with more strength: “You won’t.”

Crowley tries to speak, hiccoughs, and tries again, “They’re going to come for us.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale concedes, and he pulls back to meet his eyes, “but they’ll regret it if they do.”

Something in his face seems to calm Crowley, and when he takes a deep breath it comes out as, “I love you, angel,” and he closes his eyes with a stricken expression.

Aziraphale has stared down many diverging paths these past few days, not to mention the past millennia, and if he is certain of anything it’s that no path is worth taking if he can’t travel it with Crowley. He reaches up to brush his thumbs across the wetness on Crowley’s cheeks. “And I, you.”

Crowley’s eyes snap open. “You- but, I…”

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. As he stood upon the precipice, he thought it would feel like falling. He was wrong: it feels like flying. Aziraphale smiles, wide and happy and free. “I love you.”

Crowley looks at him, mouth agape.

“Come, my dear.” Aziraphale takes his hand. “I think you could do with a nice cup of chamomile.”

Crowley follows him wordlessly and allows Aziraphale to arrange him gently onto the couch and accepts the teacup Aziraphale presses into his hand. Aziraphale perches on the cushion beside him and waits.

Crowley takes a sip of the scalding liquid. “Alright,” he says. He turns his free hand palm up on his knee, and sighs audibly when Aziraphale immediately twines their fingers together. “Can I stay?”

“As long as you’d like.”

Crowley squeezes his hand. “Careful, angel, I might never leave.”

“How splendid,” Aziraphale says and tucks himself against Crowley’s side, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

[animeangelriku]

Should I Write Us A Love Song, My Dear

[also available on AO3!]

Aziraphale sometimes feels like a broken record being played in his old gramophone with how often he repeats himself, but he never feels any guilt or remorse about it.

He loves kissing Crowley, and he will never tire of kissing Crowley, and he will keep saying so and kissing Crowley for as long as Crowley allows him to, and that’s that.

Goodness gracious, Aziraphale loves kissing Crowley. He does, truly, and he can’t fathom how he spent six thousand years not kissing his beloved demon.

(He can, actually, but he’d rather not think about it. He does not want to sully their kisses with those memories and thoughts. They are here now, and that is what matters.)

Aziraphale is thankful that they don’t necessarily have to breathe, just so that they can keep their mouths pressed together longer, pulling Crowley’s lip between his own, nibbling it gently, giving it a soft lick to soothe the bruised skin—even though they do occasionally forget breathing is an optional activity, and they pull slightly away, spit trailing between their mouths, before they dive back in. Crowley makes the sweetest sound when Aziraphale catches his tongue with the tiniest of nips, a devious, pleased smirk twisting the corner of his lips on their next kiss, a gesture that Aziraphale feels down to his bones, to his essence, to the very core of him, where Crowley has made his home.

Oh, and if he were to get started on how marvelous of a kisser Crowley is, on the beautiful, breathtaking, spine-tingling things he can do with his sinful tongue and his perfect, miraculous mouth…

Lord above, Aziraphale could write odes to Crowley’s mouth. Shakespeare and Wilde and Keats and Donne and Neruda and García Lorca would have nothing on him.

Crowley’s lips are soft and a bit plump, often sweet, mostly damp, and always perfect for kissing. They’re just the exact size to fit against Aziraphale’s, just the right shape for Crowley to pull Aziraphale’s lips between them, to gently tug them with his teeth, to nibble the skin and run his tongue over the bruised flesh.

“Eager, are you,” Aziraphale teases him, his mouth brushing Crowley’s, and his beloved flashes a hint of teeth, the sharp edge of an almost fang.

“Can’t help it,” Crowley replies, his voice low and guttural as he moves his hands from Aziraphale’s shoulders to wrap around his neck, “Love your mouth, always have,” and the honesty and devotion in his answer drags a whine from Aziraphale, and he slips his hands beneath Crowley’s shirt to push hard and heavily against the small of his back, the curve of his spine, pulling Crowley closer until he finds himself trapped between his husband and the sofa’s backrest, Crowley’s legs bracketing his thighs and their chests pressed flush together.

“Angel,” Crowley exhales, delighted, a touch of surprise coloring his voice. He runs his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair, sinking into the locks and tilting Aziraphale’s head back before he closes the distance between their mouths, immediately sliding his wicked tongue past Aziraphale’s lips.

Aziraphale shivers when Crowley’s nails barely scratch his scalp, they’re holding on to his hair so tightly, and he slowly trails his hands up Crowley’s back, still beneath his shirt to feel the bare skin under his fingertips, to pull his beloved even closer. The movement forces Aziraphale to nearly slouch against the sofa’s backrest, thus forcing Crowley to lean further on him.

Crowley lets out a surprised yelp and cups his hands around Aziraphale’s neck so he can pepper kisses all over the angel’s face; on his brow, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose, any and every inch of skin his mouth can touch.

Even though that feels lovely, wonderful, magnificent, and even though Aziraphale knows how much Crowley likes leaving soft, tiny kisses over his face, he really wants to keep kissing Crowley’s lips, please, not just be on the receiving end of them.

On the next kiss placed near his jaw, Aziraphale catches Crowley’s mouth with his own and bites his lip to keep him there in case his beloved tries to break away from him again. But it doesn’t look like he will. On the contrary, Crowley’s fingers tighten around his neck, holding him close but never hurting him, a gesture only meant to keep Aziraphale right where Crowley wants him.

Not that the sofa isn’t a perfectly good place to snog the living daylights out of each other, but Aziraphale wants to feel all of Crowley, and while he loves having his dear husband on his lap, he’d much rather they were somewhere more comfortable.

He doesn’t even have to snap his fingers. It only requires Aziraphale to picture it, to remember how soft their bed is, how their bedroom smells like them, and the universe complies to pull them from their position on the sofa and safely deposit them on the bed upstairs, their mouths still attached to each other.

“And you call me eager,” Crowley mutters teasingly, once more tilting Aziraphale’s head back, this time into the pillows, to kiss him deeper.

“Can’t help it,” Aziraphale echoes, because he can’t, he truly can’t help it—not with the way every touch of Crowley’s lips fills him with love and adoration. His hands are still beneath Crowley’s shirt, and they roam his back and his shoulders and go all the way down to his hips, unable to get their fill, Aziraphale wants to touch Crowley all over so much he’s burning with it.  

Crowley must feel his sudden desperation on the press of the angel’s hands on his skin, or maybe Aziraphale breathes out a plea that is deaf to his own ears but not to Crowley’s, or maybe his demon has just always been able to read every little one of Aziraphale’s motions and gestures. Whatever it is, Crowley kisses him fiercely, his own hands gripping Aziraphale’s hair to push his head back as far as it will go and plunder his mouth like he wants to memorize its insides, like he hasn’t already, like Aziraphale wouldn’t let Crowley kiss him just like this for the rest of forever.

Crowley breaks away slowly, after one last lick to the back of Aziraphale’s teeth, and even through his haze, Aziraphale can see the slight, barely noticeable trail of spit between their mouths, the slickness covering Crowley’s, and want and arousal pool within his belly and ignite his every cell, nearly overwhelming him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, his voice a needy, breathless whisper that has Crowley grinning and licking his lips, fully aware of Aziraphale’s eyes following the movement of his tongue and wishing it were his own.

Crowley’s eyes are more black than golden, his pupils wide with lust, and his hair is long enough to cover his collarbones, freely exposed because of the very low cut of his shirt, and Aziraphale’s mouth waters at the thought of dragging the skin between his teeth. But what he wants first, more than anything, is to feel Crowley’s teeth on his neck.

Aziraphale inhales deeply through his mouth and vanishes his bowtie with a thought, opening the top buttons of his shirt while he’s at it. Crowley’s gaze darkens with a hunger so predatory that Aziraphale’s skin itches with anticipation.

“Fuck, you’re so gorgeous,” Crowley snarls, leaning down to kiss him again, all teeth and tongue and absolutely no finesse to speak of, and Aziraphale’s toes curl into the bed, his fingers tight and possessive on Crowley’s back, digging in just enough to make Crowley hiss.

His demon growls, a low sound that begins in his throat and ends in Aziraphale’s, and one of his hands moves from Aziraphale’s head down his arm, his side, his hip, until he reaches Aziraphale’s thigh and rakes his fingernails through the fabric of his trousers and grabs at the flesh underneath it to pull it against his hip.

Aziraphale gasps, his arms tightening reflexively around Crowley as his demon pulls away to press hot, desperate, open-mouthed kisses to the underside of his jaw, the side of his neck, the bob of his Adam’s apple, and then his teeth graze the hollow of Aziraphale’s throat and Aziraphale arches into the touch with an embarrassingly whiny noise.

“Dearest,” he moans, “my darling,” and Crowley groans against his skin and presses him down into the bed—their bed, their bed, their bed in their bedroom in their home in the world they saved, in the world they love, theirs, theirs, all theirs—his other arm snaking between Aziraphale’s back and the mattress to pull him closer and nuzzle his neck harder, to latch onto his pulse and suck his mark on Aziraphale’s skin.

Aziraphale whines and pants against Crowley’s temple, and he can feel Crowley’s smirk on his neck, the sharpness of his grin, before he feels the sharpness of his demon’s teeth grazing his flesh, sending a heat that is solely human and yet no less marvelous because of it coursing through Aziraphale’s body as he clings more tightly to his beloved husband. He wants Crowley closer, closer, so much closer, he wants to fuse their corporations together until his essence brushes against Crowley’s, until he can kiss the places where Crowley’s form connects with his, until he can kiss the very atoms and bits of stardust that make him up.

Crowley is still holding one of his thighs to his side, so Aziraphale curls his leg the rest of the way around Crowley’s, secures the grip of his arms around him, and he presses his other foot against the bed to push himself up and roll them over so he’s the one pinning Crowley down into the pillows now, his legs settling between Crowley’s, right where they belong, one of his hands curled around Crowley’s neck to kiss the breath away from him, licking inside Crowley’s mouth and relishing the full-body shiver from his demon, the way Crowley’s fingers dig into the fabric of his waistcoat.

“Angel,” Crowley exhales, squeezing his knees against Aziraphale’s sides and clinging to him in an embrace that can only be described as constricting, the hold of a serpent, but Aziraphale feels nothing but safe and wanted and desired and loved, most of all, so, so loved.

“My love,” Aziraphale murmurs into Crowley’s mouth, and then he murmurs it against the corner of his lips, and then against the shell of his ear and the arc of his brow and the curve of his cheekbone and the snake mark on his temple, “My love, my love, my love,” and Crowley throws his head back and clutches him tighter and cants up his hips and his cock is hard and hot even through their layers and Aziraphale is so turned on he might just burst with it. He adores Crowley, loves him, wants him so blessedly much.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley gasps, the sound turning into a whine when Aziraphale presses him down into the bed with his own hips, grinding his erection against Crowley’s and feeling his demon push back until they can settle on a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm that nonetheless gives them enough friction to get them where they want to get.

“Oh, fuck, keep doing that,” Crowley pants, his arms winding around Aziraphale’s neck to bring their mouths together again, just a pressure of their lips rather than actual kissing, though neither of them minds too much.

Despite the lack of space between them, Aziraphale wants them to be closer still, to burrow into Crowley’s chest and never leave, to feel Crowley’s pleasure as if it were his own, to entwine himself with his beloved husband until he doesn’t know where one’s body begins and the other one’s ends.

Aziraphale forces his knees beneath him so he can sit up, just a little bit, and his hands skim down Crowley’s figure to grab his thighs and pull them off the bed and against his hips, and when Aziraphale thrusts down with this new leverage, Crowley shouts, arching off the mattress and against Aziraphale’s belly.

“Like that, my dear?” Aziraphale says, wanting to sound cheeky and smug but most likely coming off as awestruck and breathless instead.

“Yessss,” Crowley hisses, the movement of his hips serpentine and hypnotizing, drawing Aziraphale deeper. “Yesss, angel, yesssss…”

Aziraphale groans and leans down to kiss Crowley, eternally grateful that he gets to kiss and be kissed by this wonderful, unbelievable creature, by the one being that makes his traitorously human heart pound inside his chest, by the one he’s allowed to call the love of his life, his love, his love, his beautiful, perfect, marvelous Crowley—

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpers. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley…”

His fingers clutch Crowley’s thighs as he shoves their hips together and pins Crowley’s body to the bed and licks the sweat from Crowley’s neck and tugs the skin of his collarbones with his teeth and sucks the hollow of his throat and Crowley thrashes beneath him and grabs the back of his head to pull him back up and kiss him and nip the tip of his tongue and Aziraphale returns the favor by pulling Crowley’s bottom lip between his and biting down slightly harder than he meant to and Crowley keens, a broken, wounded noise that Aziraphale swallows.

It only takes three, four, five more thrusts, and then Crowley screams what sounds like Aziraphale’s name before his body tenses and coils around the angel, the warmth and dampness of his orgasm nearly overwhelming enough to discorporate Aziraphale.

Crowley doesn’t lessen his hold on him. In fact, he uses his heels to bring Aziraphale closer, caressing his hair and murmuring sweet words into his ear.

“C’mon, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale yells and comes in his trousers, almost drowned by the waves of love pouring out of his demon.

They thrust softly and shallowly through the aftershocks, panting against each other’s mouth until they can regain enough breath to kiss properly again.

Aziraphale drops Crowley’s thighs and slides down on the bed until he’s lying atop Crowley, carding his fingers through the beautiful curls. Crowley sighs contentedly, his knees still squeezing Aziraphale’s sides like he wants to keep him there until the sun explodes—like Aziraphale isn’t always looking for excuses to remain in bed by Crowley’s side. Like there’s anywhere else he would rather be than in Crowley’s arms.

“I love you,” Aziraphale mumbles, and Crowley’s expression is so full of love and praise and devotion that Aziraphale swears his heart grows three sizes, or five, or ten.

“I love you, too,” Crowley tells him, bringing his head down for another kiss.

[inkwell1013]

Lillies and Roses

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Genre: Humor, Oneshot, Outsider POV, Flowershop AU (just barely)

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: Mistaken infidelity, mild elements of body horror

Summary: Cameron has been running his family’s flower shop for years now. When a handsome yet peculiar redhead walks in to buy flowers for his boyfriend, he thinks nothing of it. But when that very same boyfriend comes in a week later to buy flowers for his fiancé, Cameron finds that he has a decision to make. Does he tell Crowley that Aziraphale is two timing him with Anthony or does he keep the secret? Or Crowley has two names and confuses a poor, innocent florist.

- - - - -

Cameron woke up early, as he always did. He brought in the latest shipment of flowers and swept up the shop floor ready for the customers. Things were always quiet in the mornings, when he was the only person in the store, and he took the opportunity to listen to some music while he worked.

Things were quiet most of the time. His shop was small, and he got just enough customers to get by. That was fine with him though. He enjoyed his quiet, unbothered life.

Whistling along with the music, he set up a few arrangements on the centre table and decided to work on a few special orders whilst he had the time. The door to the shop creaked open a few minutes later, and the bell rang, letting him know he had his first customer of the day.

He turned around and gave them a friendly smile. “Good morning,” he said. “How can I help you?”

The man was strange, though Cameron couldn’t immediately put a finger on what was unusual about him. It was a collection of odd traits which, when combined, made for an overall peculiar man.

He was wearing sunglasses even though it was bright and sunny outside, and Cameron swore he saw a flash of yellow eyes from underneath the dark lenses, but that was probably just his imagination playing tricks on him.

The man’s movement was almost serpent like and when he opened his mouth to speak, a forked tongue flickered out. Cameron blinked in surprise but when he looked again, it was replaced by a regular tongue.

Snake eyes. Snake tongues. Slithering. Serpents.

He shook his head. He was just imagining things. Covering his surprise with a classic customer service smile, he spoke. “Pardon?”

The man frowned. “I said, I want to buy some flowers for my boyfriend.”

How unusual… He even hissed his words like a snake.

“I can help you with that sir,” said Cameron. “Any particular type?”

The man thought for a moment. “Lilies,” he said at last. “He likes lilies. White ones.”

“You’re in luck,” said Cameron. “I got a fresh shipment of those this morning. It’ll take a little while for me to make the bouquet, but you’re more than welcome to wait in the shop.”

The man agreed and Cameron went to fetch some lilies from the back room. He found some suitable flowers and brought them out.

“So, tell me a bit about your boyfriend,” he said, pulling out a pair of scissors to cut the stems to the correct size.

“Why do you want to know?” Crowley asked, leaning up against the centre display table.

“Just making small talk.” Cameron wrapped the stems of the flowers with an elastic band.

“He owns a bookshop in Soho,” said the stranger. “Our anniversary is soon, so I thought I’d surprise him. Lilies are his favourite flower.”

“That’s sweet of you. He’s a lucky guy.”

“If anything, I’m the lucky one.”

Cameron nodded absentmindedly, holding the bouquet upright to check that everything was in order. Once he was sure that everything was in place, he laid it back down on the workbench and pulled out a notecard and pen.

“The flowers come with a personalized note,” he explained. “What do you want me to write on it?”

The stranger thought for a moment. “Could you write ‘Happy anniversary Aziraphale. I’m really glad Armageddon didn’t happen. Love Crowley.’?”

“What?”

“It’s an… inside joke.”

Cameron laughed. “And a unique one for sure,” he said. “How do you spell Aziraphale?”

Crowley spelt it out for him, and Cameron scribbled it down, along with the rest of the message. Then, he rang him up at the till and took the payment.

“I’ll come again soon,” called Crowley, as Cameron waved him goodbye.

***

Two weeks later, on a chilly spring afternoon, another strange person came into the shop and Cameron couldn’t help but be reminded of Crowley when he saw him. On first impression, he was unassuming - the only thing even slightly unusual about him was his unnaturally white hair. Still, there was something unequivocally wrong about him. Something off.

Cameron blinked and when he opened his eyes again, the man was gone. Instead, a creature was hovering before him. Concentric rings of eyes twisted around each other, framed by six wings which were large enough to touch either side of his shop.

He blinked again.

Two of the wings curled in on each other, forming a vaguely humanoid shape. The creature wrapped two of its wings around its body and Cameron watched in horror as three heads lurched their way from the thing’s shoulders. There was a human head in the centre, flanked by a lion’s head on the left and an ox’s head on the right.

He blinked again.

The creature cocooned itself in its wings. The two sets of remaining wings merged into a single pair. The wings were thrown backward revealing an otherwise normal human form, save for the bright while halo floating above it.

He slammed his eyes shut, blinded by the light. When he cautiously cracked them up again, he was faced by a regular man.

“Are you alright my boy?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. I was just a little out of it,” said Cameron.

Had it all been in his head? He would have to go and see a doctor if these… hallucinations continued.

“How can I help you?” he asked, doing his best to keep his worry at the back of his mind.

The stranger gave him a friendly smile. “I’m looking to purchase some flowers for my fiancé,” he explained.

“Then you came to the right place!” said Cameron. “What kind would you like?”

The man considered for a moment. “Red roses, if you have them,” he said

Cameron nodded. “You’re in luck - I think I still have some of those left. This will only take a moment, so you are welcome to wait.”

Cameron went through the same motions he had gone through two weeks ago and every day since: fetching the flowers from the back room; arranging them; cutting the stems to size. The familiar routine was a comfort to him, especially after the strange occurrence that had happened just moments prior.

“So, how did you and your fiancé meet?” he asked.

The man smiled. “We’ve known each other for a long time,” he said. “When I first laid eyes on him, I knew he was different. But we didn’t get along at first. We were quite different people, and our families were… I don’t want to say at war, but it certainly felt like that sometimes. We were on opposite sides of a conflict we had no part in.

“Despite all that, he kept surprising me with his kindness and compassion. We ran into each other again and again, and somewhere along the line, between the clandestine dinner dates and getting drunk together in my bookshop, I realised I liked him. And I realised I loved him not long after. Things fell into place after that.”

“That’s so sweet,” said Cameron, as he finished making the bouquet. “Would you like me to write a note to go with the flowers?”

“I would like that,” said the stranger. “Could you write ‘For my dear Anthony. You bring light to my life. All my love, Aziraphale.’?”

Cameron went to write the message, but his pen stilled halfway through as his brain caught up to him.

Aziraphale.

This was Crowley’s boyfriend.

And he was buying flowers for a man named Anthony.

His fiancé named Anthony.

Cameron desperately tried to keep his expression neutral, even as his heart was racing. He hurried through the rest of the note and thrust the flowers into Aziraphale’s hands.

“I’m afraid we’re closing soon,” he announced, ringing Aziraphale up at the till. Aziraphale handed over the money and Cameron shooed him out the door.

Once he was sure that Aziraphale was gone, he let the horror he was hiding show on his face. Aziraphale was a cheater. He was cheating on Crowley with Anthony, and there was precisely nothing that Cameron could do about it.

***

Looking up a stranger in the phonebook made Cameron feel like a stalker.

He was surprised when his search turned up no results. You would think someone with such an unusual name would be easy to track down, but there was no one anywhere in the phonebook with the first name Crowley. It was like he never even existed. Aziraphale’s name wasn’t in there either.

He searched for them on social media too, which was an equally fruitless endeavour.

In a last-ditch effort, he searched for their names on the internet. When he searched for Crowley, the only search results to show up were some fictional characters and a brief Wikipedia page on a biblical demon.

Aziraphale’s name garnered even fewer results. There are a few reviews for bookshop in Soho owned by a man with the same name, which he presumed was Aziraphale.

He also found a blurred black and white photograph of a man under the images tab. The man was probably Aziraphale’s grandfather or something, though the family resemblance was almost uncanny; they could have been twins. If the photo weren’t so old, Cameron would have assumed it was Aziraphale himself.

He closed his laptop, having exhausted all his options. There was nothing he could do.

***

The shop door slammed open, and the sudden thud made Cameron jump. Whipping around, he was greeted by two familiar faces – Crowley and Aziraphale.

“My apologies,” said Aziraphale (cheating bastard). “We didn’t mean to startle you. It was the wind.”

Cameron cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. “It’s fine,” he said. “I was a little distracted anyway. How can I help you?”

Aziraphale grinned like the adulterous douchebag he was. “We’d like to buy some flowers please,” he said.

“Any particular type?” asked Cameron, plastering his face with a bland costumer service smile that barely managed to cover up his scowl.

“We’ll have a little look around, if that’s okay?” said Crowley, arm still wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulder. Cameron gave a quick nod, and the couple started wandering around the shop. Somewhere along the line, they split apart, ending up on other sides of the shop. Cameron had found his opportunity.

Aziraphale was examining a bouquet of azaleas when Cameron caught up to him, with what could only be described as a serene expression on his face. He whispered something to them, and Cameron swore that they brightened up a little at his words.

He was talking to the flowers. First the snake eyes, then whatever had happened when he first met Aziraphale, then their presence on the internet (or lack thereof), and now the guy was having a conversation with a bunch of azaleas.

This pair was seriously weird. They matched each other in that way – like two particularly ugly Christmas sweaters or strange modern art sculptures. They fitted together so perfectly that it was difficult to imagine them apart. It was difficult to imagine that Aziraphale would fracture their relationship by doing what he had done.

“I know about Anthony,” he hissed, venom clear in his voice.

“Pardon?

“I know that you are a cheater, and I will expose you if you don’t come clean right now. Please, spare him any further heartbreak.”

He expected Aziraphale to blow up at him, or get defensive, or even cry.

Instead, much to Cameron’s surprise, Aziraphale laughed so hard that he could barely stand up, having to grip a hold of the table to keep his balance.

“Crowley are you hearing this?” he chocked out. “I’m a cheater, didn’t you know? Two timing you with Anthony.”

“Yes. You’re a real scoundrel alright,” said Crowley, wrapping Aziraphale up in his arms. “Adultery. What an unforgiveable sin?”

“Well, you certainly know something about unforgivable sins, don’t you dear?” There was an undeniable smirk on Aziraphale’s lips, that Crowley mirrored.

“I can show you another unforgivable sin if you want,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s ear.

“Crowley! You bad boy.”

“Its in my blood. Can’t help it,” said Crowley with a quirk of his eyebrows.

Cameron found himself feeling rather irritated and left out of the conversation “I’m still here,” he snapped. “What on earth is going on? Why are you two so happy?”

How could these two go right to flirting after he had dropped a nuke on their relationship?

“We don’t mean to upset you dear,” said Aziraphale. “It’s just amusing. That’s all.”

“I’m telling the truth. I swear! He came into the shop two weeks ago to buy flowers for another man.”

“Those flowers were for Crowley,” said Aziraphale.

“But they were addressed to a man named Anthony,” insisted Cameron.

“Anthony is my first name,” said Crowley.

“…What?”

“Did you really think Crowley was my first name?” he laughed. “Anthony is my given name, but I usually go by Crowley. It’s just a preference.”

“You said they were for your fiancé!”

“Yes,” said Crowley. “I proposed to him three weeks ago. I am his fiancé.”

Everything clicked. “He’s... Oh my God. I feel really stupid. I am so sorry. That was… I am so sorry,” he stammered.

Crowley patted him on the shoulder. “Its fine kid. I would have assumed the same thing if I were in your situation.”

“No, it’s not fine. I need to apologise.” Cameron face was bright red. This was so embarrassing. “I assumed the worst of you,” he said. “And that was wrong of me. You have my sincerest apologies. I’ll be happy to give you a refund.”

“No thank you,” said Aziraphale. “In fact, we have a favour to ask. Would you cater our wedding?”

“Really?”

“Yes, of course. You’re a good lad, and your flowers are to die for. They’re easily the best in London. Will you do it?”

“I’d love to!”

There were lilies and roses at the wedding.

[sushiandstarlight]

Cookies: Chapter 15

This chapter contains today’s prompt “expectation,” sort of, if you squint. lol

Previous Story: Of All The Beds In All The Hotels In All The World

Chapters 1-3 / Chapter 4 / Chapters 5 & 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 / Chapter 13 / Chapter 14

Read this chapter on AO3

Rated G, Light Teen for suggestions but nothing explicit

Personal note: I’m somewhere in the realm beyond tired from working over night.  What day is it? What year is it?  Here, have some fluffy husbands.

That afternoon it began to snow in earnest, flurries turning to flakes that worked together to blot out the grey landscape. They traveled in the whirling winds, sticking to the trees and the garden and the walls. Inside the inn it was still cozy and warm, perhaps more so than before. Edie and Gladys spent the afternoon in the kitchen doing prep work for the inn's Christmas feast. Two days away, there were already foods they could prepare ahead to be popped in the oven in time for dinner. Crowley was given reprieve from this, though he offered to help.

“You should spend some time with that boyfriend of yours, dear,” Gladys was being particularly nice to him and it was making him even more nervous than he had been- and he'd been getting pretty keyed up as Christmas approached anyway.

“It's allllllmost time,” Edie was absolutely no help as far as anxiety went, but she only giggled when he glared at her.

So, they wiled away the snowy afternoon playing with a chess set Aziraphale had found on a bookshelf in the sun room. The pieces and the board itself were wooden and old, polished to a shine by decades of games. Crowley cheated which made him happy. Aziraphale noticed, and let him with a small amount of squawking, but still managed to win which made him happy, too.

Edie brought in a tray of coffee, pastries, and sandwiches later in the day. The two of them were curled under a blanket on the love seat, lights out but for the tree, watching the snow swirl outside the window as the sun set. Edie winked at Crowley before she left, earning her a tongue stuck out in response and then she was gone back to the kitchen.

“Really, the pair of you.”

“She's riling me up on purpose.”

“She wouldn't do that.”

“Oh, she would. She is!”

“Over what?”

Crowley shut his mouth with an audible click and looked back out at the snow.

Aziraphale's hand crept up his thigh, just a tickle of fingers.

“Getting handsy with me, Angel?”

“I have ways of making you talk.”

“Do you really want to spoil Christmas?”

“Is that what has you so tense?” He was gently stroking Crowley's thigh now and even Crowley could feel one kind of tension trading spaces for another in his body as he leaned towards Aziraphale, “Darling, I'm sure whatever you've picked out of me, I'll love it. It's from you.”

“That's what Gladys said on the phone when we first talked,” Crowley chuckled.

“Well, it's true.”

“Are you nervous about what you're giving me?” Crowley could play this game, too, and he moved his hand to rest near the angel's knee, barely tracing it with a finger. He delighted in watching a small shiver quiver through Aziraphale's shoulders.

“The thing itself, no. Not really. The presentation, maybe.”

“Gonna put on a show for me,” Crowley leered at him, leaning in closer and squeezing his thigh right above the knee, “Might scandalize the ladies of the house.”

Aziraphale laughed and it was a high and precious thing, shot through mostly with joy but a little bit of nervousness of his own.

“Hardly. I doubt there's anything that could truly offend them at this poi-int,” Crowley's hand had crept higher, “Except maybe the thoughts I'm having right now.”

“Having randy thoughts? Pssh, naughty angel,” Crowley's fingers were most definitely teasing him through his trousers, “I think we'll have to put you to bed early for those kinds of thoughts.”

“I think I'll need supervision,” Aziraphale was staring at him with rapt attention now, color rising to his cheeks and ears, down his throat, a lovely shade of pink, “To be sure I behave myself, stay put.”

“Oh, I would be the wrong one of that,” Crowley pressed into his side, slithered into it, really, “I'll only encourage misbehavior.” He stood, offering his hand and Aziraphale took it, following him to the hall and up the stairs.

-

The first thing Crowley noticed the next morning was that Aziraphale was wrapped so completely around him, he couldn't possibly escape even if he wanted to. He didn't want to, though. For anyone else, it might have been uncomfortable warm under the blankets so wrapped up in a radiating angel, but for Crowley it was just right. He was perpetually cold, it was the snake in him, but especially so in the winter. The snow was beautiful to look at it, but the very vision of it made his body shiver and lock up. Some part of him wanted to find a burrow and sleep until it was over. His current situation was a perfect burrow.

The next thing he noticed, and he felt stirring in the arms around him as he did, was the smell of cinnamon and fruit.

“Someone's baking pies,” the words were slurred against the back of his neck and the lips moving there sent a delightful jolt down Crowley's spine.

“You're not even awake yet,” he stifled a laugh so as not to jostle his angel and possibly make him move.

“I know things.” The words were slightly more coherent.

“You can sense baked goods at 50 paces.”

“Damn right I can,” Aziraphale's arms closed in more around him, his legs, too. The angel hummed happily. Crowley echoed back with a happy little noise.

“Alright, smarty pants, what do you smell?” He felt Aziraphale take a deep breath behind him, let it out, then take another.

“Apple pie, surely. Crumble topping. Oh, that'll be divine.”

“Blasphemy!”

“Cherry,” Aziraphale ignored him, sniffing some more, “Mince? That might be mince. It's been ages since I had a decent mince pie. Maybe I should go have a look.” He made to release Crowley, but Crowley wanted none of that. He rolled over and pinned him down, hugging him around his chest.

“Nope, no can do. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Because you've been tempted to the burrow of a demon snake and you're not going to be used as a warm body for the rest of eternity,” his words, he knew, were muffled into the skin of Aziraphale's chest, but the angel would get the jist of it.

“Is that so? No way to vanquish the demon? Save the day? Be rewarded with tasty treats in compensation for my good deeds?”

“Afraid not. I don't make the rules. You're just stuck here now.”

“Well, the pies aren't done yet anyway.”

“I see where I stand.”

“Yes, on a timer,” Aziraphale chuckled, combing his fingers through Crowley's hair, “I'll know when they're done.”

“Because of your special magic sense?”

“Sure, my sense of smell. They'll smell even better when they're done.”

“What ever will you do to while away the minutes?” Crowley placed a kiss on his chest and then another before smiling up at him.

“I think I'll have a snack.”

“You did not just call me a snack.”

Aziraphale laughed and Crowley felt it in his whole upper body, splayed as he was across him.

“Where on earth did you learn that?”

“I talk to people!”

“When? Who? Who explained snacks to you?”

“Gladys' grandson,” Aziraphale sniffed, “He helped me find the Christmas lights the other day. Oh, you really should come outside and see them tonight.”

Crowley shivered at the thought.

“I'll warm you back up when we come inside,” Aziraphale wheedled, “It's Christmas eve, you should see how pretty the inn is with the lights. Besides, I want to see what it all looks like in the snow. We won't be long.” Puppy eyes, his angel was giving him puppy eyes.

“Yeah, alright,” he grumbled, “but you are responsible if I wind up sleeping in a hole somewhere until spring.”

Chapter 16 is now up!

[thechekhov]

Good Omens Fic Recs

First of all, I’m gonna say that these are probably not ALL the fics I’d recommend, there are more, but I’m trying to keep it comprehensive. 

Fics listed here are non-explicit in nature, though they might contain sexual-ish elements or allusions to sex being had. 

All fics under the cut contain explicit sexual content.

Pre-Apocalypse:

it’s the light (it’s the obstacle that casts it) (5783/Complete)

It's like having a curtain pulled back on something he wasn't expecting to see. A surprise punch-and-judy at an up-scale restaurant, a lobster thermidor when he's ordered an ale.

Crowley's gleefully trying to wrap his head around the fact that Aziraphale is speaking Polari. Because of course he is.

Or: The Patron Saint of London's LGBT Community is real, and he lives in Soho.

two slow dancers last ones out (1658/Complete)

“Do you even know how to waltz?” “No. But you could teach it to me.”

and, so on (8938/Complete) 

Crowley doesn’t remember heaven, but Aziraphale remembers him. 

notes on a theme (4501/Complete)

After six-thousand odd years playing human, Crowley is beginning to suspect they've both gone a bit native.

Nanny Knows Best (series) (32,800/Kinda Complete?)

Being a nanny, that should be simple. Simple. Easy as pie. Crowley wished that were true. (*Warning: this fic contains various depictions of sexual harassment Nanny Ashtoreth has to deal with.)

Wings and How to Hide Them (10134/Complete)

Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends? (*Warning: this fic contains a mild sex scene but it’s not overly explicit, so I’m letting it split through)

When in Rome (series) (3938/Complete)

"And have you?" Aziraphale asked. "Anywhere to be, that is?"

"I don't suppose I do," Crowley said. "Would you like to go to dinner?"

"With a demon?" Aziraphale replied, tipping his head a little, his smile still hiding in his eyes. "I probably shouldn't."

names in history (23468/Complete)

Maybe he’d shown Crowley how to perform a few miracles, but that Crowley had taken to them so well was surely a sign that he wasn’t all bad. And maybe Aziraphale had let himself be called upon to perform a few temptations, but that was just testing the will of the faithful if you looked at it from a different angle.

dream to me (7342/Complete)

“You know, angel. Sometimes I think we’ve been bearing witness to a very great love affair, and we didn’t even notice.”

or: an angel and a demon fall in love. but a bookshop and a bentley do it first.

Linked (15665/WIP)

Crowley allows himself to get caught in a ‘demon trap’. He is now trapped. Oh no. Whatever shall he do.

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

Post Apocalypse:

Love’s Such An Old-Fashioned Word (2,384/Complete)

There has to be, Crowley thinks, a better word than love.

all i need, darling, is a life in your shape (14,243/Complete)

After everything, Aziraphale and Crowley, by unspoken agreement, begin sharing their lives.

Rip It Up and Start Again (9128/WIP)

After the Apocalypse is averted, an Angel and a Demon go on holiday, which turns into something a bit like retirement... or it would, if there weren't so much unfinished business following them around...

Gourd Omens (11504/Complete)

“Neave is a name I believe and certainly rings a bell but I will have to look up what a cucurbita is - it sounds rather latin.”

“Pumpkin.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Wh-NO not you!”

Aziraphale and Crowley move into their new cottage in South Downs after Armageddidn’t blows over. But of course hellish interference is never far away, and it looks like its target is the local flower show. Can the pair prevent Asparageddon, befriend their neighbours, grow the largest vegetables and win the cup for division B?

A Sky Full of Stars (2575/Complete)

Aziraphale takes Crowley as close to Heaven as they can get, these days.

Salinity (And Other Measurements of Brackish Water) (3455/Complete)

It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching.

dawn on the gates of eden (1262/Complete)

It’s the first day, but it’s an old story.

Slow (9371/Complete)

It started like this: A boy with the ability to warp reality met an angel and a demon and he made assumptions. Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves somehow married. Crowley fears going too fast. Aziraphale forges ahead. Neither know how to ask questions of each other.

it’s a new craze (5541/Complete)

CROWLEY: I try not to make a habit of gratitude, but I must give our appreciation to everyone out there who’s been listening and subscribing to The Ineffable Plan. AZIRAPHALE: Ooh, yes, we’ve become quite popular, haven’t we? CROWLEY: Yeah, just hit number eight on the advice charts … No advertising at all. AZIRAPHALE: Mm. How … miraculous. CROWLEY: … Aziraphale. You did not.

Warning: the rest of these recs contain explicitly mature themes. I’ve tried to tag them to the best of my ability. 

Long Is The Way, And Hard (27081/Complete)

The first time Crawley meets the angel, the celestial being is twisting its shining white robe in its fingers and looking wretched. It hardly spares him a glance as he shifts from snake to human, and Crawley is a touch put-out. It’s taken some practice to be able to do it so fluidly.

#through the ages #gets explicit at the end #soft and emotional sex 

small infinities and all that (13208/Complete)

And there it is, isn’t it? Something they’ve known for a long time, but haven’t named it. Have been too scared to name it. Something that speaks in their bones, in the space between them.

#Crowley and Aziraphale are turned human #gets explicit at the end #soft and emotional sex

The Pleasures of the World/Sleight of Hand (35480/Complete)

Aziraphale's fingers brushed [Crowley's] cheek, then turned his head slowly.

"I'm asking you to think it over," he said, so quietly that Crowley almost couldn't hear him. "That's all."

Crowley's stomach clenched harder. Somehow his hand had gotten ideas again and migrated in the direction of Aziraphale's waist, blindly creeping its way around, forcing the angel to lean slightly forward. This was the sort of thing reckless human teenagers did, or in the very least reckless human adults who hadn't gotten out much and were just beginning to notice how entrancing their bridge partners were.

"Won't take much," Crowley said, and leaned over to kiss him.

#slow burn #buildup of various sexual encounters #Aziraphale and his Hedonism are out for a joyride

The 21st Century, In Which They Finally Work It Out (22379/Complete)

This is light speed in comparison to the last few centuries of their relationship, but Crowley is barely holding on to his patience.

#gets explicit in the end #soft and emotional sex

You, Soft and Only (9400/Complete)

He hadn’t expected a sudden lapful of angel.

“Very sorry about this,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him.

#Aziraphale and Crowley have various sexual encounters through history #get you horny first and break your heart halfway through the story #fem!Aziraphale #fem!Crowley #all sorts of genital configurations and all of it is thoroughly entertaining 

The Better Part of Valour (6204/Complete)

“...the apocalypse has Not Happened and they’ve fallen into queerplatonic (or so they think) bedsharing and Crowley thinks he’s alone in being driven slowly to distraction by it, so he says nothing. Then one night he wakes when it’s still dark, and at first he doesn’t know why, until he hears Aziraphale’s breathing a little raspier than usual, and feels the very slight trembling of the bed.”

#bedsharing #Aziraphale has a Vulva #masturbation #fingerfucking #this one gave me about 5 heart attacks from how hot it was

for let thy efforts be (9337/Complete)

The first time Crowley made the Effort, he was reclining on a very comfortable couch in the dimly-lit confines of a cozy little restaurant in Rome, with his head pillowed upon the breast of an Angel.

#alcohol #nonhuman genitalia #fingering

Surrender (series) (78,828/Complete)

Aziraphale felt the explosion of dark power all the way in London, but had no idea Crowley was involved. When he realizes the demon is missing, Aziraphale goes looking. What he finds is not the lively, wily adversary but a dying snake that barely feels of demonic power at all. The angel can perform miracles, but he can’t heal a demon. Aziraphale has to do everything he can to save Crowley, because an eternity alone on this Earth is as unthinkable as the end of the world was.

#Hurt and Comfort #Near Death Experience #Crowley is a VERY pushy sub #marking/possessiveness #piercings and tattoos done with holy water/blessed objects

[et-in-arkadia]

“Here,” says Crowley, pushing the picnic basket across their blanket with a little kick of his foot. “There’s another dessert you missed, angel.”

“How lovely,” says Aziraphale, already aglow from the finest and most sumptuously packed picnic St. James’s Park has seen in its history, a sight more over-the-top than when James used to parade his crocodiles and camels about on the grounds. 

Crowley has outdone himself, with a basket miracled into producing one delicacy after the other after the other, and their fourth bottle of champagne has left Aziraphale feeling as effervescent. He’s more than satiated. “But I’m positive I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Sure you could,” says Crowley enticingly. He drops his chin so that his sunglasses slide down his nose and show his eyes. How it’s possible for snake’s eyes to resemble a puppy’s on cue Aziraphale has never been able to figure out. “Just one bite is enough. I’m curious to know what you think, is all.”

“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt,” says Aziraphale, who rather can imagine a few more bites, if they’re anywhere near as delectable as Crowley’s other choices. He draws the basket closer and peeks inside. It’s empty now save for a plain white baker’s box tied up with red and white string. 

There’s a nice heft to it as he takes it out, the strings unknotting with a thought. Crowley watches him intently, the sunglasses removed now, and Aziraphale wonders what he has in store. Almond-paste m’hanncha from Morocco, where they’d so enjoyed them once? Juicy rasgoola from Nepal? Those dear oversweet American chocolate chip biscuits?

He flips open the box and blinks down in confusion. Inside is a fantastically bejeweled snuffbox in a swirling rococo style. Aziraphale recognizes it at once—it belonged to Frederick II of Prussia, and is meant to be in the Victoria & Albert Museum in Knightsbridge, not resting against cardboard. “Crowley,” he starts.

“Open it,” Crowley says. “That’s just more packaging.”

Aziraphale gingerly lifts the lid. There, on a bed of white velvet, is a ring.

It’s a simple ring, a wide circle of gold gleaming in the faint sunlight through the trees. It looks old, wrought by hand, the kind of craftsmanship most didn’t bother with these days. Its color is an exceptionally pale yellow that some part of Aziraphale’s suddenly spinning brain notes is quite close to his own hair’s shade. He stares at the ring a long moment, then up at Crowley, too many questions on his tongue.

Crowley is on one knee in the grass beside him. He’d moved so silently Aziraphale hadn’t seen him do it. He’s balanced like that, straight-backed and as serious, only when he meets Aziraphale’s eyes he blows out a dramatic breath and says, “I know, I know, it isn’t done, it’s a weird human tradition and it’s not meant for us, but I thought—I thought, maybe, angel—”

Aziraphale scrambles to his feet, the plucked ring safe in his hand. He looks down at Crowley, feels his all-too-human-like heart racing and skipping. “My dear,” he manages. Now his palm holding the ring is perspiring. “If you’re going to ask me, ask me.”

Crowley swallows, but looks fortified by this, so he squares his shoulders, then takes Aziraphale’s free hand between both of his. “Will you marry me, Aziraphale?”

The query emerges easily enough, as though he’s practiced it before. Many, many times. Less so what Crowley tacks on: “No church for us, right, consecrated ground and all—I’m not—I’m not asking for anything like that. This would be only for us. Just something that we’d know about, that they couldn’t take away if they tried.”

“Oh, Crowley.” In all of his long years, Aziraphale never imagined anything of the kind. Then again, in most of those years, he hadn’t been expecting to end up cohabitating with his adversarial best friend that he was very much in love with. All things told, this is far down the list of strange things happening in regards to them. It might, however, be one of the best. 

Aziraphale studies his demonical counterpart’s face, the nervous way Crowley has the edge of his lip drawn between his teeth, the open, hopeful expression, those pleading eyes. So loved. Every inch of Crowley, beloved.

“Of course I will,” says Aziraphale. “Of course. Yes.”

“Yes?” Crowley’s face goes white, then red, then settles on a blushing pink. “Do you mean it?”

“I don’t think this is the right time for jokes,” hums Aziraphale. For emphasis he slips the ring onto the proper left finger, then holds out his hand admiringly, turning it this way and that.

Crowley gets to his feet, only just managing not to stagger sideways. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale; there is no displacement of air, but on another plane, black wings enfold them also. “If you knew how long I’ve had that ring, you might give it back. Bit creepy.”

“I think that sounds dreadfully romantic,” says Aziraphale, pulling him close into a breath-defying kiss. It’s a long time until there’s air for speaking, and Aziraphale remembers the words that he knows. There is one that is new and extraordinary and never before shared between them. “Let’s resume our picnic, husband, and you can tell me all about it.”

[ohhelga]

hi, hello. i'm leaving behind one (1) message for tipsy kirstin because i fucking love tipsy people. alright. hammer down ten of your headcanons for crowley and aziraphale as an overbearing, domesticated couple.

okay okay okay how about:

•crowley loves to bother aziraphale when he’s trying to read. they’re in the bookshop and aziraphale is trying to read but crowley is demanding attention. he’ll ask questions, he’ll sit right next to aziraphale and read over his shoulder, asking about the plot because he’s only read that page. he’ll start toying with the cuff of aziraphale’s shirt, or his bow tie, anything really just to get aziraphale to pay attention to him. and aziraphale cant even be mad. “my dear really, i’m trying to read.” “but angel, i’m bored.” and aziraphale just looks fond as he runs a hand through crowley’s hair.

•but don’t think aziraphale can’t be just as annoying as crowley. crowley loves napping in the sun, finding a nice quiet spot either in the shop or his flat and stretching out, almost luxuriating in the suns warmth. and aziraphale will come along and start talking, asking if they can go to the park, or the ritz for lunch or “oh, crowley they’re showing hamlet again and we really must go. i know you prefer the funny ones, but my dear it’s hamlet. can we go, please? crowley?” and crowley will sigh and make a fuss, but the trips are always worth it to see aziraphale practically radiate joy.

•crowley gets aziraphale into the habit of sleeping. at first, after the almost end of the world, when crowley would get tired (his body accustomed to sleep by this point) and he’d retire to bed, it felt weird not having the angel come with him. so, crowley would encourage aziraphale to join him in bed, “i get lonely without you, angel,” “crowley, you’re asleep, how can you possibly miss me when you’re unconscious to the world?” “i just do, now no more questions. bedtime.” And aziraphale would follow with a book, and let crowley curl against his side as he read. but eventually aziraphale wanted to try it for himself, “you just look so peaceful, i thought i might give it a go, dear boy.” and now when it’s time for bed both angel and demon curl up with each other and fall into a peaceful sleep.

•aziraphale sneaks into crowley’s plant room after he’s been in demanding and shouting at the plants to grow better. aziraphale whispers to all the plants telling them how well they’re doing and how lovely they look and “don’t mind that wily old serpent, he truly does care about you all. he just has a funny way of showing it,”. after he’s brushed a few leaves, aziraphale casually (not casually at all) goes back to the living room. “angel, what were you up to?” “nothing, dear.” even though crowley knows fine well what he’s been up to but can’t find it in him to be annoyed because it’s too adorable that aziraphale thinks he’s being subtle, when’s he’s as subtle as a punch to the face.

•after witnessing first hand how cold and cruel the other angels are to aziraphale, crowley makes it his mission to show the angel the love, kindness and adoration he deserves. he becomes very tactile with aziraphale, brushing hands when they pass things to each other, straightening his bow tie, fixing his lapels, touching the small of his back to guide him. so many different little ways. he encourages aziraphale to link arms with him when they go on any of their walks, takes his hand when they’re sitting on their bench, feeding the ducks one handed. he plays with aziraphale’s hair when they’re curled up together on the couch, he’ll take aziraphale’s feet into his lap and dig his fingers into the arch, watching as aziraphale relaxes with a small pleased smile. crowley is determined that everyday he’ll show aziraphale how special he is and how much he means to him.

•aziraphale is just as determined to show crowley how much he means to him, to make up for lost time. to make up for all those years that aziraphale denied his feelings to keep crowley -them- safe. while crowley really only sticks to calling aziraphale ‘angel’ (which after all this time aziraphale still adores because he can hear the love behind it) aziraphale has a few different pet names he peppers through their interactions. “oh, my dear how wonderful,” “dearest, we’re going to be late,” “a first edition? darling, you really shouldn’t have-” and when they’re lying in bed, cocooned away from the rest of the world his words only get sweeter (which crowley is still getting used to as his cheeks burn red, but his heart beats fond) “i adore you, light of my life” “you make me so happy, my love” “sweetheart, you truly are wonderful” “darling, i love you”

•sometimes days are tough. after living on earth for 6 milennia and witnessing everything they have, being persecuted by their sides and almost being destroyed, it’s no wonder that some days are hard. on days such as these crowley will be wound up and tense, itching for a fight, his patience on a knife edge. he’ll (verbally) lash out and then end up disappearing- slamming the door on his way out- leaving behind a frustrated and annoyed aziraphale. but later, when crowley has calmed from his initial vexation, he’ll return to his angel with an apology half formed in his head. before he can say anything, aziraphale wraps him in his arms, unfurls his wings and wraps them around him too for good measure and just holds him. aziraphale will murmur sweet nothings in crowley’s ear and tell him how much he loves him, adores him and crowley will just melt against him, “angel”.

•crowley can immediately tell when aziraphale is having a bad day. he’ll wake up and the space next to him on the bed will be empty, the sheets cold. (on a normal day if aziraphale is awake before crowley he’ll either just cuddle him or read). when crowley goes downstairs, he knows he’ll find aziraphale wandering aimlessly around his shop, unable to focus on any one task. he’ll be jittery and fidgety and he’ll have a pinched, sad look on his face that always manages to cause an ache in crowley’s chest. so, crowley will gather aziraphale in his arms and keeps holding on even when he can feel the angel tense and still. crowley will rub his hands gently up and down aziraphale’s back, pressing tender kisses into his soft blond curls. eventually, aziraphale will let out a shuddering sigh and wrap his own arms around crowley, his hands fisting into the fabric at his back. aziraphale will hide his face against crowley’s neck and may or may not cry as crowley brings up one of his hands to cradle the back of aziraphale’s head. “you’re okay, angel. you’re okay.”

•after a few years, aziraphale yearns for a quiet life away from the hustle and bustle. a quiet life to share with crowley, with no shop to worry about. yes he’d miss the ritz, but nothings stopping them visiting every now and then. he says as much to crowley, who agrees wholeheartedly and says “i have the perfect place, angel.” They buy a cottage in the south downs with a beautiful garden that crowley can tend to until his hearts content and plenty of space for shelves upon shelves of books. the quiet is soothing and at night they can see the expanse of the sky above them, filled with crowley’s creations, uninterrupted by streetlights unlike in the centre of the city. on clear, warm summer nights they’ll both lie side by side on the grass and stare up at the sky. sometimes they’re quiet, just content to hold each other’s hands and enjoy the other’s company. often times they quietly murmur, swapping stories and secrets that span milennia, sharing soft kisses and i love yous.

•with the privacy afforded to them with the cottage in the middle of no where, they can unfurl their wings and relax. crowley adores spending time grooming aziraphales wings “really, angel. how do they even get in this state?” It relaxes both of them, this form of care and attention that they had both been missing for more time than they care to think of. by the time crowley is finished, aziraphale is radiating a faint glow with how happy and soothed he is and crowley can feel his human heart thudding in his chest. aziraphale enjoys reciprocating and running his hands through crowley’s obsidian feathers that are the inverse of his own and no less beautiful for it. aziraphale can see all the tension leave crowley as he continues and he goes almost boneless like the snake he is. when they’re done, they leave their wings out a little while longer, their feathers overlapping, white against black.