#GOFic

[extraemopossum]

Ebony Darkness dementia raven way doodle bc she is a gofic queen

[misplacedcolor]

Resume moodboard for all my shawteys.

[mostfacinorous]

GO Whumptober Day 28: Such Wow. Many Normal. Very Oops.  [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9][10][11][12][13][14][15][16][17][18][19][20][21][22][23][24][25][26][27]

The cause of the freezing, humans determined, was either merely ‘nature’ or ‘the growing climate crisis’, depending on whether the person speaking believed in that sort of thing. Either way, everyone could agree that it was unusual to unheard of, and no one much appreciated it. 

It had eased off a bit, though-- still frozen, so the snow and ice was sticking around, but the wind had died off and the snow was no longer coming down in buckets, for which they were all very grateful. 

The Bentley remained where she’d been parked since that first attempted afternoon out, and the plowed mountain behind her only grew ever higher and ever thicker. 

Much like their American cousins from years prior, local heads of council had to remind their followers not to jump out of upper floor windows and into the snow, for fear of cars lurking underneath, and injuries that could and would result from such foolishness. 

It didn’t fully stop it from happening, but it might have deterred an idiot or two.

 Fortunately, neither Crowley nor Aziraphale was particularly interested in jumping out of windows. 

There were, however, interested in having a bit of a walk, as it had warmed up enough to allow for it again, and they were feeling a little cooped up. 

And so they packed their cocoa and coffee into a couple of thermoses-- carefully color coordinated in black and lightest blue tartan, so as to never be confused with The Thermos, of which they did not speak-- and headed to the park for a bit of time in the watery grey sun of London in winter. 

The streets were clear enough to walk on safely and carefully, but the path round the lake was only worn down by others’ feet, and the snow had been trampled enough to have turned to mud, then frozen back to ice in places, making their usual habit of walking and talking more dangerous. 

They had decided, after God’s admonition about getting closer, to try and keep their time apart to a minimum. This suited them both quite well, considering the trials and tribulations they’d faced of late, and it was delightful to finally have an excuse to be around one another that neither side could really argue with. After all, not being near Aziraphale when God arrived had put Crowley out of commission for days, and if he had been close, She may not have come at all. Thwarting at its finest, on both sides of the line. 

And so, if they held hands to help steady one another, there wasn’t anything Heaven nor Hell could do about it, short of shaking their heads with disgust. 

“I miss the ducks.” Crowley said suddenly, interrupting the silence that had descended as their last conversational topic had waned. 

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked, surprised. “You always treat them quite poorly; I thought you disliked them.”

“I do not!” Crowley protested. “I play with them. Same as how they play with one another, innit?” 

Aziraphale held his thoughts on the matter. He did glance out across the lake, though. 

“I wonder how firmly frozen it is. Do you suppose they will be able to ice skate on it, after a storm like that?” 

Crowley tilted his head and looked out over the ice. 

“At least a couple of ‘em are gonna give it a go. Look.” He nodded off near the high reeds, where the ducks liked to put their eggs come spring, and where a few children appeared to be slipping off their shoes, with plans of skating over the ice in their stockings.

“Heavens.” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps we ought to do something to stop them.” He began heading in that direction, a little too far off to be heard if he yelled. 

“Bit too late for that, Angel!” He heard as Crowley raced past him, realizing as he did that he’d pressed his mobile into Aziraphale’s hands. He looked up to see a child take off from the edge straight towards the middle of the pond-- and promptly fall through the ice and into the waters below. 

“Bugger.” Aziraphale muttered under his breath.

Crowley was fast, faster than the other children, even, and he shouted for them to stay as he slid on his stomach towards the hole in the ice. 

Aziraphael fumbled with the phone for a spare moment, then got a call in to emergency services. “Hello, yes, I am in St. james’ park, just north of the playground on the birdcage side of the lake-- a child has fallen through the ice and my partner has gone in after them. No, no, I can’t see-- they’ve surfaced. Please send help, I’m going to give you to a child now.” 

Aziraphale handed the phone off to the young girl who was standing by, mouth agape. 

“Help them find us, please.” He told her, a touch of miracle in his voice to give her the courage she needed to do the job, and then he turned to the lake. 

“Crowley?” He called to the man who was clutching at the ice with inhumanly sharp talons that had sprouted from his fingers while he held a boy between his chest and the rim of the hole. “What can I do to help?” Aziraphale asked. 

Crowley had lost his glasses, and his eyes were wide. 

“Don’t come out on the ice- it’s not gonna hold.” Even as he spoke, his fingers on one hand went crashing through the surface, sending them both bobbing as the boy cried out. 

“Tail!” Aziraphale shouted, hoping Crowley had enough presence of mind to handle the change. He had always been a better swimmer while serpentine, and perhaps, that done--

He saw the moment that Crowley gained the advantage and they became a little steadier in the water. 

“Now then-- if you have to, put him on your back, and break the ice away between you and the shore until you can climb out safely!” 

Aziraphale felt next to useless, but he supposed at least one of them had a mind that was not freezing or panicking, and thus was able to assist that way. 

“You hear that?” He heard Crowley mumbling comfortingly to the boy. “I’m going to give you a piggy ride now. You hold on tightly, understand? And I’ll soon have us out of here.” 

Aziraphale watched, fretting terribly as Crowley helped the boy to climb around on the other side of him, and then began the process of smashing through the ice with his claws. 

Aziraphale turned around and saw the fire brigade approaching, an ambulance in tow, and turned back to warn Crowley to hide his transformations. 

“The Rescuers are here-- it won’t be long now!” He tried to make it sound hopeful and not as though he was playing supernatural lookout. It seemed to work, though, as the first of them reached him and clapped a hand on his back. 

“You’re the caller?” She asked, and Aziraphale nodded, pointing as he accepted Crowley’s phone back from her. 

“They’re nearly to the edge,” He added helpfully, though there was a dark and obvious trail of broken ice that marked how far they’d come. 

“We’ve got them.” She promised, and waved for backup. 

A small army of men and women ran down to the river’s edge to lift the boy off of Crowley’s back as he final grabbed hold of solid land, and Aziraphale managed to shoulder his way through them to reach down and grasp Crowley’s hands. 

“There you are, you brave, stupid fool.” He said, pulling him up and onto land and into his arms. 

Crowley was shaking with cold, and he had already partially soaked through Aziraphale’s clothing when the team brought them emergency blankets. 

“Come on now, let’s get you out of your clothes and warming up.” One of the men instructed. 

Aziraphale turned to be sure the boy was receiving the same sort of care; he was already in someone’s thermals. 

“Alright.” Crowley agreed, surprising Aziraphale. He was looking straight at the angel, though, not at the humans who were trying to shuffle him off to the trucks for treatment. “Stay with me?” He asked, almost a plea, and Aziraphale knew it was only partially to help him fend off discovery. The other part was God and the unspoken threat of having saved a human life-- and what Hell might do to him for it. 

“Of course. Let me help him-- he’s ah, special needs.” 

“Alright.” The officials were quick to agree, with the tiniest nudge from Aziraphale. “The parents are on their way, I’m sure they’ll want to talk to you and we’ll need to take down statements for our reports after.” 

“Of course.” Aziraphale said again. “If you can just fetch us some dry clothing for him--” 

He sent them scurrying, and turned back to Crowley. 

“Shall we get out of here before they come back, my dear? Make a run for it?” 

Crowley, still shivering as if his bones intended to shake out of his skin, grinned back at Aziraphale. 

“Best idea you’ve had all day, Angel.”

They booked it, making it out of sight before Aziraphale dried Crowley with a miracle and warmed him with another. 

The walk home was almost anticlimactic, after all that. 

“Ohh… I dropped the thermoses!” Aziraphale lamented, and Crowley huffed. 

“Shall we stop by that little teashop up near Piccadilly?” He offered. 

“Oh, let’s. I suppose you could do with something warm to drink anyway.” 

“I wouldn’t object. And then home, to a fire and several blankets.” Crowley insisted. He paused, then added, “Thank you, by the way. I saw the boy and didn’t think-- I ought to keep you around, have you keep doing that for me, when needed.” 

Aziraphale bumped their shoulders together. 

“You’ll be hard pressed to get rid of me, you’ll find, if you keep pulling stunts like that.” 

Their usual routine resumed, they made their way towards the tea shop, and home, and left the humans to wonder why they had run, why the boy was swearing the man who’d saved him was a mermaid, and how the hell someone had happened to miraculously be in the right place at the right time to stop childish stupidity from turning tragic. 

It was, all in all, a rather successful outing.

[mygalfriday]

All’s well that ends well to end up with you

{ao3}

The sun is just beginning to peek over the London skyline and creep its soft pink rays across the floor when Aziraphale slips from Crowley’s bed. Knowing how much the Crowley likes to sleep and how utterly unbearable he can be when woken before he’s ready, Aziraphale navigates the bedroom as quietly as possible.

Quite uncharacteristically, his clothes are scattered across the floor without much care. There had simply been no convincing Crowley to let him fold them properly and put them away. To be fair, Aziraphale hadn’t really tried very hard to convince him. Such as task would have involved far less kissing as they stumbled toward the bed and…well. Aziraphale quite likes kissing. Especially when it includes Crowley.

Unwilling to endure the petulance of a sleep-deprived demon, Aziraphale decides not to forage for his things and instead scoops up the nearest article of clothing - which happens to be Crowley’s dressing gown draped over an armchair in the corner. He slips it on and ties it at the waist. It fits a little too snug but a small smile tugs at his mouth at the intimacy of wearing something that belongs to Crowley. He rubs a fingertip over the black silk sleeve and casts one last fond glance over his shoulder.

Crowley sleeps sprawled on his stomach, one arm outstretched as though reaching for Aziraphale in his sleep. His lips part slightly as he breathes, his cheek pressed into the pillow. His freckled shoulders are bare and the sheet has bunched around his narrow hips. There are red marks along his exposed throat, lasting evidence of Aziraphale’s mouth. All the worry lines and prickly defenses have disappeared from his face. Crowley looks as carefree as he had the day Aziraphale had met him in the Garden, as though one night has erased six thousand years. He looks, Aziraphale muses, like a painting. The rising sun setting his auburn hair aglow and tinging all his lovely bare skin a warm shade of pink.

His heart full of wonder that such a creature would want him, would love him as fiercely as Crowley does, Aziraphale turns away with a secret, besotted smile and slips silently from the room. The kitchen is his first stop. They’d had quite a meal at the Ritz last night, celebrating their newfound freedom from the pressures of Heaven and Hell, but after what they’d got up to after their meal, Aziraphale feels peckish again. A cup of tea and a few of those biscuits Crowley keeps around for him will do nicely.

He has been to Crowley’s flat before, of course, but he never stayed long and certainly never overnight. It hadn’t felt safe. To be quite honest, Aziraphale hasn’t felt truly safe since the Arrangement began. He’d always been convinced discovery was right around the corner. Some nights he’d simply paced his shop and wrung his hands, wondering how he would protect Crowley when the time came. And now here he is, roaming barefoot throughout Crowley’s flat with a cup of warm tea cradled in his hands. The irony of feeling safe inside the home of Hell’s best demon is not lost on him but Crowley has never been a threat to Aziraphale. Even in the Garden, he’d known that somehow.

His aimless exploration of Crowley’s flat eventually leads him into the atrium. He’s only ever seen Crowley’s plants in passing before and he breathes out an excited hum as he steps inside, surrounded by vibrant green plants of nearly every variety. There are Chinese evergreens and English ivy, and even Saint Helena Heliotrope - which he’s quite sure has not been grown anywhere since sometime in the early 19th century.

Gently petting one brilliant leaf, he murmurs a delighted, “Hello there. Aren’t you beautiful?” The plant seems to tremble at his touch, leaning almost hungrily into his hand and the quiet praise. Aziraphale beams. “He takes such good care of you, doesn’t he?”

At this, the heliotrope droops a little. The tremor of leaves sounds like a complaint.

Aziraphale tuts. “None of that now,” he murmurs. “He’s all bark, you know. Showing affection is difficult for him so we must be very patient, mustn’t we?”

The plant straightens at this gentle admonishment, the leaves perking up a bit in reply.

With a wide smile, Aziraphale offers it another gentle pat. “Very good, you lovely thing.”

He takes another turn about the room, cooing over the succulents and giving the philodendron a bit of encouragement, before he finally wanders out and across the corridor, finding himself standing in Crowley’s office. Unlike the atrium, this room is just as stark and cold as the rest of the flat. Aziraphale briefly considers the prospect of shopping for new furniture with Crowley to make the place a bit more inviting, a bit more…them and has to shove such thoughts aside before he gets ahead of himself. It’s been one night and he’s already mentally redecorating.

Steady on, old bean.

Tossing a wistful, admiring glance at the da Vinci portrait on the far wall, Aziraphale moves further into the room and runs a hand over the back of Crowley’s chair. Really, more of a throne — his sweetheart does love to make a statement. Aziraphale pushes the chair back and settles into it, placing his teacup on the desk. Crowley doesn’t have many books but he’s rather hoping there’s something here in his office to read as a way to pass the time. Knowing Crowley, he could be asleep for days before he gets hungry enough to stumble out of bed.

Sliding open the top drawer and hoping to find a secret stash of cheap romance novels or even a wayward copy of National Geographic, Aziraphale instead blinks down at a scattering of black and white photographs of himself and Crowley. All of them have been taken at a distance and at various points throughout history, long before the humans had even invented cameras. There they are feeding the ducks at St. James Park, watching rehearsals at the Globe, and sharing an umbrella outside of Aziraphale’s favorite little patisserie in Paris.

There’s something troubling about the photos, almost voyeuristic in nature. Aziraphale frowns, stroking a fingertip over Crowley’s profile in one of them, and wonders where all of these strange photographs had come from and why Crowley had them stashed away in his desk.

Which is just how Crowley finds him moments later when he comes skidding into the room like something half-mad. The wild, panicked look in his eyes fades the second he spots Aziraphale standing behind his desk but it’s quite clear that he’d been under the impression Aziraphale had gone. Though his heart aches to reassure Crowley he doesn’t plan to go anywhere, Aziraphale only smiles, allowing Crowley the dignity of rearranging his expression into something a little less stricken.

“Good morning,” he says warmly. “Sleep well?”

Crowley only grunts, running a hand through his rumpled hair. There’s a crease on his cheek from his pillow and he still looks a bit rattled as he saunters into the room. It’s only then that Aziraphale notices he’s barely dressed, wearing only a tight pair of pants — no trousers or shirt anywhere to be seen. His long, lanky legs and bare chest are on full display. Beautiful. Aziraphale licks his lips, forcing his eyes not to wander before he realizes he doesn’t have to anymore. After last night, there are no more secrets between them.

His gaze drifts.

Catching his stare, Crowley smirks. “Morning, angel.” He pauses when he reaches the desk, scrutinizing Aziraphale’s face. Perhaps looking for permission or trying to discern if his affections are still welcome in the light of a new day. Whatever it is, he must find it in Aziraphale’s smile because to the angel’s delight, he bends to press a soft kiss to his mouth. As Aziraphale hums and savors the sweet-sleep taste of him, Crowley strokes a fingertip over the collar of the dressing gown. When they part, he murmurs, “Suits you.”

“Hardly,” Aziraphale replies, blushing. “But you made certain my own clothes were quite difficult to find.”

Crowley doesn’t look even a little bit guilty, perching lazily against the edge of the desk. In fact, he looks rather proud of himself. “Just didn’t want you going anywhere, angel.”

“Well, no chance of that, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale reaches out a hand and cups his cheek, rubbing his thumb tenderly over the snake tattoo at his temple. “You’re quite stuck with me.”

Though he looks pleased to hear it, Crowley isn’t the sort for sentimental speeches. At least not yet, anyway. Eyes warm and soft, he leans in for a kiss instead and Aziraphale has no choice but to sink into him with a sigh of quiet, giddy contentment. This belongs to him now — this intimacy, this longing finally met, this demon he has loved from afar for centuries. The thrill of it, still so new, makes him dizzy.

Crowley’s hand wanders across his shoulder, bare where the dressing gown has slipped amidst their embrace. Touching a reverent fingertip to the bite mark there, still a vivid red against the pale of Aziraphale’s skin, he asks, “All right?”

Warm all over under his attentions and the memory of exactly when Crowley had bitten him last night, Aziraphale breathes, “Oh, tip-top, darling. Perfectly perfect.”

Crowley looks only marginally less poleaxed by the endearment in the light of morning, avoiding Aziraphale’s affectionate gaze by leaning in to nose at his cheek. “Yes,” he murmurs, as though safe without eyes on him. “You are.”

Aziraphale blushes, his heart thrilling at the smallest hint of sweet nothings from Crowley. As he stares over Crowley’s shoulder and tries to hide a smile, his eyes fall on the photos still scattered on the desk. Remembering his curiosity, he says, “I was looking for something to read and I found those. Where did you get them?”

Crowley turns, following the line of his gaze. “Oh. Gabriel had them.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and avoids Aziraphale’s expectant stare. “I nicked them on my way out. Turns out they’ve been keeping an eye on us all along.”

“Well… I’m quite glad I wasn’t aware of that.” Aziraphale grimaces, imagining the nightmarish panic it would have induced. He probably would have agreed to run off to Alpha Centauri just to protect Crowley and who knows if poor young Adam would have had the courage to stand up to Lucifer without a couple of hands to hold. If Aziraphale had known about the existence of these pictures, the Earth might very well have been destroyed. Unsettled by this, Aziraphale turns to frown at them. “But…why take them, my dear?”

With a sniff and a careless shrug, he says, “No reason.” And then, as though sensing Aziraphale’s disappointed stare weighing heavily on him, he sighs and waves a hand he probably intends to look careless. “Oh, you know…thought I’d add them to my collection, that’s all.”

“Collection?”

Gritting his teeth — possibly to hold in something sentimental on the tip of his tongue —  Crowley lifts a hand and snaps his fingers. A long, slender black box appears on the desk beside the surveillance photographs. It looks full, the lid on top askew and the mysterious contents beginning to peek out over the edges. Crowley gestures at the box wordlessly.

When Aziraphale glances at him, his cheeks are a bit more full of color than usual. The sight of Anthony J. Crowley, suave demon extraordinaire, blushing is so distracting that it takes Aziraphale a moment to register the words coming out of his mouth. “Open it.”

Hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches out a hand and lifts the lid off the box. And blinks.

Inside is a diverse conglomeration of paraphernalia — mostly photographs and all of them featuring Aziraphale, either alone or with Crowley. Aziraphale reaches out, sifting curiously through them. He moves aside a black and white polaroid of himself standing outside the bookshop sometime in the 1950s; a sepia-toned photograph of him and Crowley posing in their suits and top hats just days before their argument over the holy water; and another Crowley had taken on his mobile just a year or so ago, a closeup of Aziraphale’s face when a butterfly had landed on his nose in St. James Park, his smile wide and his eyes creased with laughter.

There are even a few miniature portraits from the days before the humans had invented cameras. Other little trinkets are nestled inside the box as well, theatre ticket stubs and wine corks from bottles they’ve shared, a few brittle envelopes with handwriting Aziraphale recognizes as his own, and a very old advertisement for the first showing of Hamlet.

Taking it all in, Aziraphale feels a lump begin to form in his throat. Crowley has been hoarding little mementos of their time together. And for quite a while by the look of things — long before the Arrangement even began. Aziraphale spots an oyster shell sitting atop a stack of photographs, thinks fleetingly of Rome, and his trembling hand gently sets it aside as he sifts through more their memories.

Standing beside him but refusing to look at either Aziraphale or the box on the desk, Crowley crosses his arms over his bare chest and frowns into the middle distance. Out of the corner of his eye, Aziraphale notices that his cheeks and the tops of his ears are still flushed. Crowley doesn’t say I love you the way others might. He may not ever say the actual words but Aziraphale hears it when he shows up at the bookshop with tickets to a new play Aziraphale mentioned wanting to see once. He hears it when Crowley orders dessert even though he barely eats any, just so Aziraphale can have a taste. He hears it when Crowley says things like little demonic miracle of my own and we can go off together. And he hears it right now, staring at their whole relationship tucked tenderly into this little box.

With an achingly fond glance at his dear one, Aziraphale plucks a shard of sea glass from Crowley’s collection. Admiring the way it catches the light, he asks, “Might I inquire when-”

“That weekend we holed up in Vladivostok and worked on our reports to Heaven and Hell together.” Crowley risks a glance at him, finds Aziraphale watching him intently, and makes a noise like he’d very much enjoy turning into a snake and slithering away. “It was the first time we’d spent more than an evening together and I…wanted something to remember it by.”

Aziraphale thinks briefly of the tattered, singed volume of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies and Crowley sitting in a pub drinking himself into a stupor. His heart tightens and swells in his chest as he whispers, “A souvenir.”

Caught, Crowley looks away again. “Yeah.”

Rubbing his thumb over the glass, smoothed and worn down by waves and time, Aziraphale asks delicately, “Weren’t you afraid all this might fall into the hands of…the wrong sort?”

Crowley shrugs. “Kept it in the safe with the holy water but…” He sighs, lifting his head and finally really looking at Aziraphale for the first time since the box made its appearance. “Yeah. All the time.”

The sea glass grows warm in Aziraphale’s palm and he curls his fingers around it, swallowing. And it feels like the glass is in his throat, cutting sharply on its way down. “But it didn’t stop you.”

With a sniff, Crowley pokes at a photograph of the two of them dressed as Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth, Warlock cuddled between them and beaming at the camera. “Couldn’t bear to part with any of it.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, the deep well of tenderness within that has always been for Crowley rising up to war with the sharp disappointment he feels at his own cowardice. “You’ve been so much braver than I, my dear.”

Crowley lifts his head from inspecting the contents of the box and frowns. As if he truly doesn’t hold it against him. He really is so much better than he’ll ever believe he is. “I didn’t have anything to lose, angel. You did.”

Carefully depositing the sea glass back into the box, Aziraphale turns to Crowley and shrugs the dressing gown up over his bare shoulder. Crowley follows the movement with his eyes, looking faintly disappointed, but Aziraphale won’t be distracted. “You can’t possibly believe I was afraid of losing anything but you.”

“You-” Crowley blinks at him, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a moment. “What?”

With a patient sigh, Aziraphale reaches for his hand. “I tried to keep my distance for you, Crowley. Not because I was afraid of Falling or earning Gabriel’s wrath. Because I feared what hell might do to you if they discovered us.” In his grasp, Crowley’s hand trembles and Aziraphale squeezes his fingers, rubbing his thumb soothingly over one of Crowley’s sharp knuckles. “It was never fear for myself that kept me from you.”

“Angel.” Crowley breathes out unsteadily, a hushed reverence in his voice that Aziraphale has only ever heard in the prayers of the devout. Until last night, at least. Crowley is nothing less than worshipful when they’re in bed together — a strange contrast to the blasphemy dripping from Aziraphale’s lips when Crowley touches him.

“I’ve always been so afraid for you,” Aziraphale confides in a whisper, his breath washing warm over Crowley’s cheek as they stand together. “Forgive me, my love, for pushing you away to keep you safe.”

Crowley squeezes his amber eyes shut, swaying forward to press their foreheads together. His slender hand wraps around the back of Aziraphale’s neck to keep him close, his fingers digging in tight like everything will slip away if he doesn’t hold on with all his might. “I really don’t deserve you.”

Keeping his eyes open — all the better to admire him with — Aziraphale smiles fondly and points out, “Says the man who risked complete annihilation just to hoard a few keepsakes in a shoe box.”

Crowley scowls, eyes blinking open to glare weakly at him.

Aziraphale keeps smiling, lifting a hand to stroke his sharp cheekbone. “I believe it’s safe to say we deserve each other, my dear. For better or worse.”

Turning to nuzzle into Aziraphale’s touch, Crowley presses a kiss to his palm and raises an eyebrow. “That sounds a bit like marriage vows, angel.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale hums thoughtfully, watching Crowley through his lashes. “Well, it has been six thousand years, after all.”

Crowley makes an incomprehensible noise in the back of his throat, lips parting wordlessly. “What - uh, what happened to going too fast?”

Tracing a fingertip over Crowley’s jawline, Aziraphale replies honestly, “I suppose I’m not afraid anymore.”

“No.” Crowley wraps an arm around his waist and as he gathers him close, Aziraphale feels a soft, careful kiss pressed to his temple. Like he’s something precious. A treasure to be tucked safely inside the box on the desk, right alongside old letters and photographs. As though he’s something Crowley doesn’t want to forget. “Neither am I.”

With a hopeful grin, Aziraphale leans back just enough to look into his eyes. “Might I take that as a yes?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh, his face softening the way it had as he’d slept - like all the stresses of Heaven and Hell have been lifted from his thin shoulders. “It’s been yes for a long time, angel,” he murmurs.

“Oh, lovely,” Aziraphale says, just before their lips meet.

As he melts against Crowley with a happy sigh, he smiles broadly into their kiss —giddy at the very idea of adopting such a human custom. Nothing thrills him more than the notion of belonging to Crowley and publicly declaring that Crowley belongs to him too. Perhaps they could even invite some friends.

Anathema and Newt would surely attend and Madame Tracy, of course. Though Crowley might balk if she insists on bringing Sergeant Shadwell. He’d been a bit tetchy about the man when Aziraphale had told him the story of how he’d ended up getting discorporated in the first place. But surely the children could attend. And Warlock, of course. It simply wouldn’t be a proper wedding without their godson.

Oh dear. Perhaps they have gone a bit native.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound, as the humans say.

Aziraphale breaks from Crowley’s warm, devouring mouth with a gasp. “I forgot something.” At Crowley’s soft noise of protest, he smiles and assures him, “Only for a moment, darling.”

Under Crowley’s watchful gaze, Aziraphale slowly slips the ring from his pinky finger for the first time in six thousand years. His hand looks strange without it - naked and vulnerable. No matter. Aziraphale suspects he’ll have another ring to wear soon enough.

“Angel,” Crowley begins, brow furrowing. “What-”

“I believe a ring is customarily presented along with the proposal.”

He takes Crowley’s hand, waiting patiently for approval. Crowley swallows audibly, his eyes wide. His hand trembles in Aziraphale’s reassuring grasp. After a long moment spent staring at the ring and then another moment studying Aziraphale, he finally clenches his jaw. And then he nods, once.

Pleased, Aziraphale slides the ring onto his finger.

And it fits.

The angel wings wrap snugly around Crowley’s ring finger and somehow, impossibly, the ring looks right there. As though it had never really been Aziraphale’s ring at all. It had always belonged to Crowley all this time and Aziraphale had just been keeping it safe until the proper moment. It’s a keepsake Aziraphale is only too happy to part with. “Look at that,” he whispers, smiling. “It suits you.”

Crowley stares down at his hand, at the ring on his finger, and blinks again. His throat works as he tries to speak but for a long moment, he manages nothing but a wordless noise of bewilderment. “Right.” He clears his throat, still staring at the ring. His voice comes out hoarse and unsteady as he asks with a drawl, “So… how do humans usually celebrate an engagement?”

Properly enamored with the sight of Crowley wearing his ring, Aziraphale beams. “Oh, with crepes, I should think.”

Crowley laughs, startled and fond and genuine. “Crepes,” his intended promises, his eyes warm and mischievous. “After we celebrate my way.”

“Your wa - oh.” Aziraphale yelps as Crowley grasps him by the sleeve of his dressing gown and tugs him emphatically in the direction of the bedroom. His new ring glints in the morning light, bright against the black of Aziraphale’s borrowed robe. Stifling a chuckle, he stumbles after him and agrees, “Yes, dearest. Definitely yours first.”

And as they tumble back into bed together, entwined and grinning, the rest of eternity promises to be very good indeed.

[tisziny]

Summary:

Azira Fell is getting married. This should be her happily ever after but when she meets the alluring Antoine Crowley she can't help but feel a connection she's never had before. Is there such a thing as love at first sight?

Notes:

This was written for the Good Omens romcom challenge! Inspired by the movie Imagine Me and You (2005) with a few of my own creative differences. Hope you enjoy!

@go-events

[eveningstarcatcher]

Ineffable Valentines Day 23: He could do really weird things with his tongue

Aziraphale had noticed it many years ago. In Rome.

They were in Petronius’ restaurant, the warm glow of sunset casting a golden hue over everything, including Crowley’s red curls. Aziraphale wished they were longer, like they were when they met, instead of cropped, but the way the sun gleamed against the auburn coils was nothing short of heavenly.

“You really must try one, at least.” Aziraphale insisted, holding an oyster out to his companion.

“Looks awful,” Crowley’s nose crinkled.

“Please. Just one.” Aziraphale stretched his arm further, his eyes wide and inviting

“Fine, one.” The angel knew that yellow eyes were being rolled behind the dark lenses he now wore, but the demon leaned in anyway.

His tongue flicked out once, swiftly, tasting, then retreated. Crowley took a breath and the tongue appeared again, long and forked, twisting around the meat, and sliding it into his mouth, this throat moving as he swallowed it down.

Aziraphale felt like he had been thrown into boiling water. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt swollen, his heart was racing in his chest, and his vision went fuzzy for a moment.

“You okay, angel?” Crowley watched him carefully.

“Of course!” He squeaked out, pulling his hand back into his lap, dropping the empty shell onto the platter on its retreat. “How was it?”

“S’alright.” Crowley wasn’t satisfied with the angel’s answer, one eyebrow raised above his glasses, but let the matter drop.

The next was shortly after a trip to Edinburgh.

Aziraphale was standing in the back of a full house at the Globe, beaming at the audience as they reacted to the play before them.

“How was Scotland?” A familiar voice spoke from just behind his shoulder.

“Oh, Crowley! This is wonderful! How did you do it?” Aziraphale was glowing as he looked up at the demon.

“Angel, dim the lights, will you?” Crowley glanced around, but no one had noticed, too enraptured by the actors on stage.

“Apologies,” Aziraphale looked sheepishly up at Crowley. “Scotland was as grand as expected," he answered dryly, then smiled. "Managed the horse, though.”

“Well done,” Crowley smirked.

“Grape, dear?” Aziraphale offered a sweet green grape from the vine in his hand.

“Why not? Grape now, wine later?” he offered.

“Sounds lovely!” Aziraphale smiled again, raising the grape to Crowley, but was bumped by someone applauding next to him. The grape flew from his fingers, flying toward the demon. It was caught by Crowley’s tongue, darting out between thin lips and curling around the grape in midair before pulling it into his mouth. He tipped his head down to wink at the angel before turning his attention to the stage.

Aziraphale was blushing all the way down to his toes, he was sure of it.

While enjoying proper crepes in France, Aziraphale was positive that was going to discorporate on the spot.

He was chatting away between delicious bites of pastry and cream while Crowley sipped his wine.

“Were they worth it, angel?” Crowley inquired, a smirk playing at his lips.

“Most definitely! And you’re here to enjoy them with me, which is a nice surprise.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were turning pink, but he didn’t care. “Try one, won’t you?”

“Nah, I’m good with just wine.” Crowley took another sip.

“You should know what you broke me out of the Bastille for!” Aziraphale’s lips fell into a pout, his eyes wide and sad.

“I’d think you wouldn’t want to share, after all the trouble you went through to get them,” Crowley teased.

“I would happily share them with my savio--” he cut himself off before Crowley could, “well, with you.”

Crowley relaxed, with a small smile on his lips.

“I guess I could try a little.”

“Please do!” Aziraphale held a forkful out to him, but Crowley had a different idea.

He leaned over the table, ignoring the fork. and dragged his finger across Aziraphale’s chin, scooping up a bit of cream left there and held it in front of his own mouth, letting his tongue drag over it, licking it clean.

Aziraphale forgot how to speak for a solid three minutes.

All of these memories came crashing over Aziraphale as they sat in the ice cream parlor on this crisp winter day. They had been enjoying a stroll after lunch and the angel had not been able to resist stopping into this adorable little spot for dessert.

Aziraphale had ordered a large sundae for them to share, smothered with hot fudge and topped with sprinkles, nuts, and a cherry.

As usual, Crowley was watching Aziraphale instead of joining him.

“Dear, please have a bite. I ordered it for both of us.” Aziraphale pushed the bowl closer to Crowley.

“You know I don’t eat much, angel,” Crowley shook his head, smiling.

“Oh, please. I like it when you eat with me. Just a bite?” Aziraphale gestured to the sundae.

Crowley shrugged and plucked the cherry from a mountain of whipped cream and popped it into his mouth, stem and all.

Aziraphale’s jaw nearly unhinged as he watched Crowley’s do the very same, shifting as he separated cherry from stem.

After a moment Crowley let his forked tongue peek through his smirking lips, revealing a perfectly tied cherry stem.

“ Crowley ,” Aziraphale attempted to scold, but it only sounded impressed.

“Just a trick I picked up a while ago,” Crowley puffed his chest as he plucked the stem from his tongue and held it up like a trophy.

“We’re going.” Aziraphale stated, standing.

“But you haven’t-”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and grabbed Crowley, crashing their lips together.

“Azira- ah!” Crowley moaned against his lips. “What?”

“You’ve been tempting me with that tongue of yours since Rome. I insist you use it on me right now!” Aziraphale’s expression was measured, commanding, but his eyes revealed his desperation.

“Oh, angel, gladly !” Crowley purred and shifted Aziraphale’s chin to kiss him more deeply. “What about your sundae?”

“Oh, wily serpent, don’t worry about that!” Aziraphale huffed against Crowley’s lips, capturing them again.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the sundae appeared on Aziraphale’s desk, ensuring that the ice cream wouldn’t melt and the hot fudge wouldn’t grow cold. Sitting on top of the mountain of whipped cream sat three cherries. Just in case.

For @mielpetite‘s @ineffable-valentines Also on A03

[qalets]

Angel?

Yes dear?

What do you think it all means?

I should imagine it means it’s going to rain.

Not the clouds, Angel. All of it. Everything.

You mean... The meaning of life?

Yeah, I guess.

I’m not sure it has a meaning, not really.

So what are they all doing here?

…‘playthings of the gods.’

You believe that?

After the week we’ve had…

Us too?

To some extent.

And the ducks?

Definitely the ducks.

Angel?

Yes dear?

Why are we here?

It’s warm.

You know what I mean.

Something to do with a plan.

Is this part of the plan?

Everything is.

Angel?

Yes dear?

If a tree falls in the woods…

Yes.

Yes?

Yes.

But you didn’t know what I was going to say?

You were going to say: ‘and there’s no one around to hear it. Would it make a sound?’

And it would?

Yes.

Why?

No idea.

Angel?

Yes dear?

You’re hogging the pillow.

[grim-omens]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Black Books Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley Characters: Bernard Black, Manny Bianco, Fran Katzenjammer, Aziraphale, Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Crossover, Profanity, Probably blasphemy too Summary:

The true story of how Bernard Black acquired his bookshop.

[sponsoredbyanxiety]

oh man you just KNOW our girl ebony would have opinions about this

[saecookie]

Just binged it yesterday and OHMYGOD. I have no word bc I've used them all already. HA. I just can keep screaming if needed.

Chapters: 17/17 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Meet-Cute, Romance, Gentlethirst, lumberjack aziraphale, this sounds wild but trust me, Alternate Universe - Human, Hallmark movie tropes, Pacific Northwest, Falling In Love, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, there was only one wifi, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Disaster Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Yearning, weaponized coziness, just SO cozy, Explicit Sexual Content, eventually, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), Erotic woodchopping, Marijuana, for CW purposes (it is not a plot point), Emotionally significant flannel Summary:

Crowley has one goal: sell the run-down lodge in the Cascades that his uncle left him in his will.

He doesn’t expect to meet someone like Aziraphale, the kind handyman working on his uncle’s property who turns out to be more of an enigma than Crowley first thought.

**

It is done! Thank you to everyone for reading, for your kind words, and for your enthusiasm. It has been a bright spot through these last few months <3

I hope you enjoy this syrupy sweet ending!

[annabellehunt]

Dancing for You —  Update

A new chapter of Dancing for You, titled “The Dance of Lions,” is posted!

http://archiveofourown.org/works/9051856/chapters/25856619

OR

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12286372/42/Dancing-for-You

[raemanzu]

true to form, the informal RPs we’ve been doing to plot The Gospel of Crowley often involve one or both of us going “ouch” more than once :\\\

why are we like this

but don’t worry there’s going to be cute too THERE HAS TO BE -shakes self and cal-

[mygalfriday]

everything i’ve had but couldn’t keep

{ao3}

“I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

Tentative smile fading, empty promises of picnics and elegant dinners hanging in the air between them, Aziraphale gazes at him with quiet regret etched into every soft line of his face. After a moment of hesitation, he admits into the stillness, “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

The words, though quietly spoken, burn through his chest like the holy water Crowley now holds in his hands. They seep under his skin and eat away at muscle and bone until they reach the very heart of him; sinking like acid into his thoracic cavity and aorta, stoppering valves and ventricles until he thinks it might just cease beating altogether. Too fast?Too fast?

By all accounts, he should be elated. Aziraphale hadn’t said stop mooning after me, it’s never going to happen. He hadn’t said you’re a demon, I’m an angel and this is never going to work. He’d only said slow down. It’s the only acknowledgment Aziraphale has ever given him that he actually believes this six thousand year dance is leading somewhere. But the despair quickly stealing over Crowley like a bitter chill is nothing at all like relief. It’s been millennia. How much more slowly can he possibly go? He’d thought they were barely moving already.

Somehow, within the warring cacophony of despair and triumph roaring in his head, Crowley hears the click of the passenger door opening. Before he can stop himself, panic propels him forward. His hand falls on Aziraphale’s arm, curling tightly around his wrist to stop him from slipping out of the car and off into the night. Back to his bookshop to avoid Crowley for the next thirty years. Aziraphale stills, trembling under his grip, and Crowley realizes the angel has been shaking ever since he handed over the thermos full of holy water.

Fuck.

Crowley loosens his grip into something softer but Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, keeping his eyes downcast and his lips pursed in that way he always does when he wants to say something he thinks he shouldn't. Crowley sets the thermos on the seat between them, turning to face him properly. “Angel,” he says gently. “I’ll be careful with it. I promise.” He squeezes his fingers briefly around Aziraphale’s wrist, hoping for a smile or at least a nod of acknowledgement. Aziraphale only shuts his eyes. “You don’t need to worry.”

Aziraphale’s lips curl but it isn't a smile — it’s far too sad and resigned to be called such. With a sigh, he opens his eyes and stares out at the bustling Soho nightlife around them as he says, “I’ve been worrying about you since the 11th century, Crowley. I don’t imagine I’ll stop now that I’ve placed the key to your destruction directly into your hands.”

“I told you, that’s not what I want it for.” Crowley pauses, frowning as the rest of what he’d said registers. The 11th century was when they’d begun their Arrangement, after years and years of Crowley whittling away at Aziraphale’s protestations. A quiet little thrill shoots through him and it’s impossible to keep the bewildered delight out of his voice as he asks, “You worry about me?”

Aziraphale extricates himself from Crowley’s grip with a tsk of his tongue. Mortified, Crowley jerks his arm back to his side of the car and drapes it over the back of the seat in an effort to appear casual. Hell’s sake, how had he not noticed he was still holding him? He clenches his jaw but it’s suddenly impossible to forget, his hand tingling with the memory of warmth under his palm.

Busying himself with adjusting the wrinkled sleeve of his jacket and still expertly avoiding Crowley’s stare, Aziraphale huffs, “Of course I-” He smoothes a stubborn crease in his shirt cuff and makes another quiet noise of exasperation, his brow wrinkling with distress — over his clothes or Crowley, the demon couldn’t begin to guess. “You’re reckless, Crowley.”

Apparently satisfied with the state of his coat, he wrings his hands together in that way that never fails to make Crowley want to cover them with his own. To cradle them close and kiss his knuckles until he forgets what it feels like to be anxious about anything. He grips the steering wheel, struggling with the urge to reach out. He’s been dealing with the desire to touch since the Beginning but for some reason, it’s more difficult than usual to ignore tonight.

“The way you drive this infernal car of yours. The way you do your job, lying on all those reports. But most of all with yourself. The others I may tolerate but the latter I simply cannot condone.” Having worked himself into a proper state, Aziraphale finally looks up and meets Crowley’s gaze. His blue eyes are wide and his mouth trembles. “I want you safe.”

The vehemence — the genuine truth — of that quiet confession knocks the metaphorical breath out of Crowley. They’re friends, of course. Despite what Aziraphale may try to say to the contrary, Crowley has known that for centuries. But to hear that the angel thinks of him when they’re apart — actually frets over his wellbeing — is another matter entirely. And it floors him. Crowley licks his lips, staring unblinkingly at Aziraphale over the rim of his dark glasses. His hands tremble around the steering wheel, longing more than ever to reach for him. To return that confession with a few of his own.

You are the one bright spot in all of eternity.

I’ve loved you since the moment I asked a question and you didn’t smite me. You didn’t cast me out of the Garden. You didn’t tell me to fuck off. You answered me.

If you let me, I’ll keep us both safe I swear it.

Instead, all that tumbles out is a soft, hoarse, “You never said.”

Aziraphale looks away, studying his hands. With the cautious air of someone walking through a minefield, he admits, “I never say a lot of things. That does not mean I’m not thinking them.”

As it dawns on him that they might possibly be talking about something else — something they’ve never dared broach before — Crowley swallows with difficulty. He clears his throat, hardly daring to move lest he break whatever spell has fallen over this stolen moment between them. Whatever has made Aziraphale venture anywhere near the subject they’ve silently agreed to skirt around for centuries. “I worry about you too, you know.”

It’s why he had asked for the holy water in the first place. If anyone from his side ever discovers he’s been consorting with an angel, they’ll make certain he regrets it. And Crowley will have already shown them his weakness. He’d needed an advantage — a weakness of their own to fight against them. He’ll douse all the fires of Hell before he lets them ever lay a hand on Aziraphale.

“Difficult not to,” he says, forcing levity into his voice that he doesn’t really feel. A vain attempt to get Aziraphale to relax his tense shoulders. “You’re always finding a spot of trouble. Wandering into revolutions for a nibble. Befriending Nazi spies. And that time you almost burned at the stake for curing an entire village of the Pox.”

Aziraphale bites his lip, his smile pained enough to resemble a grimace instead. “You’ve always looked after me, Crowley.”

Crowley flinches away from the note of fondness curling around his words, mouth tightening into a thin line. “And let me guess,” he says, bitterness creeping into his voice. “That’s what you’re trying to do right now.”

With a short, terse nod, Aziraphale says with forced cheer, “It’s for the best. I don’t even want to think what Gabriel might do if he ever found out-”

“Sod him,” Crowley snarls. “Self-righteous prick.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hisses, glancing out the car window furtively. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Yeah?” Crowley arches an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, too busy glancing around like the smug bastard might pop out from behind a lamppost in one of his cashmere jumpers to scold him for fraternizing. “Because he could hear you.”

Crowley huffs out a dry, humorless laugh and begins to pat his pockets for a cigarette. He’s been trying to quit but sod that too. Something has to get him through this conversation and it certainly isn’t going to be his dignity. “M’not afraid of him, angel.”

“I know you’re not.” Aziraphale sighs, the tense line of his shoulders finally relaxing somewhat as he turns back to Crowley — apparently satisfied they’re not about to be ambushed by his git of a boss. “But I have to be. For both our sakes.”

Unlit cigarette dangling between his lips, Crowley pauses mid-search for a lighter and asks, “So that’s it then?”

“What would you have me do, Crowley?” Holds folded in his lap, Aziraphale looks at him with resignation in his eyes and Crowley hates it. Hates that sodding Gabriel has him so terrified of the consequences that he won’t even entertain the idea of stepping out of line. He wants to take the angel by the shoulders and shake him until he realizes there is no power in Heaven or Hell that would ever keep them apart if Aziraphale would just tell him that’s what he wanted. Crowley would make sure of it. “Your safety is…paramount to me.”

“And you think I feel differently?” Crowley gives up on the lighter and tosses the cigarette on the dash irritably. He leans forward, eyes wide and earnest behind his sunglasses. “You think I don’t lie awake some nights wondering what might happen to you if Hastur ever got wind of -”

It takes Crowley a moment longer than it should to realize that the rest of his words have been cut short. Stalled in his throat as Aziraphale leans across the space between them and presses their lips together fervently. His mouth is warm and firm and careful against Crowley’s, his gentle hand curled around the back of his black turtleneck to keep him close. Their foreheads bump and Crowley’s sunglasses dig into the bridge of his nose uncomfortably. But Aziraphale is close and smells of old parchment and warm tea; his lips are plump and as perfectly sweet as Crowley had always imagined they would be.

And all the fight abruptly leaves him, seeping right from his bones to make room for the sudden, fierce surge of want that rocks him down to his soul.

For the first time in his life, Crowley doesn’t ask any questions. He can’t even think of any. There is room for only one word in his head. More. He lunges forward with a groan and wraps his arms around the bundle of angelic warmth clinging to him like a particularly ardent ray of sunlight. Crowley nudges him back, shoving Aziraphale into the seat and following after him without breaking their kiss. Aziraphale makes a soft, gratified noise as Crowley climbs onto his lap, long legs straddling his hips on either side. His lips part just so and when Crowley cradles his head between his hands, he slips his tongue into Aziraphale’s lush mouth to taste him.

Oh. Christ. Satan.

Somebody.

If Eden had a taste, it would be Aziraphale. Warm and vibrant. Wild but pure. Safe but untamed. Sunny skies and starry nights. The reassurance of a blazing bonfire on a chilly night, tucked tight under the arm of someone made just for you. The happiness of blind faith. The security of being loved. The sultry-sweet novelty of sin in its oldest, original form. He’s perfect.

And then Aziraphale pulls away, panting hard, and Crowley feels despair fill him. Until the angel lifts a hand and gently tugs the dark glasses from Crowley’s face. He sets them carefully aside and studies Crowley’s bare face, no doubt taking in the naked want in his serpentine eyes. Exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, Crowley feels the sudden need to look away, to hide, to make sure Aziraphale doesn’t see just how much he —

“Beautiful,” Aziraphale whispers, and strokes a thumb featherlight across Crowley’s sharp cheekbone. “I’ve always thought so.”

Crowley stutters, his breath caught in his throat as Aziraphale gazes him with the sort of awed reverence people usually reserve for staring at a Monet in the Louvre. Off balance under his attentive stare, he turns his head and presses a lingering kiss to the palm cupping his cheek. He flicks out his tongue and Aziraphale shudders, breath escaping him in a little gasp.

“Angel, I-”

Threading gentle fingers through Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale determinedly guides their mouths back together and Crowley sinks into it like a warm bath. Which is exactly what kissing Aziraphale feels like — being submerged in the warmest, gentlest water imaginable. Being enveloped, surrounded on all sides and hearing the quiet lapping of the waves as it settles over him. Everything around him muffled and distorted but knowing that the water will carry him and keep him safe. Protected. Kissing Aziraphale feels like drowning with no desire at all to be rescued.

They sink into each other, hands clutching hard enough to bruise and mouths open hot and hungry as their lips slide slickly together. It’s raw and just a bit filthy, teeth clacking together and breaths harsh between them. Six thousand years, Crowley thinks dizzily. Six thousand years of following this angel around, hoping for an invitation to dinner or a few drinks in the backroom of a bookshop, all culminating here right now. In Crowley’s Bentley on a crowded street in Soho, sitting on Aziraphale’s lap as the windows fog.

Aziraphale’s coat is soft and timeworn beneath his hands, gripping mercilessly at the lapels to keep the angel close. He hears no protest over the treatment of his clothing, only soft whines of encouragement as Crowley rises up on his knees to change the angle of their kiss. Devouring Aziraphale with grasping, hard kisses and hoping he’ll carry the feel of Crowley’s mouth with him for days after. That when he prays, every word that falls from his bruised lips will remind him of the sin that made them so.

“Crowley,” he gasps, shuddering between one heady kiss and the next. His hands grip Crowley’s thighs painfully and Crowley relishes the thought of bearing angelic fingerprints beneath his clothes. “This is - we shouldn’t.”

“You started it,” he murmurs, undeterred as his fingers sift through pale hair and his tongue laps at a dimple in Aziraphale’s cheek.

The angel arches into his touch with a whimper and Crowley hisses against the shell of his ear, hips grinding down shamelessly. Aziraphale keens, a helpless, weak noise in the back of his throat. His fingers tighten on Crowley’s thighs and oh yes, that’s good. Balanced against Aziraphale’s sturdy chest, Crowley rubs himself against the swelling hardness in the angel’s trousers and nearly blacks out when Aziraphale bucks into him with a sharp cry.

With ragged breath, he demands, “Tell me to stop and I will, angel.”

Lips pursed tightly together, Aziraphale shakes his head wordlessly. He whines low in his throat as Crowley rolls his hips again, eyes fluttering shut. Crowley stares at him, mesmerized. His mouth is red and kiss-bruised, his cheeks flushed a bright pink, and his white-blond curls sticking up oddly from Crowley’s eager hands in his hair. His impeccable clothes have been rumpled beyond help and his cravat hangs loose and limp around his neck. Crowley feels a hot, dangerous tug low in his belly. What a lovely picture of debauchery his angel makes.

Aziraphale makes a soft, faintly embarrassed sound and regards Crowley almost bashfully through his lashes. And Crowley realizes he must have said that aloud. He’d be annoyed but it’s difficult with Aziraphale looking so flustered and pleased. “Yours,” he murmurs, blue eyes dark. The neon lights shining in through the windows flicker against his pale skin, casting him in glowing shades of red as he smiles softly. “Yes, I think I like that.”

“Ngk.” Crowley closes the gap between them once more, ducking his head to nips at Aziraphale’s exposed throat. The sweet, salty tang of him blooms on his tongue, making his mouth water. He scrapes his teeth lightly across a tendon in his neck and Aziraphale makes that sound Crowley has only ever heard when he’s eating particularly well-prepared crepes. There really is no alternative but to do it again. So he does, teeth grazing sharply over Aziraphale’s skin as he listens to the angel moan.

“Oh. Wicked fiend.” Aziraphale tilts his head, giving Crowley easier access to suck possessive red marks along his throat. Crowley hums as he reaches his collarbone, sinking his teeth in. Aziraphale yelps, hips rocking up to meet Crowley’s of their own accord. His hands scrabble across Crowley’s back, slipping beneath his jacket and turtleneck to touch his bare skin. His fingertips dance along the notches of Crowley’s spine as he whispers reverently, “Darling.”

Crowley goes hot all over at the endearment, bleary with desire as he lifts his head and captures the angel’s sweet mouth once more. “Again,” he hisses, nearly begging into the warm bliss of Aziraphale’s soft lips. “Say it again.”

“Darling,” Aziraphale breathes, his soft hand hot and grasping at Crowley’s back. His eyes are wide and dark just before they flutter shut. His lips find Crowley’s jaw, trailing a line of tender, perfect kisses up to his ear. “My love.” Crowley whines, head spinning. “Mine. Touch me touch me touch me.”

“Anything you want, angel,” he promises, breath hot against his cheek. “Anything.”

Crowley’s hands shake as he reaches for the fastenings on Aziraphale’s trousers. Beneath him, Aziraphale clutches at the leather seat with one hand and the back of Crowley’s jacket with the other, clinging to him like he’ll slither away if Aziraphale doesn’t hold on tight. As though it hasn’t been Crowley chasing after him for six thousand years. As though Crowley could possibly tear himself away even if Lord Beezelbub themself appeared in the backseat with popcorn.

The mechanics of a button are difficult enough when he’s this turned on but with Aziraphale still whispering in his ear and planting wet, eager kisses beneath his jaw, it’s sodding well impossible. Darling, he says again. Beautiful. And Crowley’s favorite — please. He growls under his breath and snaps clumsily. Using up a miracle to unbutton an angel’s trousers. Good thing HR stopped paying attention to his receipts centuries ago or that one might be difficult to explain.

Finally, Crowley slips a hand inside Aziraphale’s trousers and wraps his fingers around him. And the look on his angel’s face when Crowley touches him is worth every single agonizing moment wondering if they’d ever get here. He looks rapturous — mouth dropped open on a high-pitched little gasp, glittering eyes fluttering shut as his head drops back to rest against the seat and expose the bite marks Crowley had left on his throat, hips lifting to seek out more. Crowley has witnessed religious experiences borne with less ecstasy.

He stares, hungrily drinking in the sight of Aziraphale so undone at his hand. There is only a moment in which to savor the ravished vision he makes. The instant Crowley tightens his grip around him and leans in to whisper how utterly perfect he looks, the sound of a car horn down the street blares — bouncing off buildings and echoing around them like an alarm interrupting a particularly good dream.

Aziraphale goes still against him, his eyes flying open with something close to horror. Crowley feels his heart sink into his stomach. If this was all just a very good dream, then Aziraphale is waking up. The moment has been broken and he can feel reality leaking back in. They stare at each other for a long moment, chests heaving and eyes glazed over. As the haze that had fallen over them begins to lift, Crowley pulls his hand from Aziraphale’s trousers.

When Aziraphale bites his lip against a whimper, Crowley swallows. “Angel-”

Aziraphale flinches.

Chastened, Crowley slips awkwardly from his lap. His own seat feels miles away and unspeakably cold.

Several long, agonizing seconds pass in complete silence. Only the bustle of Soho outside the car can be heard — the sounds of traffic, the chatter of oblivious people passing by, the laughter filtering out from a nearby pub. Inside the car, Crowley listens to the sound of his own harsh breathing and wonders what in Satan’s name just happened. His trousers still feel too tight to even move. His chest throbs as though it might burst, like this weak human corporation is suddenly too full of warring emotions to handle another second of containing Crowley within it.

“That was — we shouldn’t have-” Aziraphale clears his throat, a trembling gesture with his hand restoring his clothes to pristine condition once more. As though Crowley had never touched him at all. It might have been more convincing if his cheeks weren’t still flushed or if he’d bothered to erase the marks Crowley had left on his neck. “I do apologize for getting carried away.”

Crowley cannot help the visceral reaction those words bring about, a guttural snarl that betrays him utterly. “For Hell’s sake, Aziraphale. Don’t-”

Don’t ask forgiveness for something I’ll never regret.

Don’t let those holy bastards keep us apart.

Don’t leave me.

He scrubs a hand over his face, glaring at the cigarette he’d abandoned on the dash. Beside him, Aziraphale sits tense and waiting, twisting the ring on his finger round and round. For a long moment, Crowley can only stare. Those soft, manicured hands had cupped his cheek; gripped his thighs like a python; slid up his spine with obeisance; dismantled every single wall Crowley had built between them to protect himself in two seconds flat. Even now, he still burns everywhere the angel had touched.

And Aziraphale can’t even look at him.

Hollowed out and aching in places a demon has no right to feel anymore, Crowley exhales unsteadily. “S’fine, angel.” Aziraphale relaxes marginally at his quiet assurance, as though he’d been waiting for Crowley’s absolution. Funny that, an angel seeking mercy from a demon. Crowley might have laughed if he weren’t using all his considerable willpower to hold himself together. “We’ll forget it. Yeah?”

With a reluctant nod, Aziraphale murmurs, “That might be best.”

Crowley swallows, words falling heavy off his tongue like ash. “Then consider it forgotten.”

“I - yes. Thank you.”

Aziraphale reaches for the door. 

"I could still drop you somewhere," Crowley tries, weakly. A pathetic attempt to keep him close for five more minutes. Satan, he loathes himself. 

"That's very kind," Aziraphale says, and forces a weary smile. The polite bastard. "But actually, I think it might be a better idea if I walk this time."

"Yeah, good. Right then." Crowley watches with his heart in his throat, waiting for him to get out and walk away. He pauses, fingers white-knuckled around the handle. His shoulders tremble and when he turns to glance over his shoulder, Crowley feels a brief, shining moment of hope. But Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, his wounded gaze falling instead to the thermos filled with holy water still sitting on the seat between them.

“Please,” he whispers, sounding pained. “Do be careful with that, darling.”

The endearment falls off his lips with ease, piercing Crowley right in the chest. His vision blurs and by the time he blinks away the sting in his eyes and looks up, the car door slams and Aziraphale is gone. Crowley stares after him, the ache in his chest expanding with every step the angel takes away from him. His lips still tingle with the memory of searing kisses and his skin burns as though Aziraphale’s hands had simply been too holy to touch him.

Numbly, he reaches for the thermos and stows it in the glovebox for safekeeping. He’d promised he would be careful with it, after all. No matter how appealing the idea of cracking the lid and sipping it feels at the moment. He picks up his glasses next and slides them back on. He still feels naked and he knows it will take a few decades at least before he can face Aziraphale again. It will take at least that long to repair and reinforce all those walls the angel had sent tumbling down with a single kiss. Perhaps even twice as much to bury his guilt for lying to Aziraphale.

One lie in six thousand years, he muses. Not bad for a demon, really.

Because no matter what he’d said to reassure the angel, there is no forgetting any of this. Not for all the Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the world. Crowley wouldn’t even if he could. How could he possibly want to give up knowing the taste of Azirphale’s mouth? The pretty flush of his cheeks or the shy, eager stroke of his tongue? The delighted moans in his ear? Why would he ever willingly choose not to remember the sensation of Aziraphale’s tidy fingers stroking up his spine or the solidity of his chest against Crowley’s? The way he’d gasped so beautifully when Crowley sank his teeth into his skin? The memories will burn like holy water for a long time — centuries, even — but given the choice between the pain of remembering or never knowing at all?

Crowley will choose knowledge every time.

[ineffablenarrator]

You know if any of you are into pain there's a devastating fic with (kind of) this premise called A Diamond Sky Above The Titanic.

the only time crowley & aziraphale tried to venture to america was in 1912 but they never made it 

[gigglecoffin]

4 more elfic gofic sims and the other two frum before

shadwer @someluzer ;DD

[eveningstarcatcher]

Let Me Play Among the Stars

Inspired by @gemennair‘s beautiful DTIYS Also on Ao3

The bell over the door jingled and Crowley strode into the bookshop, bag in hand. He ran his free hand through his windswept hair and shrugged off his damp coat.

“Crowley, dear is that you?” Aziraphale’s voice called from the back room, distant.

“Yeah, brought pastries!” He announced, sauntering across the shop, making his way toward the voice.

“Oh, how thoughtful! Perhaps we can enjoy them after you help me with something? That is, if you wouldn’t mind. You are so much better at this than I am.” His voice was lined with frustration and defeat. Crowley stood in the doorway, setting the bag onto the arm of the couch.

“What do you need, angel?” He crossed his arms and cocked his hip, watching with amusement as Aziraphale fiddled with something in his lap.

“It’s my watch. It’s not working again,” he admitted, holding it out to Crowley.

“Just get a new one. This one’s got to be, what, a thousand years old?” He reached out a long, slender arm and took the watch carefully, lifting it to eye-level to observe the damage.

“Not quite that long, my dear.” Aziraphale’s lips were pressed into a thin line as he watched Crowley for a diagnosis of his watch, as much a part of him as his tartan bow-tie and love of crepes.

“You didn’t take care of it. I’m surprised. I thought we talked about this,” Crowley sighed and tossed his glasses to the small coffee table. “I can fix this, but it’ll take a while. Go ahead and eat.” 

Crowley perched himself on the edge of the angel’s usual chair, using the desk as his workspace to tinker with the antique watch. He hunched over, his long form folding in on itself to be closer to his work. His forked tongue was just visible, peeking out of his thin lips in concentration, his hair fell down around his face and over his shoulders, reflecting the light in a sheet of delicate copper strands.

Aziraphale settled comfortably onto the old couch, nibbling at a chocolate croissant and watching Crowley work. His long fingers were gentle and sure, moving carefully and deliberately, like a spider weaving a web of fine silk. He checked the gears and coils, lifting the watch closer to the light to inspect it, furrowing his brow as he worked. His elbows were tucked against his sides, giving him a bit of added stability, preventing his forearms from shaking as he wound the miniscule screws in place.

“What’cha singing?” Crowley’s voice interrupted Azirphale’s dreamy observation, a note of fond amusement playing in his words. 

The angel had been lost in the meticulous movements of his partner, watching his fingertips glide over the antique components as if a choreographed dance. He smiled at the way the sun shone on his face, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the sprinkling of freckles he so adored. He longed to reach out, to run his fingers through auburn hair, smoothing back the stray strands that tickled at Crowley’s forehead.

“What?” He was coming back to reality.

“You were humming. Sounded familiar,” Crowley glanced over with a smirk on his lips.

“I didn’t realize,” Azirpahale apologized. “I do hope I wasn’t bothering you.” He had finished the pastries long ago, absentmindedly nibbling as he watched the demon, then miracling more from the crumbs when he realized that he hadn’t properly tasted the treats.

“S’okay, angel. It was nice. Keep going.” Crowley smiled at the watch as he worked.

Aziraphale once again lost himself, watching the demon work with small, precise movements, and became aware that he was, indeed, humming. He started over, then added the words as they came to him.

Fly me to the moon Let me play among the stars

“Is that… Sinatra?” Crowley asked, sitting up and staring at the angel, head cocked to the side, an amused smile . “Didn’t know you liked him.”

“It is and I do. Very nice voice,” Azirpahale smiled at Crowley, thrilled to still be able to surprise the demon after thousands of years. He had always had a soft spot for the crooner’s love songs, enjoying the strings and horns, the tinkling piano and soft percussion behind the smooth vocals. The sound was much more modern than the classics he usually listened to, but at its core, they weren’t so far removed from each other. The orchestrations, the emotions, the joy that filled his heart when he listened to it.

“I like that one, too.” Crowley turned back to his work.

Aziraphale stood and moved up behind the chair, to watch his partner more closely.

“You’re very good at this.” The angel peered over Crowley’s shoulder, one hand pressed lightly against his back. “Speaking of stars, Is this how you made them?”

“Stars?” Crowley repeated, having lost track of the thought.

“Yes, stars. From the song, my dear.” Aziraphale reminded, his head leaned against Crowley’s lightly, his voice soft against his hair. “Is this how you made the stars?”

“No,” Crowley muttered, still focused, leaning into his angel’s touch. “Nothing like this.”

He carefully tightened the last screw and inspected his work. The watch was now ticking happily, the steady beat of time passing. He held the watch out to for Aziraphale to inspect, and was surprised when the angel instead set the watch back onto the desk and took his hand, gently pulling it to rest against his heart.

“Can you show me?”

Crowley sat up, staring into blue eyes, open and sincere and full of adoration.

“Sure, angel.” He nodded. “Needs to be dark, though.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale wiggled as he dashed around the room pulling blinds down and flipping lights off. 

“Here, let me.” Crowley slowly drew his arms from his chest out to the sides, slightly curved at the elbow, his eyes closed, then swiftly brought them up, his fingers splayed, face contorted in concentration.

In a whoosh of air everything was still and pitch dark. The screeches and beeps of London traffic were gone, the resonant tick of the grandfather clock was absent, and the familiar scent of old pages and ink was missing, replaced by a cool emptiness.

Aziraphale could hear a rustle of wings in front of him and followed suit, spreading his long wings out to the side, shivering at the sensation of the release. His halo began to glow, casting a soft golden light over himself and Crowley.

Crowley made a mental note to do this again as his heart fluttered at the sight before him. Aziraphale looked absolutely stunning illuminated by the golden light of his halo. His blue eyes glittered with specks of gold, the curves of his face highlighted, his lips soft and plump.

“How long have you been waiting to ask?” Crowley asked quietly, staring at his hands, hoping that they still remembered the intricacies of creation.

“Since you told me,” Aziraphale whispered.

“That was ages ago. You waited this long?” Crowley looked up in surprise. The angel was ancient and wise, but excitable and hedonic. It wasn’t like him to wait so long, to deny himself, especially when it was something so small, so trivial to Crowley’s eyes.

“I didn’t want to upset you. I wasn’t sure how you’d react, I know it’s difficult for you to remember before,” Aziraphale took Crowley’s thin hands in his sturdy grasp, running his thumbs along the backs in gentle circles.

“You didn’t have to wait so long. I would have shown you. Not sure I can even do it now.” Crowley shrugged, brushing off the weight of Aziraphale’s loving gaze. 

“I know you can. I also know you would have shown me anytime I asked, but it didn’t feel fair of me to ask that of you,” Aziraphale stared down as he entwined their fingers.

“And that’s changed?” Crowley whispered.

“I think so,” Aziraphale’s lips curved up in a small, sad, smile. “It felt too personal to ask before, but I think things are quite different now, don’t you?” He looked into Crowley’s eyes, shimmering gold in the angelic light, and leaned forward to place a kiss to his lips, gentle and overwhelming. When Aziraphale pulled back, Crowley’s eyes had fluttered closed. The demon’s head was spinning and he needed three deep breaths before he could rejoin reality. He opened his eyes to Aziraphale’s lovely smile and warm glow, aware that the angel’s heart was racing, pounding out waves of love with every beat.

“Stand back, angel,” Crowley grinned at him. Aziraphale beamed and quickly took two steps backward, then a third for good measure. He stood still, his torso included forward, eager to see the former star-maker at work, and dimmed his halo.

Crowley began by rubbing his hands together furiously, his shoulders hunched over himself. He brought his palms together in a quick clap, chuckling when he saw the angel jump in his peripheral vision. He drew his hands apart slowly, curving his fingers into a cage around a tiny glowing speck, golden and warm.

Aziraphale gasped softly and shuffled forward to get a better look, his eyes wide with wonder. Crowley noticed and strode over to him, holding up his hands in offering, so the angel could admire the tiny golden sphere floating between his hands.

“It’s warm,” the angel observed, an awestruck smile across his face, his fingertips fluttering to  hover just outside of the cage of Crowley’s fingers. “Beautiful!”

“Just wait,” Crowley stepped away from the angel and removed his top hand and gently blowing on the orb, pushing it out of his hand. It hung there in the space before Crowley, pulsing and shivering, tossing out sparks as it vibrated and hummed with life.

Crowley stared at it, eyes slitted and narrowed, his head shifting from side to side. His hands were stretched before him, fluttering this way and that, planning, preparing, outlining the project before him.

He let his arms fall to his sides and stared at the slate before him for another long minute, then he began to move. His long limbs shifted and curled around it, gracefully, as if it were a ballet.

He moved on his toes around the orb, his hands pulling colors from the darkness and weaving them around in shades of crimson, bronze, violet, and turquoise. His hands curled and curved around the orb as he moved, teasing the colors into one another, his fingers pulsing with the rhythm of the starling. He pushed and pulled and twisted and shaped as if working with clay.

Aziraphale pulled his gaze away from the captivating sight of work for a moment to appreciate the creator. The shifting colors shone on his face, illuminating his brow, raised in joy, his eyes, bright with purpose, the long line of his nose taking in steady breaths, the broad smile on his lips. It reflected off his auburn hair and seemed to twist into every curl. He was stunning and Aziraphale’s heart soared in his chest at the sight.

Crowley circled his creation one last time, nodded with approval, then swiftly wrapped his hands around it, clapping once more with it between his palms. When he pulled his hands away, the orb was no longer shivering, but glowed with a steady certainty, shifting colors like a kaleidoscope, shimmering. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed, afraid to ruin the moment. “It’s incredible.” 

Crowley stood before Aziraphale, star in hand. He shook it slightly and sparks of gold flew from it, as if it were a firework, beaming as it did.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley nodded and set the star to hover in midair, allowing the angel to get a better look. He circled it, taking in every angle with wide-eyed wonder. The light in his hair transformed it into stardust, the reflection in his eyes gave the impression of electricity crackling behind them in tendrils of lightning, the soft roundness of his cheeks turned into marble, and his pink lips were curved into an “o”, though no sound escaped them, lost in the beauty of the star before him.

“It’s not my best work, but it’s pretty nice.” Crowley smiled, sliding his hand around his angel’s waist when he came to a stop beside him.

“It’s exquisite!” Azirphale praised. “What will you do with it now?”

“Dunno, let it burn out I guess,” Crowley shrugged.

“Oh no, darling, you mustn’t!” Aziraphale shifted forward, out of Crowley’s grip, clutched at his hand, and pulled him closer to his creation. “Do you even know what you did? Look!” Azirpahale pointed and gestured for Crowley to look closer.

“The colors, the shapes, the patterns. It’s all us!” Aziraphale exclaimed, bouncing on his toes in time with the gentle pulses light radiating from the star. “The soft whites and creams that curl like my hair, blues that could be my eyes, sharp streaks of red and copper that match your hair perfectly, and gorgeous yellow that remind me of your eyes. The sharpness and the softness of us both rolled into one being. It’s stunning. It’s love.”

Crowley’s wide eyes moved from Aziraphale’s eager face to his creation, looking closer. He saw them in every detail, moving together, becoming one.

“Do you see it?” Azirpahale clung to his arm, willing him to see it.

“I do,” Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, whose eyes were wet, full of pride and unbridled affection. “And now I know just what to do with it.” He smiled down at Aziraphale and took the star in hand. He twisted it between his fingers, blew a gentle stream of air over it, then brought his hands together, crushing it between his palms.

“Crowey!” Aziraphale cried, hands flying to his mouth in despair.

“Just wait,” Crowley instructed. He rubbed his hands together, slow at first, then faster and faster until he brought them up over his head and pulled them apart, spreading great arcs of stardust into the air. It hovered and glimmered, almost alive, as if the star hadn’t been broken into bits, but had given parts of itself away, spreading its life among each particle it touched. “Why not spread that love around? No use in keeping it all to itself. Rather useless that way, love.”

“Quite right.” Aziraphale’s halo pulsed with faint light, his hands pressed against his chest, a soft grin spreading across his face. “You’re wrong you know.”

“About what?” Crowley stared up at the galaxy of light he’d created.

“It’s exactly how you make stars.” Aziraphale slipped his arm into Crowley’s and stood, pressed against his side.

“No it’s not! Fixing a watch and creating stars are not the same!” Crowley muttered without any heat behind it.

“Oh, but it is, dear.” They stood together, staring at the glittering sky above them. “It’s all in how your work - so carefully, thoughtfully, with precision and devotion. It’s truly a wonder to watch. You’re beautiful, you know, when you work. So deeply invested in what you’re creating. Thank you for sharing this with me.” 

“I’m not done yet, angel.” Crowley stepped forward and blew a stream of air, rotating his torso from right to left, and the stars began to move, circling the room.

“Oh Crowley! It’s like a snow globe!” 

Aziraphale stood in the center of it all, arms extended, spinning slowly, his head raised in laughter joyful and childlike.

“How’s it feel?” Crowley inquired, standing behind the angel and taking him in his arms.

“Feel?” Aziraphale asked, placing his hands over Crowley’s on his stomach.

“To play among the stars. Bet old Frankie is jealous.” He smirked, resting his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Oh, my dear, it’s simply indescribable!” Aziraphale turned in Crolwey’s embrace. They stood chest to chest, watching the stars and each other. 

“I’m glad you like it.”

“So very much.”

“I could take you to the moon, if you want,” Crowley suggested, his eyes tracing the shape of Aziraphale’s lips.

“I think I’m content right here.” Aziraphale leaned in, lips hovering just a breath from Crowley’s.

“Good,” Crowley managed to say before he closed the distance between them, lips colliding and sending sparks into each other.

An angel and a demon stood in a bubble of time reserved just for them and kissed under a galaxy of stars.