#Aziraphale is hung like a horse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-ineffable-demon-crowley · 4 years

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The Temple

You’re chosen to be an offering to the angel Aziraphale in exchange for a miracle: protecting your village from invaders. As divine intervention (or a rigged coin toss) would have it, Aziraphale ends up travelling to Edinburgh, and asks Crowley to go collect the offering for him. Except Crowley was told it would only be a few baskets of harvest. Not you.

Pairing ↝ Anthony J. Crowley x reader

Genre ↝ Smut, fluff

Length ↝ 7.1k words

Warnings ↝ Probably loads of sacrilege (this is not meant to offend any religion/peoples) - temple sex, religious themes, mentions of blood-drinking, oral (m receiving), fingering, praise kink, dirty talk, general demonic sexy times

“I’m away to Edinburgh tomorrow.” The angel said.

“So very damp.” The demon complained. “I’m meant to be there as well.”

“Well... suppose I’ll see you there, Crowley.”

Crowley turned his head and smiled wickedly at the angel named Aziraphale. Though he tried, the angel did not look as surprised to see that look on the demon’s face as he should have been. This wouldn’t be the first time they’d come to form some sort of an arrangement.

“I’ll flip you for it.” Crowley offered.

Aziraphale paused and looked over both shoulders, hesitatingly so as if he expected God herself to come out and discorporate them both. He then looked at the demon, and nodded subtly. Crowley smiled to himself, and reached in to grab a coin from his pocket. He always kept one in his pocket just for such an occasion - there had been many arrangements over the centuries that required flipping. He could probably count on one hand the amount of times Aziraphale won.

He held it between his fingers, then with a snap, flipped it. The coin hung in mid-air until Aziraphale called it - and he almost always calls ‘heads’. Tails is reserved for you, for obvious reasons, he once explained. The coin fell onto the back of Crowley’s hand with a soft tap, proudly displaying the opposite side. Aziraphale huffed, slightly put off at the typicality of the result as he crossed his arms. He still never questioned the fairness of Crowley’s flips, which he should have, Crowley reasoned, so it was perfectly acceptable that he not broach the subject.

The coin was slipped back into his pocket.

“Oh, alright.” Aziraphale conceded, arms dropping to his sides. “I’ll go to Edinburgh. And you stay here where it’s lovely and... warm.” He pouted, but Crowley flashed his signature grin, and Aziraphale knew there was no appealing the demon.

“Bring your wellies, angel.”

“You really are a scoundrel. Now, let me think... Alright, then I shall have to wrap up some things here then, and be out first thing. Oh drat! That reminds me - there’s a small village east of here that pledges some of their harvest to me, be a dear and go pick it up. It’s just a basketful or two of fruits and vegetables. I wouldn’t want to be rude.”

Crowley blinked behind his spectacles. “I’m sorry, this lot give you a sacrifice like you’re some sort of ancient deity?”

Aziraphale scoffed in his posh way. “Hardly. I did some petty miracles for them a few decades ago, revived some malnourished crops, and this is their way of thanking me. It’s become a proper tradition.” He smiled, chest puffed out a bit, pleased with the idea. Crowley looked less enthused, tossing his head to the side with something nearing a sneer on his face.

“Won’t they notice we look only slightly different? Y’know, general demonic appearance, and all?”

“No, no, you needn’t be seen. Just go to the temple at dusk, there’ll be nobody in there. Oh, Crowley, you simply must go. They have the most divine pears.”

Crowley barked a laugh at that. “How am I meant to go into a temple? I’ll be tenderized into a pair of boots.”

“It’s less of a temple and more of a ceremonial altar. Really, now you’re just looking for excuses, Crowley. And anyway, you owe me. I’m almost certain you cheated this time.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and miracled himself away after the last word. Crowley noticed how he’d only said ‘this’ coin toss, and he wondered what made Aziraphale suspicious this time. Perhaps he hadn’t put enough oomph into it. Well, it was a small price to pay for not having to ride a horse in Scotland. Picking up a basket of fruits from some temple sounded relatively doable, and he knew Aziraphale would never forgive him if he stood between him and his pears.

Especially pears that he’d eat with crepes.

So Crowley waited until dusk fell, then he sought out the village to the east. It didn’t take long, not for a demon anyway. When he came upon it, the sun was beginning to set and from a tall hill on the town’s perimeter, he watched as the villagers doused candles in their homes. A breeze buffeted Crowley’s loose tunic, the ends of hair not tucked into the bun tickling his shoulders. He trained his eyes on each of the simple yet sturdily built structures within the village until he spotted one in particular. Even from a distance, he could see that the wood and stone used to build it were ornately carved, with a looming arch and small pillars. It positively screamed temple- er, ceremonial building to him, anyway.

As the little village tucked away under the hill prepared for slumber, Crowley set down the hill rather leisurely. He’d miracled himself to appear invisible, his presence marked only by an invisible breeze. What the villagers saw was a bit of a leaf swirling in the wind, when in reality, he traipsed through the town quite comfortably, glancing at each of the homes as he passed.

Though most of the lights had now been doused, Crowley saw that a few people stayed outside, positioned several feet away from each other, at what seemed to be their posts. Weapons glinted menacingly in their hands, axes and knives and bats. They were arming themselves. But against who?

Crowley continued on, idly wondering what sort of miracles Aziraphale had managed for the villagers, and if they had gone sour.

Still, he was only here to pick up some fruit; it was no concern of his. Perhaps he’d mention it to Aziraphale later, if he remembered (though the last time he’d had a mind to remind Aziraphale of something, it had been a few thousand years later and that particular civilization had collapsed). Regardless, he continued on with his stroll through the folksy town square, under the awnings of the shops until he reached the front of the temple (in his mind it was still a temple).

His chin tilted upwards as he surveyed the building, found it rather mediocre as far as temples went, and sighed quietly. Bloody angel. He lifted one hand, and with slender fingers, snapped himself inside. Immediately, he felt the overwhelming solemness settle onto his shoulders, a most unsettling feeling. He shook it off, and looked down to see his feet were still firmly flat on the ground. No burning. The angel was right, it wasn’t concentrated.

“Hm. I would’ve thought he’d be lying if he wasn’t an angel.” Crowley mused to himself. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of red hair back that had fallen out of the bun behind his ear, and stepped deeper into the temple. The building was mostly stone inside, with altars carved into the sides of great boulders worn down and shaped to be suitable to build with.

He walked along the interior, fingers brushing over the cool stone faces of the pillars, mindlessly loitering around, seeing no fruits or vegetables, until he spotted another door. The inner sanctum. Alright, let’s get this over with.

Crowley’s light touch against the wood of the door prompted it to open without a single sound. As he walked in, the entirety of the room was shrouded in shadow, aside from a raised stone platform which was bathed in the light of the moonlight from the skylight above. His steps were slow, the heels of his shoes clicking quietly against the stone floors. His eyes fell upon the bounty; a basket of plump fruits, fresh vegetables, what looked like some baked goods wrapped in cheesecloth, and... a woman.

Crowley blinked behind his black spectacles as the woman raised her head from her position laying on a flat stone surface where the foodstuffs had been placed. She did not seem surprised to see him, which did not necessarily comfort him any.

“Ngk.” Said Crowley.

The stone was cool against your cheek, and your breath was even as it fanned out against the rock beneath you. Your fingertips traced patterns around the small embedded stones mindlessly, shifting only slightly when the hardness of the surface began to stiffen your bones. The moonlight cast pale blue light upon your skin, and black shadows underneath your raised hand. You studied it with pointless scrutiny, anything to keep your mind off the coming dawn. The one you weren’t likely to see.

Truth be told, you weren’t afraid. There were worse things than being offered to an angelic deity as an attempt to beseech him to protect the village from a looming threat. It had to be done. Even from behind thick stone walls, you could hear the clattering of the weapons the able-bodied brandished to protect themselves and their loved ones through the night. The sounds travelled down through the skylight, and you tried to close your ears to it all, humming a soft song to yourself to fill your mind.

You thought you might be nervous, pacing, climbing out of your skin, but nothing suited you more than just laying there in the moonlight. Almost as though you could already feel the angelic presence surrounding you through the moonlight pouring in. Reassuring you that things would be alright. But the moon would also act as a signal. It was said he would appear when the moon was at its peak; directly above the opening of the skylight above you. For now, it simply skirted the edge of it, as though peeking in. Wouldn’t be much longer now, you mused. When you volunteered to be the offering, nobody really argued. You had almost no ties to this village, having been left on the doorstep of this very temple when you were just a baby.

The phrase ‘it takes a village to raise a child’ rang true in your case, and while everybody was kind and generous as you grew up, nobody took the role of family. Everybody already had their own, and you didn’t fit into any of them. Nobody had time to spend on a child that wasn’t blood when survival was on the line. So you wandered around from home to home, perfectly content to spend your days lost in the forests around or holed up in this very temple. How poetic that you were now being offered up in the same place you had been abandoned just two decades ago.

You’d wanted more from life, and this was your way of getting it, no matter how it all ended. But your intentions weren’t all selfish. You still loved the village you grew up in, and you didn’t want to see it burned to the ground by invaders. You couldn’t afford to lose another home, even if you weren’t around to see it saved.

Suddenly, the stillness of the atmosphere was disturbed. A soft clicking sound reverberated in your ears, the unmistakable noise of a leisurely cant. You lifted your head, and found yourself staring at a man.

Who was certainly no angel.

“Ngk.” Was all he said. You blinked as he stepped closer from out of the shadows, clearly very uncertain of your presence. His lithe and lean form was slightly hunched as though in thought, fingers stuck in the pockets of his dark trousers. His black tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, as did the bun on the back of his head, allowing stray locks of fiery hair to come loose. But what was most peculiar was the pair of black spectacles perched atop his nose, hiding his eyes from you. His entire presence was slack, nothing at all like the formality you’d been expecting.

You stared at each another for a silent beat.

“Is that how most angels talk?” You asked, your voice ringing through the stone walls. You hadn’t meant to sound impertinent, only that you were fairly certain no angel looked like this, clad in black like a warrior. He was beautiful like an angel would be, but a different aura seemed to flow from him than piety. Temptation.

“Er, yes. Something like that anyway. And um, you are?” His voice was low, smooth, but decidedly confused. You smirked.

“Y/N.”

“Right, that obviously clears it up.” He responded sardonically. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m here as an offering to the angel Aziraphale. And your name is?” You raised a brow, lifting yourself to a seated position. Your white dress positively glowed under the moonlight, bringing an ethereal aura to you. Crowley blinked at the sight of you behind darkened lenses.

“Aziraphale, of course. Silly girl.” Crowley replied easily, smirking in return.

You scooted to the edge of the raised platform, letting your feet rest on the stone step below, and adjusted your dress to drape nicely over your legs. Glancing at the man with a scoff, a disbelieving smile encroached on your lips. “I think not.”

“And what makes you think to the contrary?” His words were almost purred, the first attack of charms from... whatever he was.

You lifted your hand and gestured vaguely at him. “Just. All of you.”

“You have a way with words, don’t you, love?”

“Well,” You shrugged, absentmindedly touching your hair. It had been done up, but you rolling around on the ground had made it come loose. You touched a few stray strands, unsure what to do with your hands, and dropped your eyes from the man. “I guess I didn’t think being a sacrifice required much articulation. I am, after all, an afterthought to all the pears.”

“Ah yes, those bloody pears.” The bloody pears that had netted him in this situation. And Aziraphale, he’d get an earful. Did he know about this? Was this revenge for the coin toss?

“An angel who curses.” You deadpanned.

“A sacrifice with a lip.” He responded smoothly.

You stood from your place on the stone table, and stepped down from it. He hadn’t moved this entire time, regarding you from a distances with cool indifference. If he was here to eat you, he was taking his sweet time. Perhaps he liked having philosophical, self-scrutinizing discussions about his identity with his prey. Perhaps he just liked being a trickster. You couldn’t read his eyes, and that gave him the advantage. You’d essentially decided that he was here for no good, though for all intents and purposes, you’d obviously never seen an angel before. Who were you to decide what one should look like?

“You’re still keeping up this facade?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m merely here for the food. What you’re doing here remains an utter mystery to me.” Crowley gestured towards the food with his elbow, his fingers still locked in the pockets of his trousers.

You crossed your arms over your chest petulantly. You hadn’t expected any sort of fanfare, but this was getting a little insulting. Wasn’t this meant to be a little bit more... climactic?

“Look, are you going to take me or not?”

Crowley choked on nothing. “Pardon?”

“Take me. As an offering.”

“To what extent exactly?”

You threw your hands up in the air in frustration. “To save my village, you... being! We’re at risk of being raided by another clan, we need nothing short of a miracle!”

Crowley made a noise of understanding. That explained the brandishing of the weapons outside the temple. Apparently the village was looking to tack on another miracle in exchange for the girl. Though what Aziraphale was meant to do with her, he had no idea. “That lot out there, with the angry faces and sharp things.”

You didn’t know if he was mocking you or not, but the longer you stood in front of him, the more you were starting to get a little distracted from the matter at hand. The way he was standing in the moonlight let you look at him more clearly, and it was becoming unsettling just how beautiful he was to you. The fact that you couldn’t read his gaze made him all the more mysterious, the more unknown. And you wanted to know who this man really was.

“What’s your name?” You repeated.

“Crowley.” He purred again, suddenly taking a step forward. Despite your initial confidence, you jumped and nearly tripped over the steps as an attempt to jump back. You’d barely noticed he’d given his real name in that moment. “Well skittish, aren’t you, love?” His long fingers calmly reached for an apple that sat atop the pile. It was a bright gleaming red, though it looked like a pallid pink in the light of the night.

“Not a pear?” You couldn’t help but tease, though your voice shook a bit. Perhaps it wasn’t best to anger him, not until you knew more about him. The closer he was, the more curious you became. His features were sharp up close, but chiseled like a statue. His skin looked smooth, and his hair soft to the touch. You swallowed.

“Oh, apples have been a favourite of mine for a long time.” He grinned like he knew something you didn’t, and took a bite. Gesturing with the pierced fruit at the baskets, he spoke while chewing, “Go on. It is yours, after all.”

You were still sat on the edge of the step on the side of the table, having somewhat collected yourself after falling back. Still, your heart hammered. He was an unpredictable, strange man, and you were alone with him. But.. you were also hungry. Crowley continued to chew, this time pacing a few steps back and forth as he surveyed the temple, as though he’d only come in for a visit. Though it was surely akin to some sort of sacrilege, you leaned forward and plucked a peach from one of the woven baskets. It was soft and ripe in your hands. You took a bite, but your eyes did not leave the curious man.

“So you’re not Aziraphale.” You deduced, sucking the juice from the peach. Crowley swivelled on his heel at your words, the apple now missing several bites from it. He continued gesturing with it as he spoke.

“‘M not. But I do know him. He was indisposed, so here I am.” He sighed quietly. “Dealing with his complications.”

You hooked your arms around your knees, your peach hooked between your thumb and index finger. “You’re also not an angel.”

Crowley shrugged. “Nobody wants a history lesson, love. I fancied a walk, and sauntered vaguely downward one day. It became a whole thing.”

You quirked a brow at that, chewing another bite of the fruit. “A demon then.”

Crowley began slowly pacing towards you, but you forced yourself not to flinch. The longer you spoke, the less afraid you were of him, but that didn’t mean you knew what he was capable of either. “Very good, angel.” He praised in that raspy voice. You felt yourself flush, and hoped the temple was too dark to see. “How d’you feel about that, then? Being in the same temple as a demon?”

Your eyes widened slightly at his words. Truthfully, you hadn’t even considered that.

“Well-”

“And what was Aziraphale meant to do with you, anyways?”

“I-I don’t know. It’s just what’s done, isn’t it? Whatever he saw... fit to do.”

Crowley was silent for a beat, but the smirk on his lips said it all. “And as his stand-in, does that extend to me? Do whatever I see fit?”

You laughed dryly. “Only if you keep up your end of the bargain, demon. And you can’t do miracles.”

“‘Course I can, angel.” He tossed the empty apple core into the air, snapped his fingers, and it disappeared without a trace. Your lips parted in surprise. The peach pit also suddenly disappeared from between your fingers, leaving them empty and sticky from the juices.

“How...” You murmured to yourself, staring at your hand, then stood up triumphantly from the steps. “Wait, you can? Then you can help us!” You picked up your skirts and ran down the steps towards the demon, stopping just a few feet short. It was hard to keep your wits about you, especially when he turned to look at you with thinly veiled curiosity. Even from behind his glasses, you could tell he was as intrigued as you were.

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then furrowed his brows. “Why would you want to help a village that’s offered you up so easily?”

“I don’t know, I suppose I still want to do right by them. And anyway, this was my choice.”

“Well, that’s normal.”

You smiled to yourself; he was right. This was not the normal thing a young woman would choose to do, but you were beginning to get the feeling that this was meant to happen. “Will you help us?” Your request was quiet, your voice barely travelling the length of the distance between you.

Crowley didn’t respond for a moment, and he thought hard. Between you and Aziraphale, he’d get an earful if he didn’t do this one favour. Especially if this town’s pear supply was eradicated. Nobody had to know.

“I don’t have to, y’know, ceremoniously drink your blood if I say yes, do I?”

“Well, I’d think you’d know more about the nature of demons than I would, Crowley.” You purred his name back at him, attempting to throw some of his tricks back at him. It seemed to work; he raised his brows playfully.

“Nah. Our lot prefer alcohol, and this being a temple and all, I don’t fancy there being any nearby. Your blood will have to do.” He nodded solemnly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Jokes aside, you paled at his words, which he seemed to find very amusing. “Relax, angel. Not my taste.”

“Will you take the harvest then, in return?”

“I will.”

“And me?” You felt your heart begin to beat faster. “Are you going to kill me? Do you need my s-soul?” Curses, that was difficult to get out. Perhaps this sacrifice business required a little bit more strength than you’d anticipated. When actually faced with the reckoning, you’d begun to falter. You balled your fingers into fists, digging your nails in to keep yourself present. It wouldn’t do to pass out now.

“Is that what you want?”

You didn’t respond. You let out a shaky breath, and released your nails from your skin. Crowley began to slowly walk towards you, just five paces or so, absolutely nothing for his long legs. He towered over you, but his presence was not as intimidating as you’d expected. For all intents and purposes, he’d been respectful of you during all of this. So you weren’t afraid when he raised his hand, and using his index finger, slowly traced it down your cheekbone to your jawline, and along the column of your neck. His touch did not travel any farther down. Your breathing grew shallow, skin burning from where he’d touched it. It was an addictive feeling, and you found yourself already craving more.

“I’m not going to kill you, angel, because that would be a sin at which even hell itself would shudder. I don’t need your soul or your blood.” He spoke lowly, calmly, and all the while you couldn’t think of anything but his hands on you again. To your frustration, his hand fell to his side and did not come near you again. You hung on his every word, entranced in the sound of it, the roughness of it. “Your village will be safe from any attackers. And in payment for this miracle, I just came for the fruit.” His mask fell away, and he grinned again. “Don’t tell anybody, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

He stepped back away from you, and the spell between you was broken. His eyes turned towards the baskets still lining the steps of the ceremonial altar. He stepped around you to assess them, and with three consecutive snaps of his fingers, they disappeared. The stone steps were bare now, except for you, the last of the sacrifices.

“I can’t go back.” You said suddenly. Crowley turned his head to look at you, a confusion etched on his features.

“Are they expecting to find a bloodbath in the morning or something? Blimey.”

“No-” You couldn’t help but laugh a little, though defeat was beginning to seep into your voice. “No, it’s just- I don’t belong there. I never did, and if I go back to the village as the one who escaped the sacrifice, they’ll never accept me. Even if the raiders never attack. They’ll say it was their own doing, warding them off with their men.”

“That’s why you did this whole sacrifice thing then?”

“Yes.” You replied quietly, almost feeling foolish. “I just wanted to experience something new, feel a purpose. Even if it was just for tonight.”

“Right. Of course.” Crowley took his spectacles off, but his eyes were closed and his fingers were rubbing at them. You couldn’t help but peer, trying to see the reason why he wore them even in the darkness. He replaced them before his eyes opened again, but from what you saw, he looked perfectly normal. He let out a short breath, “You’ll have to come with me then, angel.”

“Wh- to hell?”

Crowley snorted. “Not unless you’ve committed some atrocious sins, which I somehow doubt. Anywhere you like. Other side of the world, or across the river. If you can’t stay here, you can choose where you’d like to.”

Relief burst through your heart, though outwardly, you were still coming to grips with his words, standing perfectly still with your mind racing. It all almost seemed too good to be true, and yet you’d be damned - literally - before you let it all slip away. Crowley was standing on the raised part of the stone platform, and you stepped onto it to meet him. He still towered over you, looking devilishly handsome in black.

“That’s two miracles, then.” You looked up at him. He was watching you curiously. Your eyes scanned his face. “The addition of a second miracle requires further payment. Can I give you something?”

Crowley inclined his head in acquiescence. The moonlight drowned both of you in its cold, blue light, yet the demon in front of you still looked warm to the touch. His hair retained its fiery red colour, even tucked back into the loose bun, and his skin was a warm hue. You lifted your hand, fingers mirroring his previously as they traced over his cheek and jawline. It was then that you noticed a small black smudge near his hairline, depicting the symbol of a snake. Your other hand came up to cup his other cheek, at which point you stood on the tips of your toes and pressed your lips to his.

You felt him kiss you back, you felt it with every fibre of your being as his lips pressed into yours, deepening the kiss. The feeling immediately spread warmth into your chest, but it didn’t last. He broke the kiss, concern adorning his face.

“You’re not indebted to me.”

You smiled. “Not anymore, I’m not. The kiss was your payment. Anything else is because I want to.”

“Anything else?” He repeated in that low tone, and you just knew he was doing it on purpose this time. “Don’t you know it’s bad practice to tempt demons, angel? What am I meant to do?”

“Sin, of course. Silly demon.”

He playfully mocked your teasing smile, which made you laugh. The sound quickly died in your throat as his lips crashed against yours again, this time more fervently. It wasn’t until your own hands, gingerly and hesitantly, touched his sides that his hands came up to rest on your waist. For a demon, he was certainly gentlemanly, you thought dryly.

You became bolder by fisting his tunic in your hands as his kiss deepened, his large hand come up to snake into your hair. Your updo began to fall apart at his touch, though you suspected that was no accident as pins tumbled to the floor. His other hand tightened around your waist, bringing you closer against his lean, hard body. The juxtaposition of his rough tunic and leathery trousers compared to your white, draping gown created a delicious friction, and you wanted nothing more than for him to tear it off. He broke the kiss again, both of his hands slipping along your waist, down to your hips and over your bottom. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, a small gasp from your lips. He brought his mouth to your ear.

“Just remember you asked for it, love.” He growled, then licked a short stripe down the column of your throat, just underneath your ear. You shivered in his arms, nails digging into him. “As long as you want this, you’ll get it.”

“And when will I get it?” You teased, at which point you felt his teeth nip at your neck. You let out a quiet yelp at the feeling of his canines scraping against your skin, and you felt him laugh against the crook of your shoulder. He soothed the sting with a kiss, at which point you heard him murmuring against your neck.

“Are you a virgin, love?”

“No.” You admitted shyly.

Crowley chuckled again. “It’s not a requirement.”

“Now, first things first,” He lifted himself to his full height, and you tipped your chin back to regard him. The moonlight created a soft aura around him, in direct opposition to the wicked way he was looking at you now. You could practically picture him licking his lips. “On your knees. Like a good sacrifice.”

Before taking your position, you reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his jawline, unable to stop yourself from tasting his skin. Your eyes fell to his trousers, and you began undoing the corded leather belt that cinched him in. His waist was impossibly slim, and you couldn’t help but see the snakelike resemblance. You could already see he was hard through his trousers, and you teasingly passed your hand over the bulge. He hissed in pleasure, one of his hands coming down to tangle in your hair, now freed from its pinned-up confines. “Don’t tease me, love, or you’ll have a long night ahead of you.”

You chuckled smugly to yourself, and began to kneel down when you felt your legs hit a soft surface. A cushion had appeared on the stone surface, providing a welcome barrier between your skin and the cold floor where your dress would not have sufficed.

“A kind demon.” You mused to yourself, and you felt his grip tighten in your hair impatiently. You smiled, knowing he must not have appreciated that. Finally, you pulled his trousers down, allowing his hard cock to spring free. He was long, but mostly he was thick. You let your hand pump against him a few times, then you proceeded to take him into your mouth.

Crowley groaned above you, fingers scraping deliciously against your hair. You saw that he was trying his best not to thrust into your mouth, and you couldn’t help but internally applaud his self-restraint.. for a demon. You bobbed your mouth up and down, using your hands for the last inch or two you couldn’t fit. He was hard and heavy on your tongue as you swirled it around the head, tasting the salty pre-cum.

“Oh, so good for me, angel.” He said hoarsely.

You placed your hands on his hips, eyes flickering up to his as you sucked on his cock. His praise warmed you, but it was the sensation of being on your knees for a demon that was beginning to make you soaked between your legs. When his eyes met yours, you nodded slightly, and he acted upon the permission you gave fervently. His hips gently thrusted forward against your mouth, causing tears to spring to your eyes almost immediately. You dug your nails into his hips after a few more thrusts, and he pulled himself out of you, your saliva connecting to his still hardened cock.

“There’s a good love,” He praised quietly, and pulled you up from your knees. “But I need you to stop there, if I’m to take you properly.” He spun you around with a flick of his wrist, deft fingers immediately working on the clasps of the dress. You knew he could have just snapped his fingers and it would have disappeared completely, but you weren’t complaining against the feeling of his hands against your skin, caressing as the gown fell to your feet. He slowly turned you back around, hands slipping from your hips to your breasts, which he kneaded gently.

You took the opportunity to tug on the bottom of his tunic, which disappeared in a moment’s notice at your request. His pants followed, leaving you both naked.

“I’d love to taste you, angel.” He murmured as he fell to his knees himself in front of you, and you blushed at how obvious your arousal was. It was not lost on him, either. “-But I can see you’re far too excited for that, hm? Do you think you’re ready to take me, angel?” His fingers slowly made his way between your legs, and with practiced swiftness, one of his fingers slid inside of you. You let out a shuddered gasp, goosebumps breaking out all over your skin.

“Yes, let me take you, Crowley.” You hissed at the feeling of his thumb barely ghosting over your clit, but giving you no relief in your frustration. He was enjoying the power, you saw it in his grin. “God, please.”

A second finger slid inside, and your breath quickened at the feeling. You were positively dripping at this point, your arousal slick against his fingers. Again, his thumb just barely touched your clit before his hand was gone completely, and you were in his arms. Desperate for his touch, you wrapped your legs around his slim waist, and felt yourself being lowered onto a soft sed of blankets. Turning your head to the side, you saw that you were surrounded by a lavish display of feather-filled cushions and blankets, turning the raised stone surface into a temple of hedonism.

Crowley hovered over you, his arms corded with lean muscle on either side of your head. His hair had almost completely come loose from his bun now, so you reached up and tugged the rest of it out, tossing the band aside. His red hair fell to frame his face, creating a hellish aura that seemed far more appropriate for him and his station... and for what he was about to do to you. You reached up, brushing some of his hair away from his face.

“Can you take them off?” You whispered, seeing a tiny version of your face reflected back at you in a fuzzy, distorted image against the black spectacles.

“Not sure you know what you got yourself into, love.” He warned, but raised a hand to take them off all the same. You watched his body shift, appreciating the sinewy way he moved. The spectacles were gone, and you gazed up into his uncovered eyes. They were a little startling, perhaps, but you had assumed he’d look something of the sort. You raised a hand to swipe your thumb underneath his eye, smiling as you looked up at him. His gaze was green-yellow, positively reptilian, but you preferred it to the blackness of the spectacles; at least now you could see the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

You tightened your legs around his hips, and bucked up. The heat boiling in your lower stomach was getting to be too much to handle. Crowley’s face scrunched in a moment of pleasure as you displayed your frustration, and his grin grew.

“Impatient little thing, aren’t you? So eager to be sullied by the likes of a demon. Ready for me?” He pressed a kiss to your collarbone, and you nodded, feeling yourself dripping against both your skin and his. He must’ve felt it too, because he didn’t spare another second before sinking fluidly inside of your folds. You shuddered at the feeling, your breathing immediately becoming uneven as his hips, slowy at first, then steadily, built up a pace.

He was thick and hard inside of you, hips rolling against your pubic bone in order to hit that one sensitive spot. You positively keened against him, never having been so full before in your life. Bucking your hips against his, you finally started to feel the friction you had been searching for so desperately this entire time. Crowley’s hips pounded mercilessly against you, skin slapping against yours in the silence of the temple. Only your groans and his panting could be heard, though it was steadily growing louder.

You cried out when you felt his hand snake down between the two of you, and begin to rub against your clit. His thumb pressed down against it harshly, and you squirmed against the overwhelming sensations. All the while, he thrusted in and out of you without breaking his rhythm.

“Crowley!” You sobbed, your own hips unable to keep up. Instead, he pressed you down with one large hand, the other still rolling around your clit. Unable to move, you had no choice but to take his relentless cock.

“Yes, angel.” He hissed, pleased with the way your sensitive body was reacting to him, back arching as you desperately sought your release. Oh, he’d give it to you, alright. “I’m here, and you are mine. Say it.” His hand released your hips and moved to your breasts.

“I’m-” You cried out again as his fingers rolled one of your pebbled nipples.

“Say it and I’ll let you cum.” He cursed at the way you clenched around him when he said that. “Liked that, did we? Knowing your release is in my hands? Be a good girl and say it.”

“I’m yours!” You panted between your words, your breaths now laboured as his fingers returned to your clit. The only way you could tell that he was close too was by the way his hips began to stutter against yours, though each of his thrusts remained hard and perfectly calculated to hit your sweet spot every time.

It didn’t take much more - a few more swipes, and the sight of his face, a wicked smile that reached his demonic eyes, to set you off. You bucked your hips against his a few times to ride out your release as it sent sparks up and down your spine, and stars behind your eyes. You tightened your legs around him as he thrusted one, two, three more times inside of you, fingers still swiping at your clit. You squirmed at the overstimulation, fingers digging into his back as he pressed his hips against yours, spilling himself inside of you.

“Fuck, angel!”

You gasped, feeling his hot cum fill you up, and you desperately soaking all of it up. He collapsed beside you moments later, and you felt your arousal mixing with his release all over the inside of your thighs. But you were too exhausted, laying spent on the velvety blankets, to care. A thick fur blanket materialized on top of you, and you happily pulled it over your shoulders. The moon had now passed over the skylight and was no longer visible. Instead, the sky was beginning to turn a lighter shade of purple. The thought of morning almost seemed threatening to the little hideaway this had become for the two of you. You smiled as you felt Crowley’s arms wrap around your waist, pressing his chest against your back. His chin rested on top of your head, and you were certain he could feel your heartbeat hammering away underneath his hands.

“Well, I don’t know what Aziraphale would’ve done with you, but I know it wouldn’t have been that.”

You couldn’t help but a laugh, fighting sleep as it tried to take hold. You wanted to cherish was little time you had left in this temple, silly as it might have seemed. Though you wanted nothing more than to see the world, and hopefully Crowley again, you knew you’d look back at this village and this temple (and especially what happened inside of it) with happiness in the years to come.

“I guess it’s a good thing you showed up instead, hm? Can I call it kismet?”

“If you like.” Crowley’s nose nuzzled against your neck. “Though I prefer ‘divine intervention’.”

“Who, Aziraphale?”

“No, love, a rigged coin-toss.”

You turned your head to face Crowley with a disbelieving smile. “All of this was dependant on a coin toss?”

“A cheated coin toss, you must learn to listen.” Crowley taunted.

“And you didn’t know I’d be here?” You asked, your fingers trailing up and down his arm, the one wrapped around your waist.

“No, I sent him packing to Edinburgh. He asked a favor of me to come here.”

“Hm. So you won the coin toss, yet you did him a favor by coming here... then you did me a favour by promising to save my village, and to take me away from here.” You looked up at him, sparkly-eyed, high on the pleasure still coursing through your blood. Crowley’s gaze narrowed, and you grinned. “Awful nice of you. Did his angelic tendencies rub off on you?”

“I’m not nice!” Crowley grumbled petulantly. “’M a demon.”

“Of course you are.”

“Right then, let’s have that neck. Time for the ceremonial blood-drinking.” Crowley’s hands slithered against your body, and you shrieked at the feeling, squirming between fits of laughter. When his teeth nipped against your skin again, you screamed in mock fear of the villainous demon. Crowley’s mouth against yours muffled the sound, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him closer.

Meanwhile, down in the village, the moon began to fade, and the sun began peeking out over the horizon. The otherwise dewy and tranquil morning was broken by the sound that of blood-curdling scream, followed by an eerie silence that seemed to settle over the town. All of the villagers looked out from their windows, some stepping outside to see if they could witness anything happening. They all sighed and shook their heads, tutting at what a shame it was for the young woman to be taken so. Yet, as the fear began to shake off of them with every passing moment, a sense of relief spread through the inhabitants. The anxiety was gone. They would be safe now.

And so would you.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens AU #good omens fanfic #good omens smut #Anthony Crowley #anthony j crowley #anthony crowley x reader #anthony j crowley x reader #anthony j crowley x you

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29-pieces · 4 years

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Whumptober day 1: Good Omens

Happy Whumptober!! I did Good Omens and The Musketeers (BBC version) this year, alternating every day. All of these will also be on my AO3 and fanfiction.net accounts and I’ll attach the links ^_^ ~*~ Day One: Waking Up Restrained Fandom: Good Omens read on AO3 read on FF.net

~*~

Aziraphale, as an angel, generally had no use for sleep, and therefore generally had little occasion to experience waking up, but even he was quite certain this was not how it ought to go. His head was throbbing, either from being completely drained of all heavenly energy or from being hit in the head from behind. Probably some combination of both, he conceded. He was also still on his feet, but only because he was being held up by a pair of shackles that had been hung over a heavy beam of the rafters, keeping him suspended by his arms.

"Sir, he's awake," he heard someone say close by.

Aziraphale blearily opened his eyes a bit more as the lights coalesced into vague shapes and then the sharper outline of a man in the dress of a General.

From the opposite army from who he'd been lending his assistance to.

Aziraphale groaned, because gracious his head truly was pounding something awful, but even through the disorienting pain he had to admit sincere relief that his captors seemed to be human. He'd been expecting demons, and that was a thought worth shuddering over.

"You," the General said officiously, standing stiffly in an ill-fitting uniform. "You're the doctor here?"

Aziraphale let his head fall to the side wearily, looking towards the room that was housing the remaining ill soldiers.

"Please," he rasped, so exhausted. "They- they're sick. Don't hurt them... please..." Aziraphale had been trying so hard to save them all, but he could only perform so many miracles in such a short time without either being noticed or collapsing from exhaustion.

"There have been rumors," the General went on as though he hadn't heard. "Of a doctor, an Englishman, who is somehow able to miraculously stop illnesses. Normally I would assume it's pure nonsense but for the fact I trust the judgment and sanity of my men."

So much for having gone unnoticed then, Aziraphale thought, closing his eyes. Gabriel was going to be so terribly angry with him. The angel felt the muzzle of a pistol press against his forehead and his eyes snapped open with a soft mewl of discomfort.

"My men are sick," the General growled. "Dying. More men in their sickbeds than on the battlefield. You've been healing soldiers here. So you're going to heal mine as well." He cocked the pistol, shoving it harder into Aziraphale's head. "Or..."

Aziraphale swallowed, testing the chains. He was so tired, though, so weakened by his recent expenditure of miracles, he couldn't feel the slightest bit of his own angelic power.

"I will treat anyone who requires my assistance," he rasped, sagging in the chains. "Only... I- I'm afraid I must recover some of my own strength first, or I will have none to give-"

"Take him down," the General cut him off, nodding to two other enemy soldiers who had come in with him. He twisted towards the front and snapped his fingers at a few of the others. Two men who had been guarding the door hurried back outside.

Aziraphale bit back a groan as the chain was unhooked from the rafters, permitting him to lower his arms although his hands remained shackled and the soldiers who'd retrieved him held him fast between them. The front door opened and a stretcher brought inside with a man lying on it. No, hardly a man. A boy, really, but in the same grey uniform as the others. Far too young to be seeing battle, Aziraphale wanted to reproach them, but the flush of his face and the rash on what little of his body the angel could see told him that a bullet was hardly his biggest concern.

"Heal him," the General snapped, gesturing. Aziraphale was dragged roughly over to the boy, still held fast.

Aziraphale sighed, bowing his head. "Typhoid fever, I fear." Late stage, at that. Nothing short of a miracle was going to save the boy now, and... Aziraphale had none more to offer. Not until he rested. And even if he did heal the lad as soon as he was able, he would need an additional miracle to make these men forget what they had seen, which would take even more power... It would take days to rally that kind of strength, and the boy didn't have hours. Raising his eyes sadly, Aziraphale shook his head.

The General's face turned stony. His fist was so fast and Aziraphale so exhausted that he barely saw the swing coming before it collided with his jaw, knocking the angel into one of his captors.

"Heal him. I told you, I've heard the rumors. You heal with nothing more than laying your hands on them. You will heal him, because he's my son. You understand?"

Aziraphale gulped, straightening up as the gun was pressed to his forehead once again. Yes, he understood. He understood this man was desperate and that made him exceptionally dangerous. He wasn't given a chance to answer as the two soldiers he was sandwiched between grabbed his arms to forcibly set his hands on the sick boy. Then everyone fell silent and waited.

Oh heaven help him, what was he supposed to do? Aziraphale silently sent a desperate prayer up to Gabriel or Uriel or Michael or anyone who might be listening to spare him just a little bit of extra power to heal the poor boy—and to avoid the paperwork of his discorporation. But no help came, no replenished strength, no angelic assistance. Aziraphale sagged; he was on his own. Biting his lip, the angel summoned every scrap of power that might still be within him, but it was practically nothing at all, and nothing was exactly what happened. It was no use.

The boy suddenly sat bolt upright on the stretcher with a gasp, making everyone—including Aziraphale—leap out of their skins. His color evened out, sickly sheen fading into a healthy pallor, and his breathing returned to normal. Aziraphale gaped, stared at his hands, then frowned. No matter the appearances, that had not been him. His eyes darted over the other soldiers in the room in search of a fellow angel. Or, dare he hope...

"Thank you!" the General gasped, pulling his son in tightly against him, all but crumpled with relief. "Joseph, Anthony, take the miracle doctor out to the wagon. We'll have him start on the rest of the boys at camp right away."

"Anthony," Aziraphale mouthed, eyes latching onto one of the soldiers who'd remained silent and barely moved throughout the entire ordeal, hat pulled low over his face. He stepped forwards now, though, taking Aziraphale out of the hands of the men currently holding him. Together with another fellow, they marched him out the door and into the night. A wagon stood waiting, but they hadn't made it four steps into the cover of the night before the second soldier mysteriously collapsed, and the one remaining snorted softly.

"Why is it always you, angel?"

The soldier lifted his hat at last, golden snake eyes meeting Aziraphale's with exasperation. A snap of his fingers had the manacles dropping to the ground.

Aziraphale rubbed his wrists with a rueful smile. "I could ask the same of you," he pointed out. "Thank you, my dear. What ever are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I reckon. Only, you know, the opposite. Discord and all that. Listen, what happened? Kept waiting for you to miracle him, or at least save yourself."

With a sigh, Aziraphale hung his head. "Well, er... I can't exactly, not at the moment. There's just so many sick and wounded, Crowley... I'm a bit worn down, to tell you the truth. I feel as though I can barely move, let alone use any sort of miracles."

"Where's your backup, then?" Crowley demanded. "You didn't tell head office you'd overdone it a bit?"

"Well... I mean, yes, of course, but..."

Aziraphale saw a muscle in Crowley's jaw tick, but he couldn't exactly blame the angels for the reminder that he shouldn't have been so irresponsible as to overdo it in the first place, but it did seem bad form to leave one of their own in such a state. Not that he would ever say so, of course. Aziraphale could tell Crowley was barely biting his tongue, so hurried on, "And thank you for healing that boy, my dear. It was really quite kind of you."

"No, it wasn't," Crowley snapped, still sore. "Saving my own skin, actually. That General really would have killed you, you know, and with the Arrangement and all... I mean, it's been useful to me, can't have those blokes discorporating my business partner."

Aziraphale smiled fondly at his friend and shook his head. "Of course," he agreed kindly. "Pure selfishness on your part, my mistake. What are you going to do now?"

Crowley shrugged, leading Aziraphale the rest of the way to the wagon and helping him up into it. "Desert, I reckon," he said, taking the seat on the bench next to Aziraphale and glowering at the horses until they nervously started walking. "Seems like a devilish thing to do and I could use a break. You could, too, until you're rested up. No arguments."

Aziraphale yawned, jaw nearly cracking. Rest sounded wonderful, providing he didn't wake up in quite so awful a way. He longed to ask Crowley if the demon would possibly deign to stay nearby while Aziraphale slept but held his tongue. For one thing, there was pride to satisfy for both parties.

And for another, Aziraphale already knew that Crowley would.

Feeling safe and at ease, the angel closed his eyes.

#whumptober2020 #no.1 #waking up restrained #good omens #fanfiction #aziraphale whump #crowley to the rescue #civil war era

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thetunewillcome · 4 years

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burn

Summer Omens: Day 3 (on AO3 here if you prefer)

(Or that time I showed up to my own challenge with 1 minute to spare and 1,000 words of angst for you.)

Firedrops rained down around him, fading to flecks of ash in the tangles of his hair. Figures wrapped in blankets were huddling together in alleyways. Chaos. People rushed past, dragging carts and carrying belongings, heading for the frantic mass crowded around the closest gate. The sun had set, but the streets were cast in a flickering, harsh amber glow that threw ghoulish shadows on the walls of the buildings fortunate enough to still be standing. London was burning.

The air hung, thick with smoke and the cries of the desperate, in the narrow cobblestone streets of the city. To his left, a man tripped and fell. Another shouted something about foreigners. Raised his arm above the fallen figure, iron bar in hand. No time, he thought, but he veered left to grab the bar from the man’s hand as he strode past. Tossed it in the nearest broken window. Up ahead, he could see the towering rooftop of his destination: St. Paul’s.

If the rumors were true, there was not much time, maybe an hour before total collapse. And he knew he’d be there. “A kind gentleman,” they’d said, welcomed them to the safety of the church. Comforted their children. Tended to their burns. Fed and clothed them. In a city slowly smoldering closer to extinction, brawling with itself in the burning streets over gold and papers and blame while the Lord Mayor turned his back on the firemen’s advice, only one person could be that stupidly selfless. And Crowley knew that he’d need convincing to abandon ship.

“This was no accident, no sir,” a man spat, holding open the door of a shop to argue with a militiaman. “It’s the damned French. You should be out hunting them, ‘stead of trying to tear down my property.”

“But it’s moving this way, and if we can’t create a firebreak–” Their conversation faded into the noise of the street.

He fought against the tide of fleeing people until he reached the ornate doors of the cathedral. After holding the door for a crying woman carrying a swaddled infant, he stormed inside. “Aziraphale!” he called, and he followed his reverberating voice into the vast, dark space.

He found him deep within the building, where few people remained. Something in him burned at the sight: Aziraphale leaning over a prone figure, the silver-blue of his outfit darkened with soot, tights scorched and ripped, holding out his hand. “It’s not safe here anymore,” he was telling the woman. Looking out for the unworthy and doomed, as always. The sight brought forth the memory of a white wing extended toward him, as if he had been deserving of shelter. Of the kindness in his blue eyes. Of something close to love.

“Where should I go?” she asked, struggling to her feet.

“Beyond the wall is the best bet now. Be careful.”

She thanked him quietly and shuffled off toward the door. Crowley noticed her arms were bare. Nothing left to carry.

“Crowley? Why are you here?”

He forced his mind back to the present danger. “Because someone has to tell you the same thing you just told her. Let’s go.”

“There are more, down in the crypts with their things, and there are books– If you follow me, we can–”

“Miracle them to safety as we leave? Deal.”

Shoulders sagging, Aziraphale shook his head in silent answer.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “No miracles?” He stepped closer. “You’re telling me all this,” he hissed, “is supposed to happen?”

“I was directed not to interfere.” A second passed after the admission, Crowley reading the pain and anger in his eyes. “But that doesn’t mean… I had to do something to help them.”

“Well, you did. Saved a lot of people. Now it’s your turn.” He grabbed Aziraphale’s arm.

“No, not while there are–”

A sharp crack overhead. Stone crumbled and fell with a sound that echoed through them. Flames followed, a wooden beam tumbling in and igniting a section of pews with stunning swiftness.

Crowley tightened his grip. “We’re leaving. Now.” And as they disappeared, the people still scattered throughout the dark recesses of the cathedral heard an urgent, breathless whisper in the air: run.

They reappeared in total darkness. A snap of fingers illuminated the country road they stood on and the surrounding fields. Crowley had briefly considered the room he kept in Rome, but he knew Aziraphale would resent being taken so far away from the crisis.

“Where are we?” he demanded, wrenching his arm out of Crowley’s grasp.

“Just outside the city.”

“Those people–”

“I warned them.”

Aziraphale shot him a reluctant glance of appreciation, then gazed around at their surroundings. “I can’t just stand in a field while people burn. I need to get back to the city. If you won’t help me, I’ll… I’ll have to find a horse, and–” His voice broke, then, and he turned away from Crowley.

Rage burned inside Crowley’s chest. As if it weren’t disgusting enough that the powerless humans had to suffer in the name of God’s ineffability, he knew Aziraphale felt it all: their fear, their anguish, their loss of faith. Just as there was nothing Aziraphale could do to save them, there was nothing Crowley could do to end his grief. The cruelty of Heaven, Crowley knew, was something he’d have to come to terms with on his own. So Crowley did the only thing he could do to help: he reached out a hand and placed it timidly on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Shakily, Aziraphale looked up at him with reddened eyes. “How many times,” he started softly, pausing to choose his words carefully, “must they suffer such immense atrocities while we look on in silence?”

Having no answer to offer, Crowley turned his gaze to the earth beneath their feet. They stood like that for a while, until Aziraphale’s breathing evened out. “I do… appreciate you coming to look for me.”

“If you still want to help,” Crowley said, lowering his hand, “there’s a bit of grass down the road where they’re setting up once they make it past the gates. Could wander over and see what they need.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, blinking slowly, processing. “I… Yes, I’ll do that.” His eyes lit up with a spark that Crowley supposed was hope. “Good idea. Look after yourself.”

He started to walk down the road and Crowley followed, earning himself a curious glance. “Yeah, well, I’ve got nothing on for tonight. Might as well come along.”

The two of them spent hours in that field: cobbling together shelters, lighting burning torches, healing, listening. The stream of refugees arriving from the city, exhausted but too scared to sleep, continued well past midnight. To cover more ground, they worked separately. Crowley didn’t mind. It wasn’t proper demonic work, and it would be a tad tricky to explain away if Head Office questioned it, but it felt right. If the powers that be order destruction, then helping becomes an act of rebellion, something Crowley had always been fond of.

The night air carried a hint of smoke. When the sun began to rise, he’d thought it firelight for a frightened second. Across the field, he caught Aziraphale’s eye and nodded toward the road. Some humans had begun to help as well, under Aziraphale’s direction. He wasn’t needed anymore. Aziraphale smiled warmly at him, then returned to his work.

Their resilience did not surprise him. Seen it before, he thought as he headed for the road. Give them some time to recover, and humans always found a way to pick up the pieces of what had been thrown at them and continue on. Their city burned yesterday. Today, they would rest. Survey. Mourn. And very soon, they would begin rebuilding.

(Previous days: sand / ice cream)

#good omens #summeromens #ineffable husbands #burn #the great fire #london #day 3 and i've already gone full angst #my writing #spot any parallels to the current pandemic and you win a prize #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens fanfic #feel free to reblog

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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The Long Walk

(We have a lot to celebrate this month: 30 years from the publication of Good Omens, one year since the series came out. I, myself, have some big milestones: 666 followers, 200k+ on AO3, and 30 fics posted! And I’m about to hit 4,000 Tumblr posts. Naturally, I choose to celebrate with something VERY melancholy

(This fic was inspired by my prompt for @itsthearoway - milestones of Crowley and Aziraphale through history - but was written right after I went into self-isolation. It’s a bit of a reflection on death, life, and hope. I’m not tagging it for death because technically there are no on-screen deaths, but if you are avoiding fic that make you think about mortality DO NOT READ THIS. It’s hopeful, but also very angst.

(Thank you all! I’m working on a longer light-hearted fic about the early days of the arrangement for @itsthearoway that I hope to have the first chapter ready for in a couple of days. Here’s to another 200k!)

The Long Walk - A short saga of the world, two observers, and the question: what is it all for? (1697 words)

Also on AO3

The sands stretch away from the Walls of Eden, eternally in either direction. Endless empty wasteland. Unrelenting heat fills the air, beaming down from the sun, up from the dunes. The kind of heat that nothing can live in.

Through the endless empty wasteland walk an angel and a demon, side-by-side.

“Seems an awful waste,” says the demon. “Build a whole world with nothing in it. If the Almighty is so powerful, why not make everywhere like Eden?”

“Eden was special,” says the angel, sadly. He hasn’t been cast out, not in the way the humans and the demon have. But the Garden’s time is over, and he can move on, or fade with it. “Eden was perfect.”

“Yeah, a perfect prison.” The demon rolls his eyes. “Too perfect for the likes of me.”

“No, not perfect like that. Perfectly balanced.” The angel holds out a hand, tipping it side to side. “The weather, the animals, all life, everything hung perfectly from the slightest thread. The was no…no room for deviation, you might say. No room for evil, yes, but also for good. For knowledge. For choice or free will. Once the humans had that, they had to leave. Even if they stayed, it all would have fallen apart.”

The demon considers as they walked. “That’s your ‘ineffable’ explanation?”

A shrug. “It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Not really.” The demon looks at their surroundings. “And it still seems an awful waste. Sending the humans out here to die.”

“Oh, I don’t think it will come to that. They may yet find something outside the Garden. Look.”

Ahead of them, a shape bursts from the shade of a dune, a small lizard, mottled brown, running for all it's worth to cower in the next shadow. “There’s still life,” says the angel. “Still a chance.”

A thousand years.

Frozen winters.

Drought-filled summers.

A Flood covers the land, and recedes.

Through lands scoured clear of any trace of life walk an angel and a demon, side-by-side.

“Not much of a chance, if our sides keep interfering,” the demon says, watching the brown river rush past between barren banks.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” the angel chides.

A snort. “You’d say the same if it were my side that did this.” Silence, apart from footfalls in the mud. “Well, go on. Tell me it’s all part of the Plan. I can practically hear you thinking it.”

“Well it is. I might not understand it, but it must be.”

“Some Plan. A thousand years of struggle and toil, for what? Just to be destroyed like that.”

“Nonsense.” The angel points overhead at a flitting dove. The first bird either of them has seen since the rains began. “It isn’t over yet. And we can’t know until it’s over.”

Two thousand more years.

Cities rise.

Cities fall.

Sodom.

Thera.

Troy.

They walk together through the empty streets of what had once been the world’s greatest city, past shattered walls and burned out homes and the remains of a wooden horse.

“They’ve learned from you,” the angel says, an edge of bitterness.

“They’ve learned from us,” the demon corrects, but without rancor.

The angel pauses to study the remains of a temple, altar within shattered, blood spattered across the floor from more than sacrificial animals. “Either way, they surpassed their teachers.”

“They did.” In the distance, past once-impregnable gates that will never close again, high-masted ships depart. Not the attackers, returning victorious to kingdoms that have been destroyed in other ways; these are the survivors, in search of a new home. “Do you suppose they’ll do any better the next time?”

“We must hope,” said the angel, looking where white flowers grow through the cracks in the path. “We must always hope.”

Phoenicia.

Persia.

Carthage.

Rome.

Empires grow.

Empires topple.

They walk, tracing the path of an aqueduct, still valiantly carrying water to an empty city, miles away.

“You know, I really thought they had something this time,” sighs the angel, watching the rodents burrow beneath the monumental stones.

The demon tosses his head, looking at the endless span of arch on arch, crossing a continent. “They did.”

“Next time,” the angel says, with confidence he doesn’t feel. “Next time they’ll get it right.”

“They will. For a time.”

“Oh, there is no need for you to be…pessimistic,” the angel snaps.

“It’s not pessimism, it’s – oh, never mind.” The demon saunters a little faster. “I think I see a village up ahead. Probably have something to drink there.”

Wars rage, brought by raiders or kings or desperate humans.

Famine crawls from town to town, spurred on by locusts, by ice storms, by greed.

Pestilence crosses the world again and again.

Death. Death. Death.

An angel kneels in the street, holding a human’s hand. The human isn’t moving.

A demon materializes from the shadows behind him. “Give it a rest. You can’t do anything for him now.”

“I know.” He stands up. “But I had to try.”

All around them, the city stands silent. Not empty. Humans locked in their homes, afraid to go out, afraid to be too close, afraid the plague may catch them, too.

“He should have fled,” the angel says sadly. “Left the city while he still had a chance.”

“Not everyone can run,” the demon points out.

“I know.” After a time, he walks again, the demon beside him. Past empty fountains, abandoned marketplaces, homes boarded shut. “The city has changed so much. Do you remember that lovely restaurant we used to visit?”

“Burned down. Almost a thousand years ago.” The demon shrugs. “Vandals. Or Goths, maybe.”

“Ah. Pity.”

From a nearby alley, the stench of death. The demon tries to look away, only to find himself meeting the angel’s eyes.

“You won’t find anyone in there.”

“I know. But I have to try.”

The demon sighs, but follows him in. “I hate this century.”

“You always say that, dear.”

New continents.

New art styles.

New wars.

New technologies.

Until one afternoon the world ends – and is made anew.

And only one small group of humans will ever know – and an angel and a demon, stepping off a bus together at three in the morning. The city isn’t empty, merely asleep.

Not ready to go inside just yet, they walk around the block, listening to foxes rummage through rubbish bins, watching lights flick on, here and there, where another insomniac has risen from bed.

“What do you suppose comes next?” the angel wonders, when the silence becomes too much. “For the humans.”

“Dunno.” The demon tosses his head, hands stuck in his pockets. “More of the same, I would guess. Life, death, love, hate, good, bad. Human stuff.”

“But something has to change,” the angel insists. “The world nearly ended for…for Heaven’s sake,” he finishes, voice full of irony. “But if it was the Plan, it must mean something. What’s it all leading to?”

“We might find out. Depends what comes next. For us.”

“Ah.” The angel slows. Stops. “Do you…do you suppose they’re very angry?”

The demon turns to face him with a snort. “What do you think?”

“I think…I think…” His hands straighten his waistcoat, smooth his tie. “I think that whatever comes next, however much time we have…I should like to carry on as we always have.” His tone is light, his eyes searching.

A slow nod. “Yeah.” The demon reaches out, gently squeezes the angel’s shoulder. “Yeah. Me too.”

When they start walking again it is, as always, side-by-side.

“And, you know, I would like to see how it all turns out.”

“You and me both, Angel.”

More time passes.

The world grows old. Ancient.

Another war. The Really Big One. Bigger than any seen on Earth or in Heaven.

Everybody fights.

Everybody loses.

When it is over – when all things are over – there is nothing left.

No world, no Paradise, no eternal torment. No Hosts of Heaven, no Legions of Hell.

No humans, no Satan, no God.

Just an endless, eternal expanse of nothing and, somewhere in the featureless plane, an angel in white, kneeling, alone.

Slowly, the darkness around him resolves into another shape. The demon steps forward, fighting back a smile. “There you are. You survived.” As if he hasn’t been frantically searching. “Thought as much. You’re very hard to kill.”

The angel doesn’t respond.

“It sure was a mess, though, wasn’t it?” The demon shakes his head ruefully. “Should have expected it, really, but right at the end when –”

“I was wrong.” The angel hasn’t moved, eyes still locked on the endless Nothing. “Thousands of years, millions of sunrises, and for what? There was never any point.”

“No, Angel.” The demon kneels beside him, rests a hand on his shoulder. “I mean, yeah, you were wrong. Because the ending was never the point. It was the journey – all those millions of days, filled with love and hate and smiling children and fighting with friends and favorite foods and annoying songs and struggles and choices and…and life. Everything they never would have had if they’d stayed in the Garden. That was the point. That was always the point.”

“Perhaps,” the angel tries to smile. “It was lovely, wasn’t it? While it lasted?”

“Yeah. It really was.” The demon helps him to his feet. “And, you know, it’s not completely gone.”

He waves a hand, long fingers trailing through the void as they had at the beginning of time, helping to shape the stars. He gathers together every atom, every wisp of matter, closer, closer, into a ball. The angel presses his hands into it, and together they compress it, tighter, denser, until –

A spark. From neither. From both.

BANG.

The void fills once more.

With chaos.

With potential.

With light.

The demon looks around, nodding with approval. “What do you think, Angel? Time for another walk?”

He gazes out at the disks of galaxies forming in the expanding cloud of debris. “Do you…do you think things will be different this time?”

A shrug. “Only one way to find out.”

Through the glowing crucible of a newborn universe walk an angel and a demon, side-by-side.

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yamisnuffles · 5 years

Text

To Hell and Back

History proved that there would always be a selection of humans interested in the occult. Every so often, they actually gathered up enough knowledge that Heaven took notice and it became Aziraphale’s problem. Late in the 14th century is one of those times and Crowley is nowhere to be found to be called on for the Arrangement.

Warnings for non-graphic violence/implied torture. Hurt/Comfort.

Read on Ao3

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History proved that there would always be a selection of humans interested in the occult. Oftentimes they knew too little for this to mean anything. Perhaps they’d gather together in the dark and chant some nonsensical incantation and end the night no worse for wear. Sometimes they actually knew just enough to cause some trouble, for themselves or others. These were the individuals who would actually manage to summon a demon. If they were fortunate, they would get someone like Crowley and find themselves the victim of an elaborate prank. If not, they would barter away their soul for something foolish and ultimately meaningless in the face of what they’d given up. And very, very rarely, they gathered up enough knowledge that Heaven took notice and it became Aziraphale’s problem.

Heaven wasn’t terribly concerned with these humans dooming themselves. What they were worried about was the image problem it created. Someone with actual control of the occult could gain a following, either for themself or the demon they’d brought into their service. It just didn’t do to have false gods raised up completely unchecked, not when those so-called gods had hellish power behind them. As Heaven’s main agent on Earth, it came down to Aziraphale to do something about it. He rather disliked such assignments. They required quite a bit more direct interference than he preferred and could get messy fast. If he could have, he likely would have tried to make use of the Arrangement he and Crowley had struck up. Unfortunately, he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the demon in some time.

“Never around when your help would actually be convenient to me,” Aziraphale muttered into his tankard of ale.

In the handful of centuries since he’d finally agreed to Crowley’s proposition, the Arrangement seemed to have most often served to get the demon out of the cold and damp. As the weather was currently both, he was no doubt somewhere far afield, soaking up the sun, the lazy serpent. Meanwhile Aziraphale was left to clean up what was, really, Hell’s mess in the first place. His joints ached and backside was sore from what felt an eternity on horseback.

But no matter! The road of righteousness was rarely easy and now at least he had a warm meal in his stomach. Better yet, he could walk the rest of the way from the inn and be back before supper. With that thought in mind, he gathered the last drops of hare stew onto his finger and licked it off with a satisfied hum.

“Another serving, Father?” the inkeep asked, ladle in hand.

Aziraphale tugged at his vestments self consciously. “No, no. I’m afraid I must be off to minister to a member of the flock who has strayed. I shan’t be long, though, so keep the pot warm for me if you would, my good man.”

“Of course. You stay safe out there. There are some unsavory folks about.”

“You have no idea,” Aziraphale murmured.

“What was that?”

“I said that’s the idea. To stay safe.” Aziraphale offered a fluttering smile. “Right, ah, off I go.”

Before he went, Aziraphale left a blessing upon the inn. He knew food was scarce and that he was getting special treatment because of his supposed status. He’d make sure the innkeeper had a prosperous year and that his larder remained well stocked. If this meant Aziraphale was ensured another hearty meal upon his return and, shall we say, miraculously pleasant quarters, surely that hardly qualified as a sin.

The weather outside was more miserable than he recalled. Mud sucked at his every step. It was almost enough to get him back on his horse but the poor beast needed a rest in the stable as much as he needed time away from it. Instead, he did his best to think warm, dry thoughts as he continued down the road.

At the edge of a dark wood, there was a small footpath. It was nearly invisible through the undergrowth but it stunk of demonic energies. Not the pleasant musky, smokiness that lingered about Crowley either. It was all brimstone and bad life choices. There was no doubt the demon summoning fool was at the end of it. Aziraphale took a bracing breath and waved his hand to clear the way forward. It wouldn’t do to trip on brambles and bring attention to himself.

The path wound further than Aziraphale expected. What little sun there had been on that grey and dismal day was all but blotted out by the canopy above. He couldn’t help but shiver. The air was increasingly oppressive. He’d known he was walking into something bad, to have been called in at all, but this… Most places held at least a trace of love from those who lived there. This land was completely devoid of it.

The forest cleared away around a small, unassuming wood frame cottage. It could have at least had the good grace to look wicked. It was almost charming. Or would have been, if the area around it wasn’t entirely devoid of life. No plants grew at its base, not a single creeping tendril of ivy or blade of grass. Neither crawling ant nor soaring raven were about, either. In their place was a deafening silence that made Aziraphale almost long for a weapon in his hand.

“Stop being ridiculous. You are a Principality. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. This is but some human who has gotten their hands on power that doesn’t belong to them.”

Aziraphale squared his shoulders. He marched across the barren land to the cottage and, after a bracing breath, wrapped his fingers around the iron door handle. The door gave without resistance. The instant he crossed the threshold, the eerie silence was broken by something much worse. A scream tore up from somewhere beneath his feet and Aziraphale realized a number of things at once. First, that while the door hadn’t been locked, it had been magically protected and he’d just as good as rung the alarm bell. Second, that there must have been another level beneath the one on which he stood, which was empty. Third, and most importantly, he recognized that voice.

“Crowley!”

There was no response, only that raw scream. Aziraphale had the dizzying feeling that the cry was coming from the bowels of Hell itself. Fear flooded his veins, air emptied from his lungs, and his rapidly beating heart flew up into his throat. The world shifted on its axis. Aziraphale was forced to throw out an arm and steady himself against the timber door frame so that he didn’t fall. He closed his eyes and focused inward to force his corporation back under his control. Now was not the time for panic. He needed to search the room with a clear head. There had to be something he wasn’t seeing.

The single room cottage was much on the inside as it was on the outside- disconcertingly normal. There was a well used hearth with a table and chair arranged to one side and a bed to the other. Here and there were other ordinary signs of life. A discarded cloak hung off the chair and a bowl held lingering traces of porridge.

Still there was that horrid cry. Aziraphale overturned the table, the bed, anything that might be used to hide whatever hatch or door might lead him downward. When his frantic search yielded no results, he kicked a large wooden chest in frustration.

“It didn’t move,” Aziraphale mumbled as he blinked down at the chest. It was a sturdily made thing, no doubt, but he was an angel. A rather peeved angel, at that. It should have budged. “What are you hiding?”

He flipped open the lid. There wasn’t clothing, blankets, or other belongings inside. There wasn’t anything. He palmed the bottom and found a hidden latch. It opened to reveal a ladder down to a cavernous space below. He wasn’t eager to climb down into Heaven only knew what and leave himself exposed but Crowley’s drifting voice had been reduced to a pitiable moan. This wasn’t the time to dawdle. Rather than take the ladder, Aziraphale stepped up onto the edge of the chest and dropped right down.

The feeling of evil that had lingered about the cottage was nearly suffocating there. He had to shake off a wave of nausea that rolled through his gut. He’d managed to keep his feet after the fall, despite the unpleasant jolt it sent up his legs, but the world seemed to swim around him and he wasn’t sure he could stay standing long that way.

“What have we here? You have the look of a priest but if you set off my wards, you must be something much more interesting than a meddlesome local.”

Aziraphale’s eyes jumped instinctually to the source of the voice. There, waiting for him in the shadows of the dank cellar, was a figure obscured by a heavy black cloak and lit by candlelight. Aziraphale forced his eyes away and on to the person beyond who actually interested him.

“Crowley!”

The demon’s crimson curls were a vision of Eden all those years ago but he was a long way from paradise. Crowley lay prone. His wings were extended, his black clothes in tatters, and his pale skin battered and bruised. His wings had been impaled, leaving him pinned like a butterfly for display. His eyes were opened wide and gold from edge to edge, but there was no sign he’d heard Aziraphale. He didn’t seem cognizant of anything. His pulse fluttered wildly in his neck and his chest rose and fell sporadically as he drew in pained, wheezing breaths.

Some sort of glyph glowed from beneath him. Aziraphale had a hunch about what it was but there would be no telling or counteracting it without closer inspection. He moved to rush over to Crowley only to be stopped when the cloaked figure stepped in his path.

“Are you listening to me?”

Aziraphale blinked. The human had indeed been talking that whole time, he realized. “No,” he said plainly, “I’m not. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d ask that you would release him immediately.”

The hood was thrown back to reveal a well groomed man with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. “Do you know who I am?” he asked, thumping an open palm against his chest. “I, Oswald, have had the very spawn of Hell at my feet for-”

“I’m sorry, did I mistakenly give the impression that I cared? I said, release him. Now.”

Aziraphale let Heavenly authority lace through his words. It was enough that the human, Oswald, started to step out of the way. He shook his head and sputtered. “How dare you! You have no right to command me to do anything, least of all release this demon. I bought him with my soul. Not that it matters. With him, I’ll be immortal and will never have to pay that price. But he is mine, regardless.”

“Who? Who made this deal with you?” Aziraphale demanded.

He couldn’t imagine it was Crowley himself. The demon wasn’t the sort to bargain away his own freedom for one human’s soul or for anything, for that matter. Which could only mean one of his cohorts had sold him out because Aziraphale was sure the human wasn’t lying, not with the demonic sigils that glowed from the manacles around Crowley’s wrists and ankles.

Oswald seemed far more pleased with this line of discussion. He strode forward, face split by a too wide smile. “You’re no human. I already know that. From your empty heroics, I would guess… one of the Heavenly host? If so, I would think you’d recognize the works of Satan. He was impressed with the number of his underlings I’ve tricked into my service over the decades and decided to reward me.”

Aziraphale laughed. He couldn’t help it. He was more willing to believe Crowley had gotten himself into this mess than he was to believe Lucifer would lower himself to making a deal with some nobody like this.

His obvious mirth over that claim was not well received. Oswald bent low and slammed a palm against Crowley’s chest. The glyph below him instantly began glowing brighter and Crowley arched his back violently as the energy from it tore through him. He strained against the manacles that held him down and wounds were reopened against the infernal metal. A cry ripped from his throat, identical to the one Aziraphale had heard when he’d entered the cottage. Aziraphale’s vision narrowed to the ooze of blood from pale, ragged flesh. He thought he might be sick.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Oswald asked, his voice lilting and wild. “All this power and it’s mine whenever I want it.”

Aziraphale could feel it. A gateway to Hell had been opened and filled the air with the rancid smell of brimstone. It was the same sort of thing Aziraphale might do if he needed to contact Heaven without going all the way back Upstairs, except the energies had been reversed. Perverted. It shouldn’t have hurt Crowley, if he’d been properly prepared for it. Instead, he’d been made into some sort of conduit to amplify the power that was being forced up into the mortal realm and it was tearing him apart.

Without thinking, Aziraphale grabbed one of the candlesticks that loomed tall in the corners of the room. The fire at top flared and melted the candle in an instant. The wax that poured over the iron was ignited by the heat of his fury. It wasn’t his old sword, but it would do. “Release him,” he ordered in a booming voice.

“Why do you care? If you are an angel, what is the life of a demon to you?”

“He is-” Aziraphale’s gaze flickered back over Crowley’s thin, straining form. “He is still a living being and I will not see him tormented.” He widened his stance and tightened his grip on his makeshift weapon. “I will not ask again. Release him.”

Oswald laughed and spit at the angel’s feet. “I’m not afraid, not with this power at my command.”

Aziraphale advanced. Candlelight was drowned by holy light when he unfurled his own wings. He pulled the full breadth of it back into himself to spare Crowley any more pain. “I said release him. You may yet be spared your folly but not if you continue down this path.”

“I don’t care what you are. I told you, you cannot command me.”

Oswald charged the angel in front of him. Aziraphale moved smoothly aside and so avoided a fist that had the power to crash into the stone wall. He was not afraid. He’d fought the Fallen when humans had been no more than a Divine thought. He could as easily snuff out this human’s life as he could one of the candles around them but he still hoped to avoid that path.

However, Oswald continued to fight with the singular bullheaded surety of a human with a taste of power. Only, that power wasn’t his. It was there alright but not truly for him. He never had and never would have the strength to grasp it. He charged about like a beast, snarling with growing frustration. The only damage he’d managed was to his own lair. Every punch was dodged. Wisps of ill handled magic were dispelled. He threw a chunk of rubble at Aziraphale and the angel simply sliced it in two. His desperation drove him to the glyph he’d carved and foolishly activated. The moment he laid his bloodied hands on it to try to draw out even more power, it was proven once more that evil held the seeds of its own destruction. His fragile human form burst at the seams when he attempted to harness so much infernal energy. Aziraphale closed his eyes as Oswald was reduced to dust with a scream and the soul within was pulled right through the gate that he’d opened.

Once Oswald was well and truly gone, the glyph deactivated once more. The makeshift weapon in Aziraphale’s hands became a simple candlestick again and was tossed aside. He dropped to his knees next to Crowley. When he reached toward him, Crowley’s eyes flashed open and he fought to curl in on himself. Aziraphale bit his lip to stop from whimpering at the sight. There was the Arrangement to consider. Yes, the Arrangement. That was why he needed to free Crowley from this predicament.

“It’s me. It’s Aziraphale. I’m not going to hurt you, so try to relax, dear boy,” he soothed, pressing a hand against the wiry muscle of one straining arm. “I’m here and I’ll get you out of this. I swear it.”

Surprisingly, Crowley did relax. He still looked insensible to the world but he stopped struggling with his bonds. Which left Aziraphale to carry through with his promise. Far easier said, as it happened, than done. The manacles were designed to suppress demonic power, not angelic, but removing them wouldn’t be pretty for either of them.

He grabbed hold of the closest one. His hands instantly singed but he kept his grip tight. “This is going to hurt,” he warned, not knowing if Crowley even heard him. “I’m so sorry, but there’s no other way.”

The holy power needed to break it was enough to scorch Crowley in turn. He hissed and attempted to jerk away again as the first manacle melted into nothing. Aziraphale bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. He wanted to give more assurances but he knew that the best thing to do at this point would be to finish freeing Crowley. He moved on to the other wrist, to one ankle, and then the next. Crowley let out a pitiful sigh of relief and curled in on himself as much as he was able.

Aziraphale wished that was the worst of it. There were still the wings to consider. They’d been stabbed through by mundane wooden stakes. It was pointless cruelty. The other bonds would have been more than enough to hold Crowley. Aziraphale could think of no other reason for it than vanity- glossy, black feathered proof that a demon had been laid low by human hands. Perhaps it was foolish to use another miracle on them, but Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of wrenching them free. With a snap, both stakes vanished and the damage they’d inflicted was undone. Another and the damage he’d done to remove the manacles was also healed.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and moaned. His wings fluttered and were curled protectively around him. Aziraphale swallowed against a surge of feeling. He ran his fingers over the graceful curve of one wing and carefully straightened a few errant feathers. “Come now, put those away for me so I can get you out of here.”

He tucked his own away again, as though a display would help. Crowley answered with another weak rustle of his wings and then groaned in pain. Aziraphale flinched sympathetically. He stood back up and started to pace at the foot of the ladder.

“He’s my enemy, technically,” he said to himself in a shrill whisper. “I’ve already gone through the trouble of getting rid of his captor and unshackling him. I can’t really be asked more by the Arrangement. No doubt whoever in Hell set him up will be around to check out their handiwork. Which is to say nothing of what Heaven will think if they find out all I’ve done.” Further argument was stopped by another pitiable moan. Aziraphale twisted his ring and then winced. His hands still held infernal burns that he wouldn’t be able to heal himself. Such a minor thing, compared to everything Crowley had been through. “Oh, bugger it.”

Aziraphale delicately slid one arm under Crowley’s wings to cradle the demon’s shoulders and then slid the other under a knobby pair of knees. He needed to act with care to avoid the glyph. It was awkward with Crowley’s wings still extended but Aziraphale managed to lift him regardless.

“Right.” He felt like he was going to be ill. He looked down at Crowley’s wan face. “You’re- you’re my prisoner now. I’m taking you for questioning to make sure you haven’t tempted any other humans. So I’ll just be taking you back with me and getting you healed up.”

He shifted Crowley’s wire thin frame in his arms and tried not to think too closely about how it felt to hold his dearest adversary. A snap of his fingers and the both of them appeared in Aziraphale’s room in the inn. Crowley’s wings flared wide and knocked a small painting of St. Anthony from the walls with a clatter.

“Who’s up there!”

Aziraphale glanced quickly at Crowley and decided it was safer to leave him alone for a moment than to risk discovery. He clambered around wings, splayed limbs, and got out just in time to greet the innkeeper.

“It’s just me,” he said. “Nothing at all to worry about.”

The innkeeper raised one bushy eyebrow. “Didn’t see you come back.” He raked an appraising eye over Aziraphale. “What’s all that then?”

Aziraphale looked down and realized he had Crowley’s blood on him. He ran his hands self consciously over his blackened vestments. “Oh, er, fell in the mud. Quite a mess. That’s why I slipped back in quietly. Very embarrassing.”

The innkeeper hummed skeptically but it wasn’t like he could offer any other explanation for how Aziraphale had magically appeared in his room without seeming to have gone through the front door. Aziraphale could practically see when his poor human mind smoothed over the whole situation.

“Well, supper will be in about an hour,” the man said.

“Yes, thank you. I’ll just be back in my room now. Goodbye.”

Aziraphale slipped back through his door with what he hoped was enough speed to mask the interior. He miracled his vestments clean. Yet another miracle was spent to ensure no further noises would escape the room. He heaved out a heavy sigh and then returned to the bedside where he’d left Crowley. The demon didn’t seem to have improved in the slightest. He was out cold, his wings and various overlong limbs still left akimbo. Aziraphale had the sudden impression of Crowley fallen, fresh out of Heaven. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Well, he might not have been able to do anything for Crowley then, but he could now. Along with fresh clothes for Crowley, he miracled up a large bowl of warm water and clean, soft cloth. As gently as he was able, he cleaned away blood, new and old. He couldn’t help but wonder how long Crowley had been imprisoned there. Long enough to leave evidence of experimentation in the form of myriad cuts and bruises.

Aziraphale proceeded carefully. He gently dabbed black blood away from pale flesh. He frowned every time a new incision was uncovered and pulled away quickly whenever Crowley winced or groaned. And it was far too often for both. By the time it was all cleaned and mended, Aziraphale felt exhausted.

He ran a weary hand over his face and sighed. “And here I was complaining you weren’t around to settle this mess. Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley’s lips moved but Aziraphale couldn’t hear what he’d said, if anything. Aziraphale pushed wearily back to his feet and leaned closer. “What was that?”

“Said…” Crowley smacked his dry, gummy mouth. “S’what ‘m here for. Make messessss.”

Aziraphale let out a weak chuckle. “That you are.” A cup of mulled wine materialized in one hand and the other hand he slid behind Crowley’s head to lift him up. Once Crowley was in a position to drink, Aziraphale pressed the cup to his lips. “Here, this should help.”

After he’d swallowed down a few mouthfuls, Crowley cracked open one eye. “Where-?”

“Oh, an inn, not far from where you were,” Aziraphale supplied as he sank back into his seat. “I have a room.”

“Where I… where was I?”

“You don’t remember?”

Crowley shook his head and then winced. Aziraphale’s heart did something he tried not to examine. He had done all he could to heal Crowley but the worst of the injuries weren’t something he could heal. That would take time and Crowley recovering enough to do the rest himself.

“Don’t really remember much,” the demon said.

“I don’t know all the details. I was sent to deal with a human with far too much interest in the occult. He’d managed to summon you or you had been-” Would it help or hurt Crowley to know what Aziraphale suspected of his fellow demons? He was so fragile at the moment, Aziraphale wasn’t sure it was worth the risk. “Well, at any rate, you were being used to syphon demonic energy until he fell to his own folly. I expect you’ll be feeling the after effects of that for a while.”

“Explains why I feel like Hell. Literally,” Crowley replied in a tight voice.

He tried to sit up but immediately fell back with a cry. His eyes were squeezed shut as his body became a collection of angles- all taut muscles and hard locked joints- as he fought through the worst of the pain. When it subsided again, he sank into the bed. His chest rose and fell with deep, erratic breaths. Eventually he opened his eyes once more and stared up at the ceiling.

“Probably should have made it easier on both of us and discorporated me,” he said between strained breaths.

Aziraphale stood so suddenly that his chair fell with a clatter behind him. “Don’t. Don’t you dare say such things.”

Crowley’s eyes looked suddenly clearer than they had all day. He fixed Aziraphale with a gaze sharp enough to cut. “Why?”

“You’re challenging me deciding not to kill you?”

“Eh, not kill, really. Just discorporate. Would have been unpleasant, sure, but not like my current situation is a day at the baths. Satan I miss regular baths. When do you think humans around here will get back to that?” Crowley waved his hand weakly. “Whatever, not the point. Point is, it’d probably have been easier for both of us. For you, certainly. I am your enemy, technically, after all.”

Aziraphale felt heat bloom in his cheeks and spread quickly up to his ears. “You heard that, did you?” He tried to find an easy answer, thought about sniping back that he should have discorporated the fiend, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to actively do harm to Crowley. He bought some time by righting the chair he’d knocked over and took a seat once more. “Be that as it may, I am an angel. I do not take killing- or discorporating for that matter- lightly,” he sputtered.

“Not even as a mercy?” Crowley croaked, sounding every bit as miserable as he looked.

“Oh, now you’re just being dramatic. You’re doing much better already and getting better by the moment.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who was wrung out to Hell and back. Literally, more or less.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He’d done everything he could but there were limitations to his abilities. Crowley’s ankles and wrists were still branded by burns, the ghost of those infernal manacles. And that was just what could be seen on the outside.

“Time will be the best medicine in this case, I think, but is there anything more I can do? Anything at all. You only have to ask.”

“I’m fine actually. You’re right. Just being dramatic.” A smattering of embarrassed red colored Crowley’s cheeks, no doubt due to his wounded pride. “Been through way worse and survived. This is nothing compared to Falling, let me tell you.”

It wasn’t often that Crowley mentioned his Fall. Generally it only came up in moments like this, offhand when he was too drunk or hurt or tired to care. It made guilt squirm hot and uneasy in Aziraphale’s gut. He knew of course he wasn’t directly responsible for whatever Crowley had gone through but they had been on opposite sides. Were still.

“I could help you get to sleep. At least then you might be unconscious through the worst of it.”

Crowley scratched his chin absently. “I do like sleep. Can’t remember the last time I got a chance, actually.”

“It shouldn’t be a problem to nudge you along. You may want to put your wings away first.”

“Right.” Crowley looked at the state of his wings with a frown. “Just gave them a good grooming and now look at them.”

“I could- that is, if you thought it would help- I could help you with that again when you’re feeling up to it.”

Crowley tried and failed again to sit up. Aziraphale offered a hand and was surprised when it was accepted without protest. Crowley plucked out a loose feather and threw it aside. After rolling his shoulders, he folded his wings in then away from human view.

He shook his head. “Thanks for the offer angel, but I’ve seen the state of your wings. Don’t think what you would do to mine would actually qualify as help.”

“Hush, you.” Aziraphale pursed his lips and rolled his eyes. “You were right, I should have just discorporated you.”

Crowley smiled wide enough to show his too sharp canines. He wriggled stiffly back into bed, flinching and cursing as he went. Once he was settled he said, “Guess you better get to it and knock me out. I smell warm food and I’m sure you’ll be wanting some.” He rolled his head away so Aziraphale could only just see the quick flutter of his lashes around the sharp cut of his cheek. “Then if you want to help with my wings I guess you could. You know, since you clearly need the practice.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “I might be persuaded.”

He reached out a hand and cupped Crowley’s face. There wasn’t, strictly speaking, any need to do so in order to put him to sleep but he’d always found that it comforted humans so it would surely help a fussy demon as well. Crowely’s face was particularly warm to the touch. Aziraphale wondered if it was some lingering effect of what he’d been through but he didn’t have long to worry over it because Crowley suddenly snatched his wrist. He blinked and hoped his pulse wasn’t racing as obviously through his wrist as it was in his chest.

Crowley released him. “I, uh, not that I’m worried about nightmares or anything like that but, I mean, I’d probably sleep better without them, right? So, you know, for resting purposes, do you think you could just put me down cold?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised. “Of course but I could also make sure you have good dreams, if you’d rather.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked over and then quickly back away. “No. Nah. Just nothing. Nothing’s best.”

Aziraphale pressed his palm against Crowley’s hot, scarlet tinged cheek again. “Whatever you’d like, my dear.”

Crowley looked at him one last time before those golden eyes of his were hidden beneath miraculously leaden lids. Aziraphale let his hand linger for some time before he remembered himself. Crowley was his enemy, not someone whose cheek he should be cupping and certainly not someone for whom he should lay extra protections around the room. He pocketed the black feather Crowley had thrown aside and did it anyway.

#good omens #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #hurt/comfort #whum #fic #my writing

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shipaholic · 4 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 7

Pivotal chapter no. 1, here we go...

This chapter has drinking. So much drinking. Also, Crowley finally has the Bentley, so this will be the first chapter (of many?) in which he totally invents speeding.

The music in this chapter is V Stands For Victory

And I Could Write a Book (Eddy Duchin, 1941).

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 7

Crowley’s ridiculous contraption bombed down the street at ninety miles per hour. Aziraphale was hardly aware. His eyes were fixed on Crowley’s face as he drove.

This was bad, he thought, dreamily.

Telling himself that made no dent in his emotional state. His mind was wrapped in cotton candy. Cotton candy that was moving very fast… possibly still in the whirly machine they made it in… he shouldn’t try to devise metaphors at a time like this. The point was, despite Crowley being Demonic and Evil and the rest of the standard specs for a minion of Hell, upon realising he loved him, Aziraphale could not make himself feel anything other than Good. Both definitions. This was right. This was what he was made for.

It wasn’t as if Crowley had ever been capital-E Evil, really. In fact, so long as he was being honest with himself (a dreadful prospect, but it turned out love made him brave), he had known this ever since the first time they fused. All those thousands of years ago. That was probably a big part of the reason he had hit the proverbial roof. It was a blow to one’s identity as a font of goodness, to merge minds with your opposite number and learn that he had more in common with you, morally, than most of your allies. Back then, he had refused to accept being humbled and had lashed out at Crowley instead. He’d behaved terribly. Worse than he’d even admitted before now.

But that was in the past, and the present was a carousel, a delicious dreamscape, gliding through the velvet dark with Crowley beside him -

The Bentley screeched to a halt. Aziraphale nearly slammed into the windscreen.

“Home sweet home,” Crowley said, cheerfully.

It was fortunate he didn’t have to love everything about Crowley, because this infernal machine was definitely out.

Crowley peered out of the window. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” he said, approvingly. He opened his door and hopped out. “Coming?”

Aziraphale looked out. They were already at the bookshop. He hadn’t been paying attention.

He collected himself, and his bag of books. He opened the car door with trepidation, as if the handle might explode.

It didn’t. He got from the car and followed Crowley in a daze towards the shop.

Crowley snapped his fingers. A soundproof bubble settled over the shop. Another snap dropped the blinds, and a third clicked the door latch into place.

Aziraphale hovered near the entrance. His familiar space had just become soft and dark and intimate. He wasn’t sure what thresholds would be crossed if he went all the way inside.

It had been years since Crowley had been back here. He revolved, drinking it in.

“Ahh. Place looks good. Very… impenetrable.”

Aziraphale preened. “In its heyday, this place could go six months at a time without selling a single book.”

Crowley gave him a fond smile. Aziraphale was going to spontaneously combust before the night was over.

Crowley clapped his hands together. “So! What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale took a breath and tried for a normal answer. “Alcohol seems just the ticket.”

“No surprise there.” Crowley miracled up some brandy glasses.

“Well, of course. I was just in mortal peril, you know.” Aziraphale followed him to the back room.

“Immortal peril. Barely counts.”

~*~

It was an old, familiar scene.

Crowley took over the whole sofa in increasingly supine, twisty positions the drunker he got. Aziraphale sat in the armchair, head and surroundings merrily spinning. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but he knew it involved vociferously nitpicking something one of them had said half an hour ago.

“Tha’snot true. Totally unfair. I was going to come by.”

“Lies.” Aziraphale poured another brandy and missed.

“I just fell asleep. For a few years. And forgot.”

“Wimped out, more like.”

“Wimped out? Me? What the Hell did you get up to in there?”

“I’ll never tell. Because you didn’t come by.”

Crowley tried to sit up, wrestled with the throw, and sunk back, defeated.

“I knew it wasn’t all games of Old Maid in there,” he said. “You dark horse.”

“We did some of that…” Aziraphale said, dreamily.

“You what?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. “Erm. We did - the Gavotte?”

“...Is that a euphemism?”

“No, it’s a jolly lovely time.”

An unbroken row of them, linking arms and kicking their feet. Aziraphale had been one of the better dancers by the end. It helped to be single-handed - no, minded...

He bolted upright. “Crowley! I should show you.”

“Whassat?”

Aziraphale sprung to his feet, after a couple of false starts. He took a moment to let the brandy inside him slosh back to an even level.

“The Gavotte. Watch me. Watch me, Crowley.”

He stepped over a few piles of books. He needed some room… was his shop always this cluttered? He pushed ineffectually at a small table covered in ornaments, then gave up and snapped his fingers. The furniture in the middle of the room obligingly tidied itself off to the side. V Stands For Victory parped its opening notes from the gramophone.

Crowley watched, mouth slightly agape, from halfway off the sofa. Aziraphale beckoned him with more and more insistence, until Crowley slid all the way off, crawled nearer and pulled himself up against the arm of Aziraphale’s chair.

Satisfied that Crowley could at least see, even if his eyes were unfocused, Aziraphale prepared himself. He bounced from his knees a few times and swung his elbows. He’d have to just imagine the rest of the chaps.

“A one, a two, a three, a four -”

Five energetic minutes passed.

Aziraphale thrust both arms towards Crowley in the universally recognised sign for ‘tah-dah!’ The gramophone tooted to a stop, sounding embarrassed.

Crowley’s mouth hung open.

“It’s better than your magic act, thank Satan,” he said at last.

“Oh, come now.” Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley groped for the nearest drink. “That’s cheered me up about giving the old club a miss.”

“You’re no fun. It’s better with more people.”

Perhaps a one-person Gavotte was too reliant on the imagination of the audience. Aziraphale thought for a moment. He pointed to the gramophone. It cranked reluctantly up again.

“This music is poor even by Heavenly standards,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tripped forward before he could overthink it, and grabbed Crowley’s hand. They swayed, as though reaching for each other on a deck over choppy waters. Crowley’s face was scarlet from alcohol. He blinked at Aziraphale, his eyes a haze of gold.

“Dance with me.” Aziraphale meant to sound authoritative. It came out slightly breathless.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale shuffled backwards. He felt self-conscious hanging onto Crowley’s hand, so tried to pull away unobtrusively. Drunk as they were, their fingers tangled together, and withdrawing his far-too-hot hand ended up being a bit of a nightmare. Crowley’s face was even redder by the time their hands loosened. Still he drifted towards Aziraphale as if the tether was still there.

The music was awfully trumpety, Aziraphale had to admit, as they stood face to face in the bit of floor space that was clear. He stepped up beside Crowley, and slipped his arm through his.

“Now, it’s not so hard. Even I got it in the end. You move like this -”

He took a step. Crowley stepped the other way, and collided with him.

Things did not improve. The gramophone sounded irritated by the third play through, and Aziraphale and Crowley had dissolved into arguing while Aziraphale tried to watch both their feet.

“This is stupid. Whoever invented this dance did not have demons in mind. Or humans. Maybe horses. This is a horse dance.”

“I doubt this dance was intended for horses - no, you do this with your arms. How many elbows do you have?”

“Two, or none, depending. Hmm. Would you say a snake is basically one long elbow?”

“Thinking about that is above my paygrade. Will you stop getting underfoot?”

“You’re stepping on my feet!”

“How am I supposed to avoid that? They’re everywhere.”

“This is why I never bloody turned up.”

“Honestly -”

Aziraphale held Crowley closer, hoping to wrangle him through the steps.

He really was all elbows and knees. And so warm, radiating hell’s heat through that sharp suit. No hat, no glasses, eyes like suns floating in a swamp. Strands of short red hair teased loose over his forehead. His brows had such character. They were scrunched in that bemused, slightly glum way Aziraphale had noted hundreds of times. He hadn’t quite known he was recording it. Crowley’s face, Crowley’s looks. His angelic memory was long, and its catalogue of Crowley was fathomless.

The music had changed. Someone crooned:

‘About the way you walk, and whisper, and look…’

That seemed unnecessarily on-the-nose.

Aziraphale wondered which of them had done that. He didn’t recall making a conscious attempt. Perhaps it had reacted to both of them.

He could no longer pretend what they were doing bore any resemblance to a Gavotte.

He ought to pull away. His eyes fixed on his hand, resting beside Crowley’s lapel. There was no heart beneath it; nothing so human. But something beat anyway. Something in Crowley was in rhythm with him. They pushed and pulled together. Despite a lack of innate ability, they danced.

He looked up, and searched Crowley’s face.

Crowley looked…

Stunned, a little. Fearful. Yearning.

He’d seen this look before. Stifled versions of it. So many times.

Aziraphale’s heart wrenched towards Crowley’s, and it made no difference that neither of them really had one.

~*~

The gramophone concluded that it would make two lovers of friends. The brilliant white glow that had flared into every corner of the room died away like the last light of summer.

Zadkiel twirled to a stop. He had wrapped his arms around himself. He sighed, and opened his eyes.

He was him. Again. Better and fuller and brighter than ever before.

It was like a loose connection in his brain had snapped into place, and lit up an entire circuit he didn’t know was there.

Of course they loved each other. Of course. He’d always known, without being truly allowed to know. Cognitive dissonance, that was the term. Normally, when people had it, it manifested as plain old denial. For Zadkiel, it was what happened when one of your component parts was very much aware they were in love, and the other part was utterly unaware, no matter how apparent it should have been to literally anyone.

No more. Now, their feelings were an open book. He was remade, and everything was different.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

He snapped his fingers at the gramophone. It gratefully fell silent.

Another snap, and Aziraphale’s furniture shuffled back into place. He had to hop about to avoid his shins getting bashed.

Finally, he snapped to unlock the door.

It fell ajar. The smell of night air stirred through the shop, dark as ink, and full of a thousand small noises.

Zadkiel turned in place. He drank in the long-loved sight of the bookshop. What a wonderful friend it had been. A true home, after centuries of wandering. If he could take it with him, he would.

He straightened his tie, banished the lingering alcohol from his bloodstream, and strode to the door.

His final act was to fish his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. He left them on a table. He wouldn’t need them where he was going.

He exited the shop smartly. The door snapped shut behind him.

~*~

The street rolled away into the dark distance.

Zadkiel tilted his head up. The night sky was empty of stars and gods, and it was all waiting for him.

Both pairs of wings spread out behind him. He let them both have a good stretch. They’d need it.

He had loved the Earth. He always would. Still… time for something new.

He wished the world the fondest of farewells, and took off into the night.

---

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe #phewww what is crazy fusion boy up to TUNE IN NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT #sometimes you've gotta goofy-dance with your crush and then accidentally turn it into slow-dancing while a Significant Piece of Music plays #and that's the tropiest thing I'm knowingly putting in this fic

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dogboy-willgraham · 4 years

Note

ooh here's a prompt idea if u feel like it: some kind of fairy tale au, like sleeping beauty, red riding hood, etc ( bonus if it at some point includes or mentions a duck)

(I AM FINALLY WRITING THIS I APOLOGIZE FOR MY BITCHY ASS TAKING SO LONG I COULDN’T GET INSPIRATION AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW I’M DOING MENTALLY ANYMORE SO FORGIVE ME AND MY SCREAMING)

Sleeping Beauty AU, FOOLS

*The original Disney animated version because I am not doing the OG version with the 100 years sleep and the rape (Look it up, or don’t), or the Maleficent storyline because that’s not the point here, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk*

Once upon a certain place in time, there was a Queen, no one ever really knew Her name. She had a son, and while there was rumors of a horrid affair, for She ruled alone, none of them where true. She in fact did have a son by her husband, Lucifer, but when She found him sleeping with Her brother from a neighboring kingdom, She took a few shoots of water hemlock from Her own garden, and mixed him a wonderful drink the next morning. A week later She found Herself carrying a child.

No one ever did find out the king had died.

Anyhow, when Her son was born, She held a ceremony and invited three angels. Michael, Uriel, and Ananiel. They each bestowed a blessing on the child.

Beauty.

Kindness.

And when Ananiel began faer blessing of safety, and draft flooded into the hall. And a wicked baritone laugh erupted.

“Such a grand party, my queen, and yet I receive no invitation?” A man shaped being with dark violet eyes emerged from the crowd, a pure white duck waddling beside him.

“Gabriel,” She hissed. “You are not welcome here,”

“Oh, but why not my queen? I’m no different from them,” Gabriel turned his gaze upon the three angels guarding the cradle where the prince slept. “I’m an angel, and just like them, I’ve come to give my blessing upon the young one,”

“You are no more angel than a demon,” She hissed.

“Leave, Gabriel,” Ananiel warned. “You are not to touch him while I watch over him, you’re ‘blessing’ is not welcome,”

Gabriel chuckled darkly and waved his hand, sending the three across the room.

The queen stood, arm poised just behind Her throne where her longsword sat.

Gabriel looked over and with another flick of his wrist She was forced into her seat.

Finally, he walked to the cradle, and looked down at the golden haired boy. The boy roused from his sleep, due to Gabriel’s presence and began to fuss.

Gabriel laughed lowly, and placed a hand over the boys chest, making the prince fuss more.

“Oh, darling prince of Her majesty,” Gabriel began. “Do not fuss, I have come to bring you a blessing,” He took a deep breath and smirked deeply as he began speaking once more. “For your mother’s offenses, you will pay,” Gabriel began to address his entire audience. “The prince will live for sixteen years, happily and beautifully, as my dear friends have blessed, but on his sixteenth birthday, no sooner will the sun set as the prince will be pricked by the thorn of a rose, and fall into a sleep-like death, never to wake,” He finished and a bolt of thunder cracked outside, then it fell silent.

Gabriel walked away from the cradle and down to the edge of the crowd. “That, is my blessing, my lord,” He smiled wickedly and began walking again.

“That is no blessing Gabriel!” Michael shouted. “That is a curse!”

“Oh, it’s no such thing, dear sister, it is a blessing, the prince will not be hurt when he falls into slumber,” Gabriel disappeared into the crowd after that.

Uriel quickly began removing the crowd when they could move again, while Ananiel ran to the cradle and brought faer wings to cover the boy from any danger. Michael approached the queen, head hung low.

“My lord, forgive me-”

She cut off Michael. “Don’t,” She looked to Her son, guarded by sleek brown wings. “It isn’t your fault,”

“I could’ve-”

“I could’ve done many things too,” She interrupted. “But ‘what-ifs’ will not help us now, we must do what we can,”

When the crowds were gone Uriel returned to Ananiel and began speaking in a hushed voice to fae.

“Is there anything we can do about the curse?” She asked Michael, not yet noticing the conversation happening by the cradle.

“No, if one of us casted it, or someone like us, we could do something but, Gabriel’s magic is not the same as ours anymore,” Michael looked down sadly. “It’s impossible to even try,”

“Not impossible, my lord,” Ananiel cut in. “Well, at least it is to break it, but we can change it, at least a little,”

“Go on,” She said.

“Well, Gabriel didn’t say how it could be broken, so we can fill it in ourselves, or Michael can,” Uriel finished.

“Is this true?” She asked Michael.

“Yes,” Michael answered.

“Then do it,”

Michael approached the cradle and Ananiel hesitantly folded faer wings back.

Michael set a hand on the child’s chest, calming him.

“The curse can be broken, but only if the fair prince receives a kiss, from his true love,” Michael finished, and another crack of lighting rang out.

“Really, Michael? True love?” Uriel hissed.

“I’m stressed,” Michael deadpanned. “And it’s not impossible,”

“It will be fine,” She said. “But I don’t want him near here, roses grow like wildfires in my kingdom, I want a failsafe in case Michael’s change doesn’t work,”

“Where can he go?” Ananiel asked.

“I want you to take him deep into the forest, on the other side of the river, he will be safe from the roses,” She said. “And, if you can, if you will, raise him, I cannot abdicate my throne, he will have nothing to come back to if I do,”

Michael looked to Uriel and Ananiel, and all exchanged nods.

“We’ll do it,” Michael said.

“Thank you,” She stood and walked to Her son. “I love you, and while it’s hurts, I must say farewell my dear Aziraphale,”

The trio of angels took Aziraphale into the forest that night, finding a small cottage miraculously abandoned. And, as the queen asked, they raised him.

Well, Michael and Ananiel raised him, mostly. Uriel had the least maternal personality out of the three, and besides that, Uriel was less than interested in getting involved with whatever was happening between her their sister and their friend. Uriel was more than happy though to take care of the materiel aspects of Aziraphale’s life.

And for sixteen years, minus one day, Aziraphale grew up happy and beautiful. Unburdened by the existence of his biological mother, or the curse that loomed over

The day he was suddenly burdened by his life outside of the cocoon of the forest, was his birthday. But, of course, he didn’t just wake up when all Hell broke loose, but, the beginning of the day is a fine place to start.

“We have to tell him,” Uriel said, out of the blue.

“Not yet,” Ananiel returned. “ And anyway, we already agreed that we were going to tell him after his birthday,”

“No, we didn’t,” Uriel set the shirt they were repairing down. “We need to tell him, he needs to time to understand, we’re going to be taking him to Her as soon as the sun finishes setting, and what do you think he’s going to feel like if we just toss that on him and then throw him back at Her?”

“After, Uriel,” Ananiel insisted.

“Michael, be the voice of reason, we need to tell him,” Uriel all but pleaded.

Michael set her book down. “We’re not throwing him back at Her, and we need to make sure this works, we'll tell him after,”

“Oh, for someone’s sake you two!” Uriel groaned. “You’re acting like this is all going to go smoothly! It isn’t!”

“We are aware it’s not going to go smoothly,” Michael gently retorted.

“Really? Then why are you waiting?”

Michael and Ananiel exchanged a glance, both knowing why they were stalling, but neither willing to admit.

“I need some air,” Uriel grumbled and walked out, past Aziraphale who had just arrived at the door.

“Is Uriel okay?” Aziraphale asked timidly, stepping in.

“Uriel’s okay, love, just needed to stretch their legs,” Ananiel smiled, and opened faer arms, which Aziraphale let wrap around him happily.

“They seemed upset,” Aziraphale whispered into the crook of Ananiel’s neck.

“They were just excited, it’s your birthday after all,” Ananiel felt faer throat tighten with the lie. Fae exchanged a sad glance with Michael.

“Hey, Azzie,” Michael began smiling. “Could you go get some of those water lilies you love? We need them for tonight,”

“I was just outside?” Aziraphale asked in a small voice.

“I know, dear, but I forgot, and I promise there’ll be cake in it for you,” Michael smiled.

“Okay,” Aziraphale grinned and removed himself from Ananiel.

“Be home before sundown,” Michael said seriously.

“Alright, mum,” Aziraphale hugs Michael before going back outside.

Ananiel and Michael share a look, understanding, and hesitation to have their perfect illusion of life shatter.

Aziraphale hummed happily as he collected the pale pink flowers off their green beds, daydreaming as usual. It was hard not to, he’d never been outside the forest, and never met anyone else either. But he had his books, and he could imagine as best he could meeting a tall dark stranger, or a kind friend.

But the dark stranger was preferred most times.

As he plucked another flower he heard a thud from a nearby clearing, and muffled grunts.

Aziraphale stood up and cautiously walked towards it, leaving his flowers in a pile.

When he pulled back the thick of bushes he had to bite his tongue to keep from bursting into giggles.

A young red-haired man, no older than Aziraphale it seemed, was sprawled out on the forest floor as if he had fallen off his horse, who was now sitting on top of him.

“For somebody’s bloody sake Bentley! Get off!” The strangely dressed person pushed at the black horse, who just huffed and shifted farther onto it’s rider.

Aziraphale let out a small snort, still mesmerized by the newcomer.

The redhead looked over to Aziraphale and sighed in relief.

“Oi, blondie, mind helping me out?” The redhead asked.

Aziraphale nodded and went over to try and gentle the horse off the ginger, which was successful.

“Thank you,” The ginger smiled, getting up and brushing the dirt off his pitch-black clothes. “I would’ve been there for hours if you hadn’t come along,”

“No need,” Aziraphale smiled as well, a little blush creeping up his neck. Now that he was able to see the redhead better, he found him incredibly handsome. His very own tall dark stranger.

The redhead, Crowley was his name, blushed too as he gazed at the cherubic blonde in front of him. He shook his head though, as if it would help clear his head. “What's your name, kind angel?”

Aziraphale flushed fully, quite surprised by the name, but not unwelcoming of it.

“A-Aziraphale,” Aziraphale coughed out, his throat felt dry. “My name is Aziraphale,”

“Crowley,” Crowley smiled, brushing a bit more dust off his gold accented jacket. “Aziraphale, you really are an angel,”

Aziraphale wanted to both get away from Crowley and his wonderful words to collect himself and more of those words.

“Are you from around here?” Crowley asked, interrupting Aziraphale’s frenzied thoughts.

“Yes, from the clearing Eastward from here,” Aziraphale answered.

“Ah, well, why don’t I give you a lift back? Repay you for saving my arse?”

Aziraphale smiled sheepishly. “You don’t have to,”

“Rubbish, hop on. Make sure to hold on though, Bentley is not peaceful,”

Aziraphale forgot about his flowers as he clutched Crowley’s chest while the horse sped off.

Crowley smelled very nice, a faint fiery smell with cinnamon, and Aziraphale couldn’t get enough.

They arrived at Aziraphale’s home just before the sun had set. Crowley helped him off the horse and knelt to kiss his knuckles lightly.

“Thank you for the company, angel,” Crowley smiled.

Aziraphale blushed and looked away.

”I hate that I must part ways with you now, but I will return as soon as I can,” Crowley frowned slightly, before digging into his leather bag and pulling out a white rose.

“For you,” Crowley tucked the flower into Aziraphale’s hair, a stray thorn nicking Aziraphale’s skin.

And as soon as Crowley was watching a blushing cherub he had an armful of sleeping cherub.

Three women emerged from the house suddenly as well, and took a moment to take in the scene.

“You have no idea the shit you’ve just started,” The red-haired one growled.

To sum up the end, Crowley fought a giant duck, and then kissed Aziraphale, and they somehow fell in love, there was also a whole ordeal with Aziraphale’s birthmother, but he chose his family in the end.

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dietraumerei · 5 years

Text

Day 24 - Sleigh Bells

While I was writing this, the sun came out properly for the first time in like three weeks!!

“Oh right,” Aziraphale said as Crowley paled. “Horses.”

Crowley gave a shudder.

“Well, I always loved going on sleigh rides,” Aziraphale informed him. “Oh, it was glorious! Cutting through the world as fast as could be, racing through the woods, all those lovely things.”

“Angel,” Crowley said. “You melt down if I go over forty in the Bentley. I literally invented the oh shit bar just for you.”

“Must you call it that, dear?” Aziraphale sniffed. “That car doesn't have a sense of self-preservation. Horses do.”

“Not any horse I ever met,” Crowley muttered, and sighed when Aziraphale picked up the strap covered in sleigh bells and headed for their door with a determined look. “Are you really going to spend the next three weeks reminding me of getting jostled, thrown, dumped off, and having various sleighs overturned for centuries in a row?”

Aziraphale attached the strap neatly, and admired the effect. “You're very dramatic, darling, did you know?”

“I'll dramatic you,” Crowley muttered, and slumped deeper into his chair. Christmas with Aziraphale, a being who would definitely choose to live in any scene depicted on a chocolate box without a second thought as long as he could bring a few cases of wine and be promised no visitors – well, it was proving to be an education.

He was annoyed enough to turn into a very small snake as soon as Aziraphale was close enough to coo and scoop him up, and let him curl around Aziraphale's fingers.

“Oh, you're always so precious like this,” Aziraphale told the demon who had brought sin into the world.

Crowley preened and tasted the air, because it always tasted good around Azirapahale. Well, mostly. A snitty angel can make a snake sneeze, they had learned.

('Snakes can't even sneeze!' Aziraphale had said later.

'Snakes who are also demons can,' Crowley informed him. 'No more snuddles when you're in a Mood, dear.'

They had a cute nickname for when Crowley was a snake and wanted to be affectionate. They were so disgusting that they'd wound round back to being demonic/an absolute bastard, Crowley reckoned.)

“See, I'm in a good mood,” Aziraphale pointed out, as Crowley grew a little bit. The better to curl his way down Aziraphale's hand and over his wrist, making himself into lovely jewellery. Aziraphale was already wearing pretty little diamond drops in his ears, and of course his signet ring, but Crowley made sure to sparkle more himself.

He hung out on Azirphale's hand while he put up a few more decorations, getting himself out of the way when necessary, but otherwise adoring his love and almost certainly definitely punishing him for hanging up the reminders of Crowley's most hated animal.

He ended the day as a necklace, his head nestled in the hollow of Aziraphale's throat while he read A Child's Christmas in Wales aloud to them. He even did a deep Valleys accent, because Crowley liked the way it sounded like he was singing as he spoke.

Christmas Eve came, and they baked cookies, and made a nice lunch, and cuddled before the fire. They greeted friends and neighbours, and Crowley got ahold of the speaker system and ensured everyone was sent to Whamhalla. His shriek of victory – just about drowning out the wails of horror of his victims – was cut off when Aziraphale stalked over to the record player and very pointedly put on Nat King Cole.

When everyone had gone home, they shared a small dinner of leftovers and a lot of wine, and Crowley waltzed Aziraphale through their house, the two of them giggling and stepping on each others' feet, ending with Crowley inexpertly dipping the angel.

“Well, at least you didn't drop me,” Aziraphale said.

“Never,” Crowley said softly, and what was there to do, but kiss?

Christmas Day dawned warm and overcast, like the world was under a duvet, sleeping until spring. This seemed like quite a good idea to Crowley, but Aziraphale hauled him out of bed for lunch at their local and an exchange of gifts. For two beings who could miracle anything they liked into existence, they were surprisingly easy to shop for – Aziraphale only really ever wanted books, and perhaps a box of nice chocolates, and Crowley wanted anything very new and shiny. Or very old and shiny was good too. It was the shiny bit, really.

Crowley was already looking forward to taking down the sleigh bells the moment Boxing Day ended, and wondered if he could even get to it a bit early, when Aziraphale caught him on his way to the front door.

“I have one more gift for you,” he said, twisting his hands. “I have to take you there, though.”

“All right, angel,” Crowley said, a little surprised. “What's this gift, then?”

Aziraphale looked a little nervous. A lot nervous. “So. Ah. So, what you should know. I don't. It's something I love, but I don't know if you'll love it so you've got to tell me if you don't like it all right? I won't be upset I just want to...give it to you. And. And trust me, all right? I think you will like it, I just know you haven't in the past but I think I fixed that and--”

Crowley stopped the stream of words with a hand on Aziraphale's chest, just over his heart. “Shhh, angel. I'm sure I'll love it. And I'll tell you if I don't. Now what's this gift?” He grinned. “I like presents, you know that.”

Aziraphale gave a breathy kind of laugh. “I know. Right. Well.” He slid his arms around Crowley and hugged him close. “Close your eyes, love.”

Crowley did so, and heard Aziraphale snap his fingers.

The first thing he noticed was the bite of cold on his face. Only his face, though.

Aziraphale loosened his hold, and Crowley opened his eyes, blinking at the world around him. Stars wheeled overhead in a perfectly clear night sky. They were in a field of perfect white snow, with dark pines just about visible, shadows against that incredible sky.

“Oh,” he breathed, and looked around, not even minding the cold.

Aziraphale was next to him, smiling hopefully, dressed head-to-toe in white, looking a little like a creature out of myth. A fur-trimmed coat and leather gloves and the tip of his nose already going rosy in the chill.

“Azirapahale!” Crowley finally became aware enough to notice that they were stood on the front of a sleigh. It was small and fast, a pretty pale wood. There were horses hitched up but – Crowley squinted – they were...translucent white?

Aziraphale smiled shyly. “I used to love sleighing so much, Crowley. I wanted to. To share it with you. Give you a happy memory.” He chuckled softly. “Not that I didn't enjoy pulling you out of ditches, but I thought you might like this better. The horses aren't real, so you can't scare them. Please, love. May I take you out?”

“Aziraphale. Yes. Uh. Yes, of course, oh, sweetheart.” Crowley sat down with a thump. He was in thick, heavy winterwear, heavy wool and a fur-lined hood and thick mittens that meant he could still feel even his fingertips. “This is so beautiful, Aziraphale. You're beautiful,” he added, because he was.

“Oh, stop, you.” Aziraphale looked at him critically and sat beside him. A heavy fur appeared across their laps, tucking itself neatly in at the sides, and another wrapped around Crowley's shoulders, ensuring not a breath of cold would touch him.

“There are hot bricks at your feet,” Aziraphale told him. “But let me know if you get too chilly.”

“I don't think I can,” Crowley admitted. His outerwear might actually outweigh him at this point, he was pretty sure.

Aziraphale smiled and took the reins, and with cheerful jingling, they were off.

Crowley knew Aziraphale was, at best, competent with horses, but of course it helped that these weren't real, and he controlled them more with a thought, but the reins were an excellent aesthetic touch. And it was such fun to watch him show off, to guide the sleigh over the deep snow, the runners as smooth as glass as they went racing through the night.

It was barren lands – perhaps fields in the summer, or grazing land, but now all was still and white with snow and frozen. It was a new moon, but the sky was so clear they could see by starlight. The world whisked by, and Crowley laughed as they skimmed across the land, moving faster than he could believe.

Aziraphale was grinning, and gave the horses their head – so to speak – leaning over to kiss Crowley now and again.

It was a magical night, full of the delicate song of the bells and the snap of cold in a forest and the singing of the sleigh's runners over virgin snow. They saw owls and deer and eyes in the night that whipped by too fast to know what animal they belonged to. There were shooting stars and impossibly tall pine trees that smelled like winter and promises when they cut through the forest.

They played for hours in the long night. Aziraphale checked in regularly that Crowley was warm enough, and was just as regularly reassured that he was fine, although another kiss wouldn't go awry. Wouldn't want his face to freeze, and all of that.

Of course, he got his kisses. It was only practical.

The sun wouldn't rise where they were, but it began to feel like morning, and the magic...wasn't broken, but you couldn't live in a fairyland forever. Aziraphale slowed the sleigh and brought them to a stop in a fragrant pine forest, and Crowley went into his arms eagerly, feeling Aziraphale's warmth and strength even through layers of fur and wool.

“I love you so much, darling,” Aziraphale said. “Happy Christmas.”

“Oh, Zira,” Crowley said, and the words stuck in his throat. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for sharing this thing you love with me. For being thoughtful, for taking care of me, for being in love with me and being my best friend. I don't deserve you, and I don't care, I'm going to take you with both hands and never ever ever let go.

He didn't have the words, but he'd find the way to show Aziraphale anyway. For the moment, he held on tight while the angel brought them home.

#IneffableHoliday #ineffable husbands #good omens #i want to go out on my bike but it is barely above freezing out there #where is my aziraphale i ask

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Text

Me? Ignoring my 20+ other projects to start a shitty Good Omens fic bingo? It’s more likely than you think

Defy

“Watch it!”

A pram hit the back of Aziraphale’s calves and the woman pushing it let out a string of curses. That more than the collision had him jumping out of the way, profusely apologizing for stopping in the first place. Aziraphale didn’t think his apologies meant much—especially now that the infant had started screaming—so he miracled up a free coffee at the next cafe she stopped at and a good night’s sleep for good measure.

“Sorry, terribly sorry again...”

The woman gave him a dirty look as she swerved back into pedestrian traffic. Aziraphale shuffled off to the side.

Oh dear.

Well, best to re-tie his loafers, yes? Never mind another miracle he’d performed years back, ensuring those bows would never again come undone (not after he’d nearly face-planted in Crowley’s company). One could never be too careful after all. So Aziraphale bent and spruced up one shoe, then the other. While down there he found that the cuffs of his pants could do with some straightening and there was a nearly invisible speck of dust on one knee. Maybe both. His waistcoat was always askew and the buttons could do with some polishing, his hair was—

“Fine,” Aziraphale sighed, lowering his hand from where he’d been patting his curls. “You look exactly as you always have, old boy, and it’s not worth putting this off a moment longer.”

That’s what he told himself anyway. It was quite another thing for Aziraphale to get his feet moving again, rounding the corner that would take him to the front of his shop. The feeling that had stopped him in the first place still hung heavy in the air and Aziraphale found himself fiddling with the buttons on his sleeve, more to waste another few, precious moments than out of any real desire to fix something.

There was a supernatural entity packed into the shop. Oh yes. Packed being the optimal word. Whoever it was had enough power to their name that it had seeped out of their corporeal form and spilled onto the street, drawing the humans’ gaze even if they didn’t know what they were looking towards. Could be a whole army of angels stationed among the books. Demons even. That might generate the sort of skin-prickling heat Aziraphale could feel now, growing hotter which each step he took towards the door. More likely though it was a single archangel.

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale whispered, now just an arm’s length from his well-worn handle; the collection of dates and times meant to deter too many from popping in. The faded paper seemed silly now, given that he would have rather hosted any thousands of humans over one of his brethren. So yes, perhaps he should rethink this. Head back out for a second lunch. A long, mid-day walk. Anything other then opening that door.

He could call Crowley.

Aziraphale was stepping across the threshold before he’d even finished the thought. No. They might be on the same side now, but that only meant he couldn’t throw his ally to the proverbial wolves. If his celestial siblings had decided to attempt a second punishment there was nowhere on Earth—or Alpha Centauri for that matter—where he could hide and Aziraphale’s last act as a Principality would not be dragging his beloved down with him.

“Crowley always did say I was stubborn as a mule,” he muttered.

There was something quite freeing about committing to a decision. It allowed Aziraphale to finally still his hands and lift his chin, determined to meet this challenge with at least half the grace Crowley had afforded him during his first trial. Or the sham of one based on the story he’d heard. That alone was enough to give him a burst of something resembling courage, propelling him through the door.

Aziraphale was so certain he’d be greeted by Gabriel’s smug smile that he nearly tripped over himself when he... wasn’t.

“Ah,” he said, arms splayed out in a comical bid for balance. “Hello. You’re getting tar on my favorite cushion.”

Pollution tilted their head, much like an owl spotting prey. They sat slumped in the chair tucked between the counter and the first bookshelf, long legs stretched out and yes, a small puddle of what looked like tar dripping down from their ear. It settled on the tartan pillow wedged behind their back.

“Sorry,” Pollution said and smeared the muck further into the fabric.

Aziraphale swallowed.

This was most definitely unexpected. Unprecedented. Other un-words that Aziraphale couldn’t hope to think of because his brain was currently the equivalent of an egg frying on the pavement. Yes, a Horseman would most certainly generate the level of power he’d felt outside and—wait. Scratch that. Two Horsemen, Famine stepping out from the shadows to stand at Pollution’s side. He gave a jaunty little wave.

“Hello angel,” he said.

Aziraphale winced, unused to the endearment coming from anyone other then Crowley. Not that Famine meant it in such a way. He might be able to fake it though, with that relaxed posture and easy-going smile. Aziraphale looked around, a bit wild, now expecting the other two to close in on him. When nothing of the sort occurred he was left standing in the middle of his shop with two of the most destructive embodiments to ever exist staring like they expected him to start this conversation.

So Aziraphale did the only thing worth doing when things went pear shaped.

“I’ll make us some tea.”

***

Humans were quite right that there was an art to this practice and Aziraphale had spent many centuries mastering it. He’d never admit it aloud, but he found that the routine of boiling, steeping, and adding produced a drink far superior to what he could simply conjure up with angelic whim. Whether that said more about his skill or miracles themselves, Aziraphale wasn’t inclined to say. Perhaps it was simply the act of engaging in labor before reaping the reward.

Whatever it was, routine gave him a good ten minutes away from the Horsemen, allowing Aziraphale to pick up such useful information as, “I haven’t been attacked from behind yet” and “Apparently physical manifestations of mortal failings do enjoy a good drink now and again.” Famine asked for milk and three sugars. Pollution wanted nothing in theirs. Between checking the milk’s expiration date and pulling down honey for himself, Aziraphale felt another urge to dial a long-memorized number. He needn’t even say anything. The fact that he’d called at all would be more than enough to get Crowley here in record time.

Instead Aziraphale hefted a tray laden with tea and molasses cookies back into the shop, hoping he wasn’t making another wrong decision.

“Here you are,” he said, marveling at how steady his voice was. “I fear I’ve never entertained Horsemen before. Or, ah...” Aziraphale’s gaze landed on Pollution, something wet and sticky now seeping out of their boot. “Horse... people?”

Famine chuckled. “‘Horseman’ is traditional and I hardly care for the labels humans give us. Do you?”

It felt like a dangerous sort of question. Any would have really, so Aziraphale kept his mouth shut and made a non-committed sort of noise in the back of his throat. He poured the tea and tried not to spill too much of it into the saucers.

Pollution was still staring. Then suddenly they leaned forward in their seat, a squelching noise filling the silence, showing too many teeth when they smiled. “He’s nervous.”

“He’d better be.” Famine spoke as if Aziraphale were no longer in the room. “We may not have had our Armageddon, darling, but I hope we’re not that out of practice.”

Two pairs of eyes slid his way.

“Oh! Yes. Very, very nervous. That’s me. Nothing but nerves I should say. I’m positively stuffed with them—like a goose!—and that certainly isn’t changing as you both... ah, look at me like that. Tea?” Aziraphale desperately held out a cup.

He shoved it towards Pollution though and there was a cold, suspended moment as he realized it was the one filled with sugar and milk. Then Famine stepped between them and took it for himself.

“Lovely,” he said, downing half in one go. This close Aziraphale could feel Famine’s aura, the gnawing, bottomless ache that had opened up in his stomach. Instinctually he reached for a cookie only to find that the box was already in Famine’s hands. “I fear we didn’t come here for the goodies though. Rather, we have a proposition for you, angel.”

“...Proposition?”

“Something fun.” Pollution had taken their cup as well, though they didn’t drink from it. Their finger just went round and round the rim as a pungent smell began to emanate from the tea. “There’s a war coming. Your boyfriend realized it first. We want in.”

Back in the 1740s Aziraphale had the dubious pleasure of befriending three young boys, each too rowdy and smart for their own good. A bit of mischief had resulted, in its final act, with them yanking a prayer rug Aziraphale stood on—perhaps the only literal example of someone having the rug pulled out from under them. He experienced the same stomach dropping sensation now, the instinctual urge to bring out his wings.

“War?” Aziraphale said faintly. “But... we avoided the—”

“Yes, but humans always find a way, don’t they? Eventually. They’re more resourceful than all of heaven and hell put together.” Famine took another cookie, eating it with a pleasure that contradicted his purpose. “We’re not stupid, angel. We knew going into the war that it would end in our demise. All but Death’s, of course. Angels and demons don’t need to eat, you see. Erasing humanity means erasing me too.”

“And me.” Pollution’s voice had grown softer, though Aziraphale was hesitant to call it laced with anything like fear. “War would survive...”

Famine grimaced. “In a fashion.”

“But humanity,” Pollution continued, not seeming to hear the interruption. “What wonderful creatures. Even if they learn from those brats at the airbase and improve themselves, the two of us can still go on. Famine lives in every holy man of yours, fasting in the name of the Lord. I exist in all the children leaving sweet wrappers in forests and gum under their chairs. We might not be powerful,”

“But you’d exist,” Aziraphale finished. Famine inclined his head.

“And that’s just the pessimistic view. I believe that humanity will continue on as it has, now that you’ve given them that chance.” Famine’s grin was nothing like Pollution’s and every bit as unsettling. “Gorging themselves. Leaving the mess behind.” He finished off the cookies and obligingly dropped the box on the carpet, inciting a happy squirm from Pollution.

“I see,” Aziraphale said. He wasn’t entirely sure he did. “So you need me to...?

“Do nothing. Nothing at all, angel. This was merely a polite acknowledgement. You and that demon started something when you stood at humanity’s side. Know that we have every expectation you’ll finish it.”

Famine clapped him on the shoulder as he went by and Aziraphale nearly buckled at the hunger that ran through him. Pollution followed, having taken nothing but leaving plenty behind. The stench was overwhelming.

“We’ll be in touch,” they said and left a smear of oil on the edge of Aziraphale’s sleeve, grasping it briefly like a child.

“Y-yes. Lovely to see you. Toodle pip!”

Aziraphale had his hands on the phone three seconds after his door closed.

“Crowley? Well of course it’s me, who else—? Never mind. I suggest you get over here quick as you can. No, no, nothing like that. Just... bring dinner would you? I hardly care, dear, just get lots of it. Yes, I’m alright. Quite ravenous though, I’ll explain later. Oh really, Crowley, there’s no need for that kind of... of... innuendo over the phone. I’m hanging up now. Yes. Right now. Goodbye, Crowley.”

A beat passed with the phone pressed against Aziraphale’s ear. Then Crowley’s tinny laughter filled the bookshop.

“Well I don’t hear you hanging up either,” he groused. All of it—the banter, Crowley’s voice, the utter absurdity of this little disagreement—helped to loosen the tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders; alleviated some of the stench from his nostrils and cleared out the air. He sat with a thump and listened to the familiar sounds of Crowley starting up the Bentley. It perhaps couldn’t hurt to stay on the line just a little bit longer.

“Best pick up a few bottles of wine while you’re at it,” Aziraphale said, staring at the empty cookie box. “I just had the most unexpected visitors. I fear we have a great deal to discuss, my dear.”

Crowley cracked another joke about Aziraphale’s visiting practices and that right there was their first miracle in a while. Because despite Horsemen and the presumption of inevitable war, even with the reminder of their newly minted side and all the consequences that came with it...

One joke from Crowley made Aziraphale feel like it was all going to be okay.

#good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #air conditioning #I'm a shit writer with the attention span of a goldfish #god help anyone not following me for GO atm

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ourownsideimagines · 5 years

Text

Twisted Turn of Events (Crowley x Reader Tangled!Au)

Characters: Human!Eugene!Crowley, Horse!Maximus!Aziraphale, Rapunzel!Reader, Human!Gothel!Gabriel

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Star Anon

Point of View: Second Person

Warnings: Violence, stabbing, blood, character death (temporary and permanent). Absolutely no editing whatsoever

Words: 2854

A/N: I hope you don’t mind I took this as an actual Tangled AU with the same premise because I absolutely love Tangled.

---

You had long, magical, blond hair. It got in the way of everything you did, and it trailed everywhere behind you. It was a hassle, to say the least, but your father loved it.

Your father, Gabriel, was kind. Or, at least you thought he was kind. He kept you safe, up in your tower, for many years. He told you it was to keep you safe from those who would wish to use your hair to their advantage. He’d even refused to let you leave to see the floating lights that appeared every year on your birthday.

Your father had taught you a song at a young age - the song was what activated the magic in your hair, and you used it to heal your father whenever he felt weak or hurt. You would do anything to make him happy.

Almost anything, that was,

The only ones allowed in your tower were Gabriel, and sometimes Michael and Uriel to check on your health. Or, though you didn’t know it yet, to make sure you hadn’t tried to leave. They, too, used you for your hair.

No one else had ever entered the tower, as far as you knew.

That was, until he came.

It was the day before your birthday, and Gabriel had left hours prior at your request for some new paints. You were expecting Uriel or Michael (or even both) to show up any minute, which is why you didn’t panic at first when you heard someone clambering through the window. It was weird, yes, they usually called out for you to throw down your hair, but you didn’t doubt that they had other means of getting up. You’d exited your bedroom, about to greet them when you realized, no, it was no in fact one of your fathers friend, but a total stranger. He was dressed in dark clothing, his eyes covered by glasses tinted almost black

Your father had warned you many times about other men. Savages with sharp teeth who would only see you for your hair.

At the time you were terrified. It’d taken everything in you not to scream. He’d just opened his bag when you finally managed to thwack him over the head with frying pan your father had gotten for you last year. After checking his teeth and seeing that they weren’t actually sharp like your father had described, you’d stuffed him into your wardrobe, keeping it closed with one of your brooms.

It all seemed to silly now. Crowley, as you’d come to know him, was an absolute sweetheart despite his attempts to hide it. You’d convinced him to lead you from the tower to see the floating lights, which he told you were “lanterns for the lost princess”.

Sure, along the way he’d taken you to the Snuggly Duckling, a hang out for a group called “The Demons”, but they had been kind to you, much to your surprise, and despite the fact that they wanted to give Crowley up to the royal guard. But Crowley saved you when the guards attacked, and after quite a bit of consideration you found that you were rather fond of him. You might even say you were in love with him.

There had been an incident in the forest the night prior to your birthday, when Crowley went to look for firewood, and you were surprisingly approached by your father. He had been calm at first, attempting to coax you back to the tower.

When that didn't work, he’d gotten angry. Angrier than you’d ever seen him. He yelled at you, something he rarely ever did, and then revealed the bag you’d found Crowley with.

“If you think he really cares about you, give him this!” He threw the bag at your feet, and you’d quickly scooped it up, eyes wide. “Trust me, he’ll leave you the moment he lays eyes on it!”

After that, he disappeared and you were left alone, waiting for Crowley to get back.

These events were pushed almost to the back of your mind by morning, as when you woke Crowley was wrestling with a large, white horse you would come to know as Aziraphale. He was a part of the guard, Crowley told you, the one that was trying to arrest him. You’d convinced Aziraphale to calm down and not arrest Crowley until at least tomorrow, since today was your big day.

That was one of the stranger encounters of your trip.

You, of course, had to waste the day away so that you could see the lanterns at night fall. Crowley treated you to cupcakes, and surprised you with a small purple flag. He was the perfect gentlemen, albeit it a bit clumsy and idiotic. There were guard to avoid, but otherwise no trouble was found. You even had a bit of fun dancing around the square. A group of young girls even braided your hair so no one would walk on it, decorating it with vibrant flowers.

A part of you wanted the sun to never set, so you could stay there forever with Crowley. But as the sun slowly began its descent, Crowley led you out to the pier, where the two of you clambered aboard a row boat, leaving Aziraphale waiting at the dock.

“I figured I should give you the best seat possible,” Crowley hummed gently as he rowed. “It is your birthday after all.”

“Thank you, Crowley.” You smiled at him, and he smiled back. You wanted to give him the bag, but your father’s words hung in the back of you mind. You decided to wait.

By the time Crowley stopped rowing, the sun had almost set. All you had to do was wait. You and Crowley took some flowers from your hair and you began placing them in the water, watching the float away. It wasn’t long before the first light hit the water. Your head shot up, eyes widening in surprise.

It was starting. You scrambled to the other end of the boat, causing Crowley to momentarily lose balance. Lanterns began to float up, above the houses, and above the castle. Almost as if it knew you were there, breeze carried them in your direction. People on board the nearby ships began letting them loose as well, and your tiny boat was surrounded by floating lanterns.

You turned to Crowley, excited, but stopped when you noticed the lanterns he had in his hands.

He’d taken off his sunglasses, revealing his beautiful golden eyes. You’d asked him why he wore them, but he’d never given you a straight answer. You assumed it to be because they were his most defining feature, something anyone would spot from a mile away. His eyes, despite their beauty, would most likely get him caught on sight.

You made your decision then - you were most definitely in love with this man.

You just hoped he felt the same. You took your seat in front of him, and smiled wide.

“I, uh. I’ve got something for you, too.” You reached beneath the seat, where you’d stashed his bag when he was saying goodbye to Aziraphale. When you pulled it out, Crowley’s eyes went a bit wide in surprise. “I’d thought about giving it to you earlier but… I was just scared. But now, I’m… I’m not scared anymore. You know what I mean?”

Crowley, using one arm to hold the lanterns down, used the other to gently push away the bag. The shock on your face must have been evident.

“I think I do, angel.” He smiled. You couldn’t help but smile back. You set the bag aside, and together you released the lanterns into the air. After a few moments, Crowley gently took your hands. “Happy birthday.” He said.

“Thank you,” Your mind had turned from the lanterns. They were beautiful, yes, but so was the man sitting in front of you. “This has been the best day of my entire life.”

“Mine too.” Crowley used his thumb rubbed slow circles on the back of your hand. “I’d say you’ve really shown me a lot in the past couple of days.”

“You’ve shown me more in two days than I’ve seen in all my years.” You give his hands a gentle squeeze. “I… I like you, Crowley.”

“I like you too, Angel.” He replied without hesitation. “More than you could ever know.”

“I’d like to know.” You murmured. There was silence, but no words were needed. The both of you slowly began to lean in, but just when he thought he might kiss you, he stopped. “Crowley?” You noticed he was looking behind you, but when you turned, there was nothing there. “Are you okay?”

“What?” He said suddenly. “Oh, yeah, everything’s… fine.”

It turns out, everything was not alright. Everything was very far from alright. Not only were you attacked by two goons, but you watched as Crowley sailed back over the river toward the town with the content of his bag, a tiara, in hand. You were lucky to be saved by your father.

But even that went wrong.

Once back in the ‘safety’ of your tower, and once your father had finished removing the braid and the flowers from your hair, you came to a realization. You’d painted all over the walls - you’d even painted over older, more childish drawings. Painting was your life inside the tower - and in almost every painting was the same symbol. The sun. The same sun on the scarf Crowley had bought you, and the same sun that was on the lanterns, and the same sun that was on the mural of the royal family.

Your heart ached. It couldn’t be true, could it? Anger overcame you. You exited your room, looking down at your father who was on the floor below.

“Are you alright,” He asked, but his voice was cold. You knew he didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. You were so angry. You should have known better. You should have figured it out sooner, you should have…

“I’m the lost princess.” You breathed out in a huff of anger.

“I’m sorry?”

“I am the lost princess.” It wasn’t a question.

“My dear-”

“No!” You snapped. You began your descent down the stairs. “You lied to me. All these years you said you were keeping me up here so that I’d be safe! But I’m not safe. Not while I’m with you.” Gabriel scowled.

From there, things only got worse. Gabriel didn’t yell. He didn’t even speak before he grabbed you, tossing you to the side. Your head connected with your standing mirror, shattering it. You cried out in pain as you fell to the floor. You could feel blood trickling into your hair, but Gabriel sang the song solemnly beneath his breath, healing it for you. He’d gotten chains from god knows where, and while you were disoriented bound your hands, and stuffed cloth in your mouth to keep you quiet.

He muttered something about leaving, and taking you to a safer place, but stopped suddenly. From outside you heard a voice - a familiar voice.

Crowley.

You wanted to yell to him, to tell him to leave. You felt so helpless, and felt even more so when Gabriel brandished a dagger from one of his desk drawers.

“Angel!” Crowley called up to you. “Throw down your hair!” Grabriel approached you, leaning in with a sneer.

“Remember, this is your doing.” He told you, before gathering up your hair and tossing it out the window. You felt the familiar tug of someone climbing up, and had to watch in horror as Gabriel hid in the shadows, watching Crowley enter through the open window.

“Oh, Angel, I thought I’d never see you again.” Crowley stopped when his eyes finally landed on you, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to gasp out in utter pain when Gabriel stabbed him in the stomach from behind.

As Gabriel removed the blood stained blade, Crowley fell to the ground in pain and shock.

“Now look at this, (name),” Gabriel tisked. “Look what you’ve done.” Gabriel stepped over Crowley, using the scarf you’d gotten to wipe the blade clean before discarding it carelessly. “Don’t worry, though, my flower. Our secret dies with him.” He approached you, taking the end of the chain that he’d connected to one of the banisters and jerking you towards a trap door he’d revealed beneath the carpet. “And I’ll be taking you where no one will ever find you again. Not even Michael and Uriel.”

You resisted, tugging against your restraints with almost no avail.

“This isn’t a game, (name),” Gabriel growled as you approached the door. “Stop fighting me.”

You yanked yourself away, falling to the ground, and finally managed to spit out the mock-gag.

“No,” You snapped. “Never. I will never stop fighting, I will never stop trying to escape you! For every second of the rest of my life.” You stopped suddenly, looking back at Crowley, who was bleeding out. Your met his eyes, those wonderful golden eyes that were full of such pain, and you knew what you had to do. “But, if you let me heal him… I’ll go with you.”

“Angel, no.” Crowley hissed out, but you ignored him.

“I will do whatever you want. I will never try to run. I’ll stop fighting. Everything will be just the way you want it to be.” You turned back to Gabriel. “I promise.”

“Just the way I want it.” Gabriel muttered to himself. He quickly removed your restraints, and you didn’t dare try to run. You watched as he bound Crowley to a banister, ignoring all of his winces of pain. “In case you have any ideas about following us.” He then turned to you. “Make it quick.”

You rushed to Crowley, who could barely keep his eyes open, and felt tears running down you cheeks.

“Crowley, I am so sorry.” You whispered, moving his vest so you could see the blood-soaked shirt beneath it. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll fix this, everything’s going to be okay.” You began to gather up your hair.

“Angel,” He murmured. “No.” He weakly attempted to push your hands away, but you managed to get your hair next to his wound.

“If I don’t do this, you’re going to die. I can’t let you die, Crowley.” You caressed his cheek gently, and he leaned into your touch.

“Then you’ll die.” He groaned. You shook your head gently, using your hand to wipe away a tear.

“I’ll be just fine.” You promised, though even you knew it was a lie. You opened your mouth to begin the song, but Crowley stopped you.

“Wait.” He listed a hand, you assumed to push back your hair. Before you could even more, Crowley had gathered your hair up in one hand, using his other to slice though it using a larger shard of glass from the nearby broken mirror. You let out a gasp, watching your hair call to the floor. It rapidly began turning (hair color).

“No!” Gabriel screamed. “What have you done!” You dove for your hair, gathering it up but letting out a strangled shout as it continued to turn (hair color). You watched in horror as he began aging rapidly. He moved towards the mirror to look at himself, only to trip over some of the hair and hit the windowsill, which sent him tumbling head first out of the tower. Part of you wanted to scream, but the other part couldn’t have cared less. You quickly turned back to Crowley, the realisation of what he’d done finally setting in.

“You idiot.” You whimpered. “You absolute idiot.” He smiled weakly at you.

“Your idiot.” He coughed.

“Please don’t leave me.” You begged him. “Please.”

“You were my new dream,” He mumured. You choked on a sob.

“And you were mine.”

You were absolutely broken as the man you’d fallen in love with died in your arms. You held him there for what seemed like hours, but was only moments, and cried. You began murmuring the lyrics of the song you could have used to save him, praying that somehow it would work.

“Make the clock reverse,” You gently caressed his cheek. “Bring back what once was mine…” You cracked, breathing out the final words; “What once was mine.”

Your tears fell from your cheek onto his, and to your amazement, sunk into his skin. You watched in hope and wonder as a light slowly began traveling beneath his skin - the same golden light that had overtaken your hair - to his wound. Your eyes widened as it spilled out into the room, creating intricate symbols in the air before dissipating.

Your eyes snapped to Crowley as he began to cough again, taking in as much air as his lungs would allow them. You let out a cry of joy and flung yourself into his arms.

“You’re alive, oh my god, you’re alive.” Crowley held you tightly, burying his face in your now short hair.

Maybe you were going to get your happily ever after after all.

#good omens #good omens x reader #crowley x reader #crowley x fem!reader #crowley x reader good omens #crowley x fem!reader good omens #crowley #crowley good omens #anthony j crowley #x reader #x fem!reader #reader insert #good omens reader insert #my writing #reese writes #the ineffable queue

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revelationschapter6 · 1 year

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Here There Be Monsters

of wolf and man - good omens (ineffable husbands)

Crowley had always known Aziraphale was a werewolf. Well, not always. There'd been a few days when he'd just been 'that guy who he was trying to get to know'. But almost as soon as he'd gotten to know him proper, he'd known he was a werewolf. It didn't bother him of course, why would it? He was Aziraphale. Fussy, a hedonist, a little bit of a bastard. And once, rarely twice, a month he was forcibly turned into a giant wolf. He could do it at will, too, though he didn't often. It was just… part of Aziraphale. He liked (that was not a strong enough word for it) books, loved food, wore clothes a century or two out of date, and was a werewolf. Sky's blue, water's wet, Aziraphale's a werewolf. 1. Werewolves

hung for a sheep as a lamb (hung for a unicorn as a horse) - good omens (ineffable husbands)

Heaven wants to use unicorns in the Great War. They're a bit late for that, of course–and not happy about it. They tell Aziraphale to bring the unicorns back, or be punished. Well, turns out you can't just create unicorns from mortal creatures, or bless mortal creatures into producing unicorns. It's a good thing then that, to an angel and a demon, shape is merely a suggestion. 8. Shapeshifting 11. Breeding

#masterlist #master list #masterpost #master post #here there be monsters #gomonsterkinktober

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ineffable-writer · 5 years

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New Year’s Eve: Aziraphale gets a wild idea about a question he’s wanted to ask for a while and Crowley does not understand why they’re going on holiday to Iceland.

I’m in Iceland for the new year (I’m posting this from 2020!) and of course I spent the last day of 2019 writing ridiculous fluff. Everywhere the Husbands go is real, and places I’ve been (though I did not get a luxury suite at the Blue Lagoon, I’m sad to say).

Previous installments are sweet but not necessary to read to understand (and can be found under the tag #PlaceWithoutPlot, although that’s not 100% true after this excerpt?). Excerpt here, full on AO3 or below the break.

The best crepes in Scotland were, undoubtedly, in a small café near the Meadows, which quickly became a regular spot for lunch on the days they wandered about separately. It was covered in tartan and old records, owned and operated by one man. The drinks were good and the crepes were divine.

“I was thinking, you know,” said Aziraphale, sipping a hot chocolate and relaxing into the tartan, “we don’t need to go back right away.”

“No?” asked Crowley. “Plants will miss me.”

“Oh, the Devices have nowhere to be,” said the angel. “Anathema will keep them alive and I’m sure they don’t mind a little reprieve.”

“You’re scheming,” Crowley lightheartedly accused, fighting to keep the smile off his lips. Aziraphale didn’t laugh or shoot Crowley a disapproving look, which meant he was legitimately nervous about something. The effort of hiding something distracted the angel, which meant Crowley could always tell when it happened. Crowley sat forward a bit: I’m paying attention. I know this is important. I’m listening.

“It’s just, well. We know Edinburgh. The whole island, really. We’ve lived here a very long time.”

“Understatement.”

“Yes. Well. So. I thought perhaps—if you wanted—we could go somewhere new.”

“New?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere’s new, angel. World keeps changing. That’s what we like about it. Remember?”

“I know! But it’s so easy to get around these days. No more horses, no more ships…”

“What’s wrong with ships? I like ships.”

“You never went on a trireme, if I recall,” said Aziraphale.

“No more triremes, I’ll give you.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. Aziraphale was avoiding talking about whatever he wanted to talk about, now. “Where did you want to go?”

“Iceland.”

“Iceland?”

“Iceland.”

Crowley bit back the why, the what in the world is in Iceland that makes you want to go there, the what has gotten into you lately, you’re always such a homebody, I literally moved right down the block from you because we both hate putting in more effort to go places than absolutely necessary. Aziraphale had something in mind, and Crowley had the sense that the wrong reaction would absolutely shatter the man. Besides, Crowley trusted him.

“All right,” said Crowley. “Iceland. What about New Year’s, then?”

Aziraphale insisted on being mysterious about his plans once they got to Iceland, so Crowley demanded the right to do the same.

“If you get a mystery,” he said, “I get a mystery too. And mine’s near the airport, so unless you’ve got a fantastic reason, I get to go first.”

They arrived in Keflavik—not Reykjavik, not on an international flight—and Crowley’s reasoning became apparent quickly. The flight didn’t exactly get in early, but this time of year the sun didn’t rise until noon, so it was the middle of the night when they landed at nine AM. They still didn’t have the Bentley (Newt was not to touch the car back in Sussex, and he was terrified enough of Crowley that Aziraphale suspected he’d form a permanent bond with the houseplants) but Crowley had managed a half-decent rental car. He convinced Aziraphale to get in before breakfast—“Trust me, angel, there’s food where we’re going!”—and they set out into the night. The weather was somewhat warm for the season. It was cold, but not freezing.

Iceland was famous for its stunning scenery and dramatic landscapes, but in darkness like this all they could see were black shapes against gray sky. As the sun rose, it cast long shadows over a broken landscape. The earth had cracked and crackled after centuries of volcanic activity, leaving fields that looked like the ruined cities of ancient giants. Trees here were short and grew in sparse copses—it had once been a forest island, but not after the Nordic settlers arrived—and the tumbling rocks were covered in silver-gray lichens and mosses. Here on the southwest corner, the mountains were mostly distant, framing the horizon.

Crowley peeled off the main road and drove towards an alpine cluster, and the sky grew lighter. He was sure Aziraphale would guess immediately—apparently the angel had been reading about Iceland—but it wasn’t until they drove past the first pools that Crowley saw his eyes light up. He’d picked this place for stupid, indulgent reasons, one of which was that the color of Aziraphale’s eyes matched the water exactly. (He also liked the idea of getting out of the chill for once, warming his serpentine bones, and that played into it.)

Hot springs. Deep-earth saltwater, heated by the volcano and pumped into what was essentially a fancy swimming pool by these brilliant, stupid human beings that they both loved so much. It was indulgent and warm and frankly good for their corporations and souls alike, and after doing things the Human Way for a bit he could use a little pampering.

There was a resort. Crowley had picked the top package, the one that came with free breakfast and facial treatments and daily yoga and guided hikes in addition to everything you could ask for at the hot springs. He’d booked a room for two nights, one with a view of the lagoons. It only came with a single king-sized bed, but honestly, so had every other place they’d stayed. Crowley was the only one who used it. Aziraphale just stayed up reading. Aside from a comment on the décor—“Clearly you chose this place, it looks just like the flat in London with a bit more natural light.”—Aziraphale didn’t mention it at all.

Aziraphale immediately ran off on one of the guided hikes, spouting something about history and geography. Crowley did yoga, taking a moment to try and guess what the angel was getting at with this trip in the first place. He was done first, and was relaxing in their suite with a silica mask when Aziraphale got back (grumpy from the physical activity, but excited about the geological history). Then there was dinner at the restaurant—a great wall of glass built next to the natural volcanic stone, with a table for two right next to illuminated volcanic pools and a plate of Icelandic cod for the angel—and a quick change into suits before they went into the main pool.

Public baths were familiar to them both—they had been around since the moment humans had discovered the delights of warm water—but there was something mystical about hot springs. The vivid water, as opaque and blue as a settled fog. The mist that rose and danced in the air as wind whipped around them, eddying in the rocks and around bridges. The open air, cold and wet with rain against the heat of the water.

The pool was an expanse. The far borders were lost in the mist, and patrons drifted through the water in various masks: mostly white silica, ghostly, with their laughter and conversations muted by the open space. The resort provided towels and bathrobes, so the bridges around the pools were inhabited by patrons in white as well, exploring the intricate landscape of the baths.

Crowley and Aziraphale hung their robes on hooks outside and darted to the water, laughing. They had both slicked back their hair with conditioner—the salt and silica stuck and dried it out—and Aziraphale looked ridiculous, his characteristic curls stuck flat to his head. Someone took someone’s hand and they ended up drifting like the dead in the water, looking up at the darkness and locked together, holding tightly, refusing to ever let go.

Crowley washed his hair in the private shower of their suite. The conditioner had done little to protect it, despite the spa’s claims that it had been specially designed for the water here. He could just miracle back the keratin, but some deep-down part of him liked the feeling of Aziraphale seeing him as imperfect. He slathered it in a keratin treatment instead, slicking it back against his head, before drying off and wrapping up in a robe. He’d get some rest and in the morning—

The demon’s wandering train of thought was jolted off its track as he came into the bedroom. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed. The angel was wearing pyjamas, silk beige ones with a gold trim, which was a sight Crowley had not ever thought he’d see. His hair was frizzy with silica and salt. He looked nervous. He jumped when Crowley closed the bathroom door.

“Ah. Hello.”

“Hello,” said Crowley, waving his hand in Aziraphale’s general direction. You’re in my bed, the gesture said. This is a new turn of events, please tell me what is happening.

“Yes. Well. I thought perhaps—so much has happened, lately. So much has changed. I’m… I’m tired, I think.” Aziraphale swallowed. “I’m quite tired. And I’ve never been much good at…” At trusting anyone, the pause said. At relaxing enough to let my guard down. Relaxing invites attack. Relaxing means I cannot avoid conflict once I see it coming. “…At sleeping. I thought perhaps I’d try it.”

“Am I on the couch, then?” asked Crowley, perhaps a bit more snidely than he meant it. It wasn’t so much that he was opposed to seeing the angel in pyjamas. He just assumed, at this point, that it was part of the Agreement that he was entitled to any bed in a room they shared, and he’d been looking forward to this one.

He’d give up any bed in the world for Aziraphale, but that was beside the point.

“No,” said Aziraphale.

“Oh,” said Crowley, surprised.

It was utterly impossible to sleep. The bed was warm and soft, and the rain pattered outside in a gentle white noise. Crowley rolled over, restless, assuming he’d see Aziraphale as a knot of blankets with a little angelic cloud of hair sticking out. Not the case: Aziraphale had turned to look at him, too.

Their eyes met. Gold to blue. Crowley breathed.

“You’re not very good at this,” said Aziraphale. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Sometimes it’s difficult.”

“Clearly.”

“You’ve messed with my usual routine,” said Crowley. “I don’t usually have distracting angels in my bed.”

“Distracting?” Aziraphale’s voice was prim. “So sinful.”

Crowley hit him with a pillow.

The second night was clearer, and the private lagoon that came with their suite produced less steam. Crowley, who was beginning to doubt that he would ever sleep again, floated in the water and watched the stars for a while. There was some small light pollution from the spa and a nearby geothermal plant, but for the most part the sky was clear, and he could see the galaxy.

Aziraphale joined him. Crowley hadn’t bothered with a suit—no one could see them here and he still felt a little weird dressing up to get in a bath. Neither had the angel. He laid back in the water and joined Crowley without a word.

Crowley pointed. “Helped build that one,” he said.

“I know,” said Aziraphale. He pointed at a nearby cluster. “And those. And most of the structures around Ursa Major, didn’t you?”

“You kept track?”

“It’s not hard,” said Aziraphale. “You tell me every time we go stargazing. We’ve done quite a lot of stargazing.”

Crowley laughed. “Humans say, when they get old, their friends know all their stories.”

“And their partners,” said Aziraphale, and then he seemed like he was going to say something else, but he hesitated.

Crowley elbowed him. “Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s my turn tomorrow,” said Aziraphale. “You’ll find out then.”

It was New Year’s Eve. They didn’t leave early, not until the sun was up. They needed to arrive after dark, Aziraphale insisted, and the drive wasn’t too long.

Bullshit, in Crowley’s opinion. Not too long was about seven hours from the resort, at the speed limit and with no stops. They drove north, touched the edge of Reykjavik, then swung east on Route 1 and took the Ring Road into eternity. And Aziraphale kept stopping for nibbles and photo opportunities. They took a detour north because he simply had to see Þingvallir National Park, and then he kept taking pictures out of the car window rather than just waiting for the lookout points, and then there was this lovely little farm-to-table place in Reykholt where they had to stop for a late lunch. It had a stunning mountain view, although it also had views into the actual barn and Crowley felt a bit odd eating a hamburger next to its still-living friends.

“Is this the thing?” Crowley asked, every time they stopped. Þingvallir was spectacular, great sweeping hills absolutely spattered with snowcapped mountains and boiling, broken earth. The barn food was good. The landscape was beautiful. But each time, Aziraphale shook his head. He was stalling, the bastard. Wherever he wanted to be, Crowley suspected he wanted to be there at midnight.

It was eleven-thirty when Aziraphale told him to pull over into a nondescript parking lot. They were a third of the way around the Ring Road. They weren’t even close to a town. (Hof didn’t count, it had a total of six intersections and five roads.) It was as godforsaken as Crowley was, and that was saying something.

“Just pull in,” said Aziraphale. Crowley was grumpy and tired. “I promise you, it’s worth it.”

Crowley obeyed. Wherever they were, Aziraphale had dragged them to the ends of the earth for it. Demons trusted no one, but Crowley trusted his angel. Always.

They parked and Crowley stepped out onto black sand. It was gritty and volcanic and nothing special, exactly: it covered the entire island like a blanket. It even pooled up at the bottom of the hot springs. They hadn’t traveled all this way to see sand.

Crowley turned around.

It was a minor miracle, he was sure, that the sky was still so clear and the beach was so empty. They were the only sentient creatures present for miles, and the stars spilled above them in a shining display that was almost as clear as the day Crowley had made them. They looked like diamonds, spilled across a sky of black velvet. And in front of him, in this perfect place, the beach—

“Behind us—they call it Glacier Bay. It’s full of icebergs that break off from the glaciers, and they all exit the bay through that small opening there. They break up and smooth down in the ocean, then get caught in the tide and pulled back here.”

“Angel…”

“They call it Diamond Beach because the ice is so clear and smooth, and the broken ice looks like diamonds on the black sand. One of the employees at the bookshop in Edinburgh went here, they showed me pictures. They do look like diamonds, of course, but I saw the pictures and I thought it looked more like—”

“Stars,” Crowley breathed.

Some of the shards were the size of Crowley’s hand; some were the size of Crowley. They were scattered along the sand like glass on ink, like stars on the sky, like diamonds on velvet, and it was freezing but it was beautiful, and this time Crowley knew exactly whose hand reached for whose. He’d taken Aziraphale’s and grasped it tight.

“I thought we could go for a walk here,” said Aziraphale.

“You brought us to Iceland for a walk?” He’d already started, tugging the angel along behind him. Down the slope to the beach, careful not to slip. Aziraphale cleared his throat and caught up.

“One could put it that way.” The angel extracted his hand from the demon’s in favor of tucking into Crowley’s arm instead. He was clearly trying to be romantic, to cuddle a little, but he was too nervous and his back had gone stiff. Crowley kissed the top of the angel’s head.

“I saw it and it reminded me of you,” said Aziraphale, clearly trying to segue into something. “You helped make the stars. It’s silly, thinking you’re older than me. I wasn’t around yet, not for that part.”

“Didn’t think I was older than you.”

“Not by much.”

“Not by much,” Crowley mimicked in a posh accent. He was teasing. Time as a concept didn’t really apply to angels.

“Hush, you. It made me think, well. You talk about them so much, and I think it was a happy time for you. I hope it was a happy time for you.” Complicated topic. But Aziraphale was building up to something, and Crowley wasn’t going to stop him. “And because, well, because it seems like a memory of a safe place, something important to you—a beginning, really. Not our beginning, not The Beginning—oh dear, maybe I should have done this in a garden—”

“Angel.” Crowley laughed. The sand sunk under their footsteps and the ocean—pure Atlantic, powerful and deep—beat steadily in the background. “Keep going.”

“It just seemed like a good place to ask you a question, that’s all. I didn’t have a diamond. This isn’t very well thought-through.”

Crowley paused. There was a feeling like warmth spreading through his chest.

Aziraphale took the opportunity to let go of Crowley’s arm and turn to face him. They stood there, eyes locked, twin points of light and darkness in a line parallel to the ocean. The angel breathed deeply, and the demon forgot to breathe at all.

“I need you to know what it is that I am asking,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t… There’s so much of this, of our relationship, that I never want to change. I enjoy our independence. I will never stop you from running off to see Bond Films at the cinema or saying unforgiveable things to your plants. I know that over the years we have both developed—ah—close relationships with humans on occasion, and I do not expect that to stop for either of us. I think those relationships, whatever they might be, are important to us.”

“Aziraphale…”

“I think our freedom, however we use it, is important to our dynamic. I don’t want anything to change between us, except perhaps for each of us to… to know. Crowley—Anthony—earlier this year I said something truly horrible to you, and I need you to know it wasn’t true. It has never been true, not really. I’ve been lying to myself. I think I’ve been lying to myself for quite a long time.”

The angel took the demon’s hand.

“I am on our side. Anthony Crowley—”

“Anthony J. Crowley—” It was a reflex.

“Anthony J. Crowley, I have chosen you for six thousand years. I have done so bucking and—and fighting, on occasion. But I have done so. And I know that you’ve done the same to me. In fact—in fact, I think I’ve lied to myself more than you’ve ever lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you,” said Crowley, holding that hand like it was the end of the world.

“What I’m asking you,” said Aziraphale, “is simply to… make it official, as it were. Say to each other, directly, that we are on our side and no one else’s. That we will choose each other over all future sides. All future… er, choices. All future loves.”

He removed his signet ring.

“When I say marriage—”

Crowley finally broke down. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing at Aziraphale’s monologue—was this a proposal or a contract?—or crying at the sudden rush of emotion, but he closed one hand around the ring and the other around Aziraphale’s waist and kissed him. Kissed him under the stars and among the diamonds, hours away from civilization, at the stroke of midnight.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, you idiot, always yes.” Crowley’s hands cupped his angel’s face, drinking in the love that poured from Aziraphale like a fountain. “You’re right. I’ve always picked you above everything. Everyone. Always. Easy to be ourselves and still do that. It’s natural.”

Natural didn’t always mean easy—especially to Aziraphale, who could be loyal to a fault to all the wrong people. But they were free to be themselves. Free to live however they wanted. Free to choose each other. Crowley put the signet ring on his finger, already mentally sketching out a serpentine ring to match it.

This time it was Aziraphale who kissed him.

#Ineffable Husbands #ineffable husbands fanfic #ineffable partners #spoilers in the tags #marriage proposal #new years eve #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale and crowley #crowley and aziraphale #Place Without Plot

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