#this is about ginger crowley btw. it always is

[fearandhatred]

crowley.... crowley ur so pretty..... save me crowley..........

[cobragardens]

The Colors of Crowley

Black is the color Crowley uses to cover himself, red is the color that represents Crowley to himself, and yellow is the color that represents Crowley to Aziraphale. What each color symbolizes and how it's used give us important information about Crowley (and to some degree Aziraphale) and about the ineffable relationship.

I feel kind of dumb writing this post because I'm sure it's glaringly obvious to everyone else, but there's this Metro UK article of all things (the Metro is owned by the hardcore rightwing Daily Mail, btw, so please don't link to it) that mentions the red stitching on Crowley's gloves in 1867, and it made conscious some details I had only subconsciously noted, so fwiw to anybody else, here are my notes on the colors associated with Crowley in Good Omens and their significance in the context of the way each one is used.

I don't think we need to cover black-as-evil in Western color symbology. [And yet here's a long-ass paragraph about it anyway! --Ed.] Light:dark::good:evil has been a thing with Christianity since before Christianity was even Judaism. The Israelites picked it up from the Zoroastrians way back before YHWH had subsumed El as 'God,' which may have been before they were Israelites as well; I mean it was a LONG time ago. Good Omens has been using black and white to represent Hell and Heaven, respectively, long before the show. In the UK, the book was published in paperback with a choice of black or white cover with an illustration of the contrasting character in the contrasting color: Crowley illustrated in black, Aziraphale in white. The current hardcover is grey.

Crowley wears black, and the Bentley is black. At the metanarrative or authorial level this is obviously for the purposes of the black/white demon/angel contrast, but on the intra-narrative level, the Watsonian level, it's interesting to note that Crowley doesn't have to wear black. He's obviously not free to choose from the full color palette, but Furfur's shirt and sash are is dark emerald green, Dagon is in ultramarine (as befits a marine Elder God), and Shax has only been on Earth for four years before she's wearing head-to-toe oxblood. When she shows up later in battle dress she's got a lot of oxblood there, too. And yet Crowley wears black.

Authorial reasons aside, black suits Crowley for a couple intra-narrative reasons. For much of history, black was the most expensive color to dye and maintain in clothing, and as a result it has always been fashionable. And for several centuries in Christendom, wearing black was also a sign that you were in mourning, which was a social and religious obligation when someone close to you died. Whether you could wear other colors with it depended on how long ago that death had occurred.

Again: black is what Crowley chooses to cover himself, and as there is a sharp distinction between how Crowley presents himself to fulfill his obligations and who he thinks of himself as being, there is likewise a distinction between the colors that represent those two quantities as well.

Red is the color the show uses to represent Crowley to Crowley. The most obvious reason is his hair. This is another change from Book Omens, where Crowley is described as having hair that is "dark." A lot of fans in the UK hated the change when S1 came out because fans hate change and the British have a thing against gingers, but Crowley's red hair suits him better than dark imo because the Mother of Demons in Jewish religious literature, Lilith, is traditionally depicted with red hair. Red hair has been associated for more than a millenium in the Middle East and England and Wales with sorcery, witchcraft, demonic influence/possession, and satan-worship.

Crowley wishes his mom was this cool with snakes.

A good case can be made that Crowley genuinely likes the color red in addition to considering it demonically appropriate. I say this for three reasons. Firstly, because when he has a (limited) choice of (again, demonically appropriate) colors, he always chooses red. The marble of the desk in his apartment is not green or grey. He can have any color stitching on his gloves or lining of his jacket collar he wants, but it's always red. Secondly, it's not only red he chooses, it's almost always bright red.

We know Crowley's red isn't supposed to represent blood or violence, because we have another demon character whose use of red represents just that, and it's not the same red:

Compare Shax' oxblood and burgundy to

and

and

and

Crowley's red isn't just red, it's lipstick, cherry, crimson red. And in case we weren't sure that we should read this red as symbolizing passionate, romantic love:

Romantic symbolism aside, bright red is also the color of passion (romantic or otherwise), optimism, heat, vitality, life, (hell)fire, and warning.

Red and black says don't fuck with Jack.

The third reason I think we can safely say that Crowley actually likes the color red is that he hides it. It's always tiny little touches, some of which you have to look for to see. (I still don't know where they snuck in the red on his Elizabethan habit, e.g.) And we know this color is a risk for him, and that he is right to hide it, because Ligur, who doesn't approve of any of Crowley's less-than-fully-demonic embellishments and may share Hastur's opinion that Crowley has gone native, comments on one of Crowley's more noticeably colorful items.

And I think the red tells us one more thing about Crowley, too.

Bright red is the colorest of colors, you know? When we can choose only one color to represent all colors, to represent colorfulness itself, we choose bright red (even in cultures where red symbolizes other meanings than it does in Western art).

Remember how Aziraphale gives Crowley's jacket a tartan collar when he swaps bodies with Crowley and impersonates him in Hell because Aziraphale feels the need to maintain some small secret token of his identity, some tiny unremarked sign of something he loves and thinks is beautiful, when he is down there alone in the gloom among enemies?

Crowley is down there alone among enemies every second of every day and night, whether he's in Hell or on Earth. And he's already had his identity stripped from him once. If you were someone who said

about this

and then you got recruited by the fash downstairs bc the fash upstairs threw you out for not being fashy enough and you had to start wearing nothing but dark colors and more importantly had to hide everything that made you feel warmth or softness or joy, and that was it, that was the deal for eternity, but you could add one (1) little touch to everything you wore to remind yourself that there is some beautiful part of you left, something you loved once, that no one has yet been able to steal or brutalize out of you...what color would the stitching on your gloves be?

Lastly, Yellow represents Crowley to Aziraphale. I'm going to skip the chain of evidence for this bc I think it's obvious, but the way it's used also lends itself to some inferences supported in other areas in the show.

Here's where I think changing Crowley's hair to red from Book Omens' dark is a good decision in another way. Crowley always has red hair, and if he has any color in his clothes it's going to be red. Red is eye-catching; it always stands out, but it doesn't stand out as demonic. And yet the color Aziraphale associates with Crowley and calls "pretty" isn't red.

I suspect that when Aziraphale says he can make Crowley an angel again, Crowley hears "You're not good enough for me to accept you as you are, let me fix you" because these are words Aziraphale has said to him many times, and has meant some of those times. But

tells the audience differently. The color Aziraphale associates with Crowley, the color he calls "pretty," is the color of Crowley's only overtly demonic feature. Aziraphale doesn't love the angel he knew who isn't Crowley, he loves Crowley, the demon, the person he is now, his yellow demon irises.

Yellow appears in three other places in S2, and they're all symbolically significant, and in fact serve to establish another symbolic significance to the color yellow in addition to that of Yellow Is the Color of My True Love's Eyes.

One of them is a feather duster:

Crowley reacts to a feather duster like a cat confronted by an unfamiliar object

The other three are private conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley:

The walls that surround Crowley and Aziraphale when they speak openly about their situation and how they will handle it are drenched in yellow, and that is super interesting, because in Western color symbolism yellow is the color of fear. The archangel of whom Crowley and Aziraphale are both (rightly) terrified wields a tool the color of fear. The color of fear saturates the backdrop of conversations between Aziraphale and Crowley when they have to discuss their situation and their actions openly.

Remember how Aziraphale's voice shakes here?

Crowley realizes the crows have just handed an angel evidence the angel can take to Hell and use to have Crowley killed

Even the Bentley, that clear sign of Aziraphale's love for Crowley, is also a yellow coffin enclosing him. For Aziraphale, thoughts of Crowley are always entangled with fear, because Crowley is not just Crowley, he is also Crowley's Fall.

And I think fear is what Crowley's eyes themselves represent. For Crowley, fear is now a fundamental part of his perception, his nature, his identity.

The angel Aziraphale once knew is not Crowley, and yet from what we've seen, the chiefest difference in character between this sweetheart and this mischief-maker--

--is that the Starmaker does not know yet that he should be afraid, and the Serpent does. That knowledge and its fear has, shall we say, colored his view of the world.

Aziraphale learns that fear early by observing others rather than Falling himself, and knows enough that by the first time we meet him in the Before, he is already afraid.

Pink was once symbolically equivalent to red; in modern Western color symbology it is a color of innocence, youth, beauty, and first love. Hashtag just sayin'.

The cruellest thing this suggests to me is that, rather than rebellion or his propensity to ask questions, rather than the knowledge of good and evil, the Starmaker's Fall was caused by his innocence. it wasn't the questions that were the problem: it was that he didn't know any better than to speak them out loud.

Y'all, Crowley and Aziraphale do not suffer from communication problems. Despite both being male-coded and British, they don't even seem to lack emotional intelligence. What they do have is a universe of silence and fear they have to communicate within and around. What they lack is the safety to speak and love freely. The true color of Crowley is crimson, but someone gave him those eyes, and Aziraphale either watched that happen or knew about it, and now Crowley covers himself in black--which btw is also the symbolic color for mystery and secrets--and only lets Aziraphale see him as he really is now, because Aziraphale won't judge him for his yellow eyes (or punish and forsake him for his questions). Because Aziraphale carries that fear with him too.

[sentientsky]

hi!! this is a silly little Christmas ficlet i promised to @tangerine-ginger a while ago (and by "silly", i mean very very angsty! hahaha. i am incapable of writing fluff, it seems). sorry it took so long, btw; i got distracted, but i managed to throw it together tonight! :-)

The view from Heaven isn’t so bad, if you know where to look. The globe that sits in the foyer is nice enough. But if you, like Aziraphale, happen to be the Supreme Archangel of Heaven…well then, that comes with a couple of choice benefits. One of these benefits happens to be the ability to open a window’s view into various corners of the universe—to tear a hole through the side of the silver sheet between worlds and peer through, like a bird skimming the length of a wave with its wings. In this story, however, there is no wave; no ocean or seagull feather kissing the bright edge of seafoam. No, in this story, there’s just an angel and a demon, both holding bloodied wounds, pretending the ichor isn’t soaking their clothes silver-gold with the shape of want. That their hands aren’t shaking. That the ground has felt entirely solid since that moment on the street with the lift and the car and the wall he built between them.

Aziraphale leans forward. The gap between realms opens into the unsteady kaleidoscopic sway of downtown Soho. He adjusts the corner of his collar. He watches, and he aches. —

In the bustle and sway of Soho’s beating heart, Crowley finds himself unsteady under the heat of iridescent lights. Each Christmas, the West End of London had opted for large, glittering installations—models of whales and fish and seahorses, all lit up from within like glowworms trapped in jars. Even now, a jellyfish sways, soft pink and faintly clinking in the night, like a vaguely sentient thing. It’s surreal, really, the buzz of lights and the onslaught of holiday shoppers making it feel nearly claustrophobic. Crowley shivers and adjusts the cuffs of his blazer. His coat does little to keep the cold out, his corporation all raw nerve endings and shuddering, bleeding heart. Throughout the past however many millennia, this time of year had been all soft whispers and apple cider clutched between hands; all hot breath blooming into clouds in the December chill—the indirect touch of their mingled speech; all heavenly shoulders brushing hellish ones as they teetered through cobblestoned streets, both sloshed halfway to purgatory. The lights had always felt warm and the ground had felt so solid you could never hope to fall through it. In the present moment, a child runs past, a laugh blooming in the air around them. Almost without thinking about it, the demon blesses them. The miracle, tiny as it is, blossoms into being on a metaphysical plane only he can see, and follows the child like a benevolent will-o’-the-wisp. Hell wouldn’t even notice. Heaven—the Supreme Arch-fucking-angel himself—wouldn’t notice. But he does. Aziraphale does, and he watches with breath caught and thrashing in his throat. Something deep in his chest is burning, a spitfire of grief and absence and loss. Heaven is terribly cold. And Soho, despite its billowing flashes of light and sounds of laughter, is much the same.  And with so much space between them, the night has never felt so lonely.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Furry Little Friend

Rating: G

Genre: Fluff

Word Count:  1682

Summary:  Simon and Baz decide to get a new addition to their household. Based on "adopting a pet" prompt from anonymous

Read on AO3

AN:  This was great to write. Two of my favourite things in the world, snowbaz and kittens! Thank you to the prompter of this, because it gave me something really fun to do while staying up all night. Enjoy this tooth rotting fluff, everyone :)

Baz

“Hey, Baz?”

My head snaps up. Snow sits across me at our puny excuse for a dining room table. He’s tracing circles on the wood surface, looking at his fingers. But his eyes are somewhere else.

“Yes, love?”

“What do you think about pets?”

I make a “hm” sound and shrug (I’ve picked up Snow’s habits). “Honestly, I have no opinion. I’ve never had one. Father and Daphne don’t like animals. Plus, the twins are both horribly allergic. Why do you ask?”

Snow shrugs, playing with his broccoli disinterestedly. “I don’t know. I’ve always imagined what it’d be like to have one. A little furry friend to cuddle with. It’d be nice, right?”

I smirk. “Are my cuddles not enough, Snow?”

He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Oh please, darling, you know what I mean. It’s just a thought.”

The corner of my lip pulls up. “M-hm. Alright.”

Simon gives me glare. He knows just as well that his “just a thought”s can become a lot more. He returns to eating his food. I reach out my bare foot towards him, running a toe up and down his ankle. I see a little smile play on his lips. Merlin, I love him.

“Baz, look at this!”

I put down my book as Snow shoves his tablet in my face. “Crowley, hold your horses, Snow.”

It’s the North London Adoption Centre site. And there’s a huge page filled with pictures of tiny furry adorable kittens and cats. With big eyes and fluffy tails. Snow reaches over and and scrolls down. There’s every kind you could think of. Tabby, marmalade, black, grey, calico. All very adorable. My eyes go a bit wide.

“My my,” I say, “that’s quite a few cats.”

“I know right?” Snow says with awe. “There are so many! And they all need homes.”

I flick my gaze down to him. It’s been two days since he mentioned the idea of a pet. And it seems the idea has not left his head. He’s got a sly smile. “You don’t need to play coy, Simon. I know what you’re getting at .”

He sighs. “So what do you think of them?”

I scoff a bit under my breath. “Does it matter? You seem to have made up your mind.”

He furrows his brow and frowns. “Of course it does! We’re together, and this is our apartment, our life. So what do you think about it?”

Aleister Crowley, he’s fantastic. His ridiculously big, considerate heart knows no bounds. I’ve been party to it for four years now. And his compassionate and caring nature still makes me so damn happy.

I reach out and brush some of his bronze curls out of his freckled face. I smile as softly as I can. “I think we should make a trip to North London this weekend. That alright with you?”

He grins and hugs my torso. I put down the tablet and hug him back. “Absolutely.”

We just sit there for a bit, enjoying each other’s embrace. Eventually Simon pulls away with a big open mouthed grin on his face.

“We’re going to have a fur baby!” he yells, throwing his arms up for flourish

I groan and hold my head in my hands. “Bloody hell, don’t say it like that.”

The tube ride is quite nerve racking. This is a big thing in reality. A big step, a big responsibility.

So we’re both anxious, though Snow shows it more in his body, as always. His leg is shaking and he’s chewing his nails. He hasn’t done that for months. It worries me. I reach out and take his hand, removing it from the abuse of his teeth. I lace our fingers together. I immediately see some of the tension release from his body. He looks over at me, blue eyes soft and grateful. He lays his head on my shoulder, and doesn’t move it until we get off.

The Adoption Centre looks like any other London building. Thin and tall, squished together with other storefronts. There’s some scaffolding in front, but a large sign assures us it’s still open. We give each other one last reassuring look, and stroll in.

“Hello! Welcome to the North London Adoption Centre.” A nice smiling lady greets us. Her name tag reads Janice. Simon immediately reaches out and shakes her hand.

“Hi! I’m Simon, and this is my boyfriend, Baz.”

I nod to her. “Good day.”

Simon takes my hand and squeezes lightly. “We’re looking to adopt a cat.”

Janice chuckles. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Let me show you our furry residents.”

She leads us down to a row of cat carriers. Most of the cute kitties look at us from inside their carpeted cages. Simon’s mouth hangs open in awe.

“Now,” Janice says, “what kind of cat are you looking for?”

“A cat one?” Simon says cheekily. I elbow his side.

“We want a friendly one,” I say. “One who isn’t afraid of people, a lap cat if you will. Also healthy. I read you’re supposed to look for clear eyes to make sure of that.” Of course I did my research. I always like to be prepared.

Janice nods. “I see. Well, I can show you our newest kittens. They’re very sweet. C’mere.”

She takes us to a larger crate. We kneel down to the ground. There’s a whole litter in there. They’re a mix of light brown tabbies and gingera. My heart flutters. I’m not immune to the adorableness of kittens, I’ll admit that. (I’m dead, not heartless.) Simon most certainly isn’t either. He looks like he’s about to melt into a puddle. Janice opens the the door and tries to coax out one of the furballs. Most slink back. But one steps out.

It’s a ginger one. Light orange around most of it’s body, with darker stripes all around. It’s big pale blue eyes stare up at us. Simon turns to Janice.

“May I?” he says.

“By all means,” she replies.

Simon reaches out to the kitten. It sniffs his fingers, then rubs up against him. I can hear it purring very loudly. Snow cups it’s little face.

“What’s it’s name?” I ask.

“Well, we’ve just been calling her Fuzz, but obviously the name can be changed,” Janice says.

I reach out to Fuzz as well. She nuzzles the back of my palm, seemingly unbothered by my naturally low body temperature. “She’s quite affectionate, I see.”

Janice nods with a smile. “Yes, she is. And she seems to like you two.”

I flick my eyes over to Snow, one eyebrow raised and smirking. “Yes, she does.”

Snow smirks back. This is one of those times when we don’t need to say anything to know what the other is thinking. Bunce calls it “lovey dovey telepathy”. A ridiculous name. I just love that Simon and I can speak without words.

“We’ll take her,” we say at the same time.

Turns out Fuzz hates travelling in cat crates. We’re taking a cab home, and she will not stop yelling her tiny head off.

“I don’t know what’s got her bothered,” Simon sighs, “she was fine at the Centre.”

I shrug. “Maybe it’s the movement. I mean, I would be quite surprised if I was suddenly racing about with no explanation.”

Snow reaches his hand into cage, stroking Fuzz with two fingers. She immediately calms down and starts purring like a happy jet engine.

“There there, fuzzy girl,” he whispers. “It’s alright.”

I reach my own fingers in. I feel her rub against my knuckles, her purr vibrating through my bones. It’s one of the most adorable, comforting things I’ve ever experienced.

We reach the flat quickly, thank Merlin. Snow carries the crate, and I carry the bags of supplies we picked up. Toys, dishes, food, litter, and everything else a tiny cat needs. Snow places the carrier on the floor and opens it up. Slowly, Fuzz walks out. She takes stock of her new home. Padding across the laminate floors, sniffing every sniffable thing in site.

I set the shopping bags on the table. Simon is absolutely transfixed by the sight of the little animal. I walk to him, putting an arm around his shoulders.

“We have a cat,” I sigh.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But you know, I’m not really feeling the name Fuzz.”

I nod. “Agreed. Got something in mind, Simon?”

He turns to me with the world’s biggest shit eating grin. “I was thinking, Cherry.”

I groan, and he laughs. I grip his shoulder a bit, pulling him closer. “Of course, you scone fiend.”

“Well it makes sense! She’s ginger, which is close to red, and cherries are red.”

I cock an eyebrow. “That’s quite a logical work around there, love.”

He shrugs. “We can call her something else, if you like.”

“No, no,” I say as I shake my head. “Cherry is a very good name. Though, I think her middle name should be Kishi.”

Snow is taken aback a bit. “Kishi? Where on Earth did that come from.”

“Ever heard of Kishi Bashi?” Snow stares at me blankly. I sigh. “Kishi Bashi is a violinist, and one of my personal favourites. So I think if you pick Cherry, a name from something you love, then I can pick from something I love.”

Simon’s mouth blooms into a smile. He lays his head on my shoulder and grabs my hand. “I like that. Cherry Kishi Snow-Pitch.”

I watch as Cherry kneads the sofa with her little paws. She turns to us and mews, staring at us with her beautiful blue eyes. I smile. “Cherry Kishi Snow-Pitch it is, then.”

Cherry falls asleep between us that night. Simon manages to pet her into coma. He drifts off with a smile, one hand on her and one loosely holding mine. I’m awake, just looking at the two of them. It really hits me now, more than ever. Here I am, lying with Simon Snow, in our bed, in our flat, with our cat.

Aleister Crowley, I’m living a charmed life.

Bonus Texts: Simon: Heyyyyy Penny. Me and Baz got a cat. Her name is Cherry Kishi Snow-Pitch and shes gr8t and super cute and fluffy. Btw we still having dinner next week rite? Penny: YOU AND BAZ DID WHAT?!

I had too much fun writing this haha. I do have a cat. Her name is Saffron “Saffy” Elijah Liberty Bell (long story, weird family, don’t ask). She hates cat carriers too, and I can pet her into a coma occasionally, but she is definitely not a lap cat. Actually she hates almost everyone. We have that in common lol. 

But yeah, I truly believe Simon and Baz would get a cat like a pair of old queens and treat her like a princess. Simon would be way more openly affectionate than Baz, but Baz would be just as caring and overprotective. Cherry would be so pampered :D

Sidenote: North London Adoption Centre is a real place, and I have no idea how it looks on the inside, but I guessed. Hopefully I did it justice. And I hope you all liked this fic :)