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quillyfied · 4 years

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Mega Good Omens Fic Rec Post 5

What up, it’s back!

77 carefully-curated titles for your perusal today! As always, the fics are broken into the following categories: Jaunts through History/Canon, South Downs, Post-Apocalypse, Bus Ride/The Night Before/Heaven and Hell, AU/UA, Just Soft, Touch-Starved/Body Worship/Wings, Bonus, and H/C /Whump/BAMF. I don’t read smut fics but sometimes there are sexual elements to the stories and sometimes you get invested and then suddenly the author drops a smut chapter, so warnings where applicable.

Mega GOmens Fic Rec Post MASTER

LET ME KNOW IF A LINK IS BROKEN OR MISATTRIBUTED AND I WILL FIX IT RIGHT AWAY.

JAUNTS THROUGH HISTORY/CANON

1. Get Thee To A Nunnery – Owenjones (T, the one where Aziraphale is put in a nunnery and needs a bit of a rescue. More or less Ineffable Wives time, but warnings for Aziraphale being forced into a female corporation against his will, that’s pretty icky (three guesses for who the offending Archangel is). Crowley is posing as a little lady known as Julie D’Aubigny, which, if that rings no bells, you should Google her immediately and then go into this fic cackling like I did. Very sweet, a fun little adventure!)

2. Bibliophilia – @wingedspirit (G, the one where Aziraphale has a book nemesis and Crowley always seems to have the perfect book as a gift, what a coincidence. This is so funny, you guys, seriously. We stan ONE (1) oblivious angel in this house. And when Aziraphale finally catches on, it’s so cute, I can’t even. I cannot EVEN. Go read it right now immediately.)

3. The Heart Goes To Heaven, The Head Goes To Hell – Dekkles (T, the one where Crowley has intentions of making an angel Fall and it kinda…backfires. Guys fair warning, this one’s version of Hell is really gross, if you’re squeamish tread very carefully bc WOW it can get a bit graphic. Y’know what’s also gross? The PINING (obviously not gross in the same way but the pining is awfully feelsy and part of it does happen in Hell). Watching this Crawly go from an honestly nauseating portrayal of Hell to watching Aziraphale and kinda awkwardly twitching in his light is so delightful and I hope for more in the future (though maybe less visions of Hell, I will be so glad if and when the fic leaves that place because yikes).)

4. i like this place (it feels spooky) – @asideofourown (G, the one where Warlock manages to convince Nanny and Brother Francis to take him to a haunted house and it’s so cute. You guys. It’s SO cute. You really get a feel for little Warlock’s personality and how he sees things (and he sees ALL). Just a really cute “family” outing, really, and someone gets spooked at the end and it’s not who you think!)

5. Doubt the Stars are Fire – LilithReisender (T, the one where Aziraphale bails Crowley out of prison and they spend time together in an Italian villa. This one has cool history bits, really fun banter, and Crowley actively on the job while trying to pretend he isn’t on the job. It’s a delight, and it’s just getting started! Jump on this bandwagon, folks, it’s great!)

6. The Hellfire Club – @amarguerite (NR, the one where greater measures are taken to make sure Aziraphale isn’t promoted back upstairs. This one is so hilarious, you guys, I can’t even tell you which bit is my favorite. And the cherry on top? Wing grooming! (I can also tell you that something highly unpleasant happens to Sandalphon, if that sweetens the pot for anyone.) If you have a Thing for Crowley and Aziraphale being melodramatic and overacting, then stay put, friends. Also continue reading this list, there’s a few more that’ll catch your eye later on.)

7. The Immortal Look – MickyRC (G, the one where Crowley puts Aziraphale in some kohl and it’s awesome. A written entry for the Prince of Omens DTIYS, and even independent from Prince of Omens this fic is a winner, in my book. Crowley going dewy-eyed over Aziraphale’s looks in any capacity is always My Jam and this fic really goes for it.)

8. Merry & Bright – @peppervl (G, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley go undercover as a married couple in the Regency. You like fem!Aziraphale but don’t see it often enough? SIT DOWN, FRIENDO. Not only does this have a lovely Miss Fell for us to fawn over, but it’s a Miss Fell in possession of a fortune and surely in want of a husband, according to prim-and-proper London, and who better to help her out than one Mr. Crowley who happens to need some help on a temptation? Fun, romantic, and with a cute little twist at the end I shan’t spoil but you should really stick around for.)

9. Putting the Endearment in Dear – @joyandotherstories (G, the one where Aziraphale starts calling everyone “dear” just so he can also call Crowley by endearments. This one is sweet and a little sad and has the softest possible ending, y’all don’t even know. Read it, the point in time where Aziraphale doesn’t have to hold back his mountain of endearments anymore is a sight to behold.)

10. Between the Lines – cyankelpie (G, the one where Crowley and Aziraphale’s feelings are known but not spoken, at least not directly. This one is a historical jaunt where they have a lot of double-meaning conversations (and Crowley is very rightly lost through a lot of it, poor dear), and it aches, you guys, it just hurts. Not finished yet as of this review but WHEN IT’S DONE—I’m sure it’ll be worth it. Hot dang.)

11. No Matter How the Stars Align (They Make Me Think of You) – silentsonata (G, the one that covers stars that Crowley and Aziraphale have met under. Every once in a while there’ll come along a fic that shakes the ground as it walks. I understand the Big Bang events usually churn these out, and there are quite a few on this list, but this fic here? A masterpiece. Pitch-perfect in every way, just a stunner. I want to tell y’all to pay special attention to certain chapters but they all took my breath utterly away and it would be unfair to single any out over the rest, the whole work is a monument. Just beautiful.)

12. Too Wise to Woo Peaceably – purewanderlust (T, the one that’s five times they see “Much Ado About Nothing” throughout history. I love me some “Much Ado,” personally, and this fic knows what it’s on about. Wonderfully romantic and ends with the single most perfect conversation, I swear 2 someone. Hits right in the feels.)

13. Just Another Sword Fight – DemonicGeek (NR, the one that’s a 5+1 about Crowley swordfighting. If you’re here because Aziraphale taking on the role of the swooning maiden to Crowley’s dashing hero makes you, in fact, be the one swooning, say hello to your new best friend. If you like to follow all that up with Aziraphale taking charge when needed, I might suggest building a home here, because ABSOLUTELY that’s what you’re getting.)

14. A Few More Rescues – @poetic----nonsense (T, the one with, predictably, a few more rescues. If the previous fic had you reeling and begging for more, welcome to the buffet, children. These are some really fun rescues by Crowley on behalf of Aziraphale, and they’re unconventional and historical AF (especially the bit with the dragon) (you bet your sweet keister there’s a bit with a dragon). This fic is so much fun and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.)

15. Floriography – Frenchmeister (T, the one where Crowley doesn’t get flower language. The premise is, Crowley slept through a large chunk of the Victorian era, so he doesn’t know what Aziraphale keeps trying to say as they work at the Dowlings’ estate raising Warlock. He does know that the philodendron is a menace, no matter what it’s supposed to mean. Funny and nerve-wracking and so, so sweet.)

16. The Interplay of Illusion and Magic – SoulJelly (T, the one where Aziraphale tries to join a magicians’ society. This one has some delightful history and Aziraphale trying to perform sleight of hand magic to get in a secret magicians club and a surprising twist near the middle, all told; it’s a lot more exciting than I initially thought it was going to be (I was just expecting some fluff and that was not all I got; it’s always a good day when Crowley has to come to the rescue).)

SOUTH DOWNS

17. There goes the neighborhood – @bestoftheseekwill (G, the one where Crowley’s retirement peace is threatened by construction. If you’re here for Crowley wiles, anti-capitalism, and flashes of protective Aziraphale, get ready to take a load off because this is primo.)

18. Teatime Revelations – Cardinal_Daughter (T, the one where God invites Herself over for tea. This one is strained and it’s emotional and it’s all the softer for it. Aziraphale being quiet and protective while Crowley has a come-apart in the face of God is iconic, tbh; pretty sure this fic inspired a lot of my own portrayals of the GOmens God, looking back on it. A wonderful and light-hearted take.)

POST-APOCALYPSE

19. Lose a Kraken, Gain an Angel – MistressKat (T, the one where Hastur has an expected friendship. This fic has everything—Hastur being a sympathetic character, the Kraken, Crowley pining after Aziraphale, the Antichrist, and is hilarious from start to finish. A fun and tonally accurate diversion, please read.)

20. Something Old, Something New – shippityshipship (G, the series where Crowley and Aziraphale are involved in weddings. Short and hasn’t updated in a while but still excellent reading, I find; great characterization, some fun OCs, lovely atmosphere, oblivious pining while everyone else thinks they’re dating, it’s amazing.)

21. The difficulty with disposable demons – @areyougonnabe (T, the one where Eric the disposable demon shows up and it’s a madhouse in Crowley’s apartment. This is a really funny take on what happens to the disposable demons and why they are the way they are, and with the added bonus of driving Crowley up the wall and some mild miscommunications with Aziraphale that are all sorted out in the end.)

22. Care and Keeping – @arcafira (M, T, the series where Crowley is shedding and Aziraphale tries to help. Not rated M for anything violent or sexual, really more of a T than an M but there is a bath scene and a lot of self-loathing. There’s a lot of convincing Crowley to let Aziraphale care for him and a lot of working through Fall-related issues, but it leaves off in a wonderfully hopeful place.)

23. The Clockwork Days – redwinehouse (T, the one where the world’s ending again. There are many fics that have tackled possible sequels to Good Omens and this is one of the more tonally accurate ones, I feel; it’s very tongue-in-cheek and matter-of-fact, and the little twist at the end was a genuine surprise to me. Whack in plenty of mutual pining and a Bentley that has had it up to HERE with these idiots and you’ve got a recipe for a good little story.)

24. don’t leave me here alone – Elvendork (T, the one where Crowley asks for holy water again. This one is a tense argument, right up until it isn’t, and absolutely delectable, really. If you’re a fan of Aziraphale bringing up hellfire to go toe to toe with Crowley on the issue, BUCKLE UP BUTTERCUP, this one is dunking itself into Soft Town with that accelerant to really drive it home.)

25. The Next Time We Wed – seashadows (T, the one where a mix-up leads to marriage. If drunken mistakes and their aftermath is what you’re after, welcome to the party, folks, because this one’s a whopper. Can people pine while being married to each other? The answer is yes. Can it have a soft ending? Also yes. Can it include the mothers of such characters as Anathema and Newt being wonderful characters in their own right? The answer, incredibly, is yes.)

26. You Can’t Un-See A Dog – @holycatsandrabbits (T, the one where Crowley is summoned and there’s shenanigans afoot. I won’t talk too much about the plot of this one bc I don’t want to spoil it but suffice it to say that this one is hilarious and has some especially gratifying Ineffable Husband silent communication at play. If your entire reason for existence, like Crowley’s, is seeing Bastard!Aziraphale at work, then bunk down here, friendos, you’ve arrived.)

BUS RIDE/NIGHT BEFORE/HEAVEN AND HELL

27. Crowley, Big Bad Demon, Can Keep His Cool Around His Crush – @edennovik (T, the one where Crowley…well, see title, and then immediately disregard. Crowley cannot, in fact, keep his cool around his crush. Crowley is doing the opposite of keeping his cool around his crush. Crowley is a ball of anxiety and screaming pining gooey mess and Aziraphale might just like him anyway.)

AU/UA

28. If Not Now, When – @ineffablefool (T, the one where trans café worker Crowley strikes up a conversation with fat pretty Aziraphale. Listen. Y’all know ineffablefool. Y’all know he is a force that cannot be stopped or reckoned with, when it comes to Soft Fat-Postive Asexual Romance. So I do not say this lightly when I say that this is possibly his masterwork. There is a lot of good, good content in his catalogue but the emotional work put into this makes the whole thing stand straight up and resonate. It’s tender and respectful and handles conflicts of gender and sexuality with grace and gentleness and oh no I’m tearing up pls send help I’m DROWNING—).

29. Trip the Light – @summerofspock (M, the one where Aziraphale falls in love first. M for a sex scene near the end of the fic, second half of Chapter 17, so keep an eye out for that if you’re sensitive to it. Oh, y’all. This one goes through canon and a few scenes outside of it and the recontextualizing of those scenes as Aziraphale hopelessly in love and Crowley as oblivious is amazing. Even more amazing: once Crowley finally catches on and then it becomes Aziraphale once again in his role of holding back. Guys. Y’all. My DUDES. I am in the throes of agony. It’s so good.)

30. one love (only for you) – @weatheredlaw (M, the one that’s a vague Snow White AU. It’s truly unfair how poetic and romantic this one is, how lovely. It has fantasy elements and ridiculous vengeful brothers and soft, soft boys in love. A sweet little way to spend an afternoon, tbh.)

31. in the house we remain – @commodorecliche (M, the one where Crowley’s a ghost in the house Aziraphale has bought. M for masturbation, weird ghost sex, and a harrowing backstory for Crowley; if you’re squeamish about sexual things and not good at gauging how to skip them, or if you can’t stand abuse stories, I would pass this one up. Y’all. Y’ALL. So thoroughly upsetting, this one; the horror elements are real but so is the romance and it’s a beautiful balance of the two. What’s wild is how believable it is; it could easily have been a story about Aziraphale just becoming obsessed with and romanticizing a dead person who used to live in his house but it feels like an actual love story, with Crowley learning how to trust Aziraphale, as well, despite their planar incompatibility. The ending is so unbelievably sweet. And there’s art now! There wasn’t, when I first added it to the list! Huzzah!)

32. pop! goes my heart – @areyougonnabe (E, the one that’s a Music and Lyrics AU. E for a sex scene near the end of Chapter 6 that’s a bit difficult to skip, since there’s a couple of relevant paragraphs after it that set up the next chapter, but if you’re up for the challenge, godspeed. First things first: this fic has ORIGINAL MUSIC RECORDED BY THE AUTHOR AND IT’S AMAZING. Music and Lyrics is one of my personal favorite romcoms, and what’s been done with it is not only accurate to the actual music industry, but accurate to the characters, as well. It’s such a fun story, adapted well, and the writing style is just charming. Fantastic!)

33. For the First Time in Forever – @nicnacsnonsense (T, the one that’s a Frozen AU. I am excited for this one, y’all. The adaptation is already so much fun and it’s only going to get funner. Aziraphale as Elsa and Crowley in an Anna-adjacent role (but not actually bc no incest) is amazing, the Olaf stand-in outshines the original, and the emotional toll is already pretty high. Absolutely worth a read.)

34. Sailor’s Omens – NeverNooitNiet (G, the one where Crowley’s a pirate and Aziraphale is his prisoner. There’s a touch of historical homophobia but that doesn’t matter much out at sea, really. If the boys being clever and bickering and also one-upping beloved series antagonists is something you enjoy, welcome to the party, friends. It’s a good old-fashioned piracy romp that’s sure to satisfy.)

35. Pomegranate Seeds – @nicnacsnonsense (G, the one that’s a Persephone and Hades AU with Aziraphale as Hades and Crowley as Persephone. This one has a unique tone and is also romantic as all get-out; throw in genderfluid Crowley, love at first sight, and Aziraphale being a sweetie, it’s a story well worth its salt, imo.)

36. Laws of Gravity – @brightwanderer (T, the one where Aziraphale invents pining for Raphael. Listen. I think we all know at this point that brightwanderer, or Atalan on ao3, has earned her clout as a GOmens fanfic heavyweight. She didn’t NEED to write an awkward and earnest Raphael trying to go incognito as Crowley into the Garden of Eden. She didn’t NEED to write about how incredibly awkward Aziraphale is while heels over halo in love. She didn’t NEED to have an engaging plot and a wonderful twist on the Temptation of Eve and also the most awkward and obvious besotted angels in the universe. But she did. And we are blessed. So go partake.)

37. Incubus!Crowley – GenericUsername01 (G, T, the series where Crowley is a sex demon and we get to see what that means. This fic threads the very specific needle I personally enjoy where sex is an element of the story and has bearing on it, but the story doesn’t have any actual sex scenes in it. I love this writer’s style and where they take Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship; I love the view of Hell in the first bit; I love all of it, really. A+++.)

38. Everyone But You – @summerofspock (M, the one where Crowley is hired to seduce an angel. M for some saucy makeouts and some post-coital afterglow but nothing explicit. If y’all like stories where a conman is hired to do a job and starts to have complicated feelings about it, especially if those feelings are falling in love with his mark, then here you go. It’s amazing as all heck and hilarious to boot; Crowley learning what falling in love is like is always a treat but omg. Poor Aziraphale. And the most DELIGHTFUL resolution, my goodness.)

39. In Mixed Company, or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell – @theoldaquarian (M, the one where Heaven and Hell have a joint corporate retreat every so often and Crowley and Aziraphale are doomed. M for some adult themes but nothing explicit. Y’all. TheOldAquarian must be stopped. They cannot continue to be so funny and engaging. They cannot continue to have the most corporate and hilariously mundane depiction of Heaven and Hell. They are a MENACE who, in the space of one fic, has packed all the pining of the ages in so tightly that when it finally bursts free, my shoulders physically relaxed and my spine uncoiled. This fic in particular is too much and too wonderful. I really must protest.)

40. Loosely Ballroom – marginalia_device, @mortifyingideal (T, the one where Aziraphale is a professional dancer and Crowley is a contestant on a show with him (for American viewers, think Dancing With the Stars). This fic is so good and so funny and so achingly in-character. I love Crowley as the washed-up old star trying to kick his career back up, I love Aziraphale as the put-upon dancer on his last legs, and I love that they’re both the victim of a studio gimmick and then decide that malicious compliance is their best bet. It’s still early in the fic (…at over 40k words wow it’s gonna be a monster and I’m ready), but it’s going to be so good already, I can just tell. There’s already some art for it floating around by naniiebimworks for the interested.)

JUST SOFT

41. Repeat the Sounding Joy – @allonsy-gabriel (G, the one where they decorate a Christmas tree. This is a short and sweet look at what the holidays are like for an angel and a demon post-apocalypse and it’s so adorable, you guys. Crowley having FEELINGS and Aziraphale being fussy about his decorating, it’s just a treat.)

42. The Nesting Habits of Angelus Principalum – @obaewankenope (NR, the one where Aziraphale nests and is gently protective. This fic is quiet and understated and so unbelievably romantic without being over the top about it; it’s a quiet coming together that creeps up on you, much like how the realization of Aziraphale’s nesting habits creeps up on Crowley. A lovely little thing.)

43. we’ll get there fast and then we’ll take it slow – @tonyhawksmovingcastle (E, the one where Crowley and Aziraphale wind up faking a relationship on a couple’s cruise. E for Chapter 7, which is completely skippable without ruining any plot. This one gets a double whammy for both engaging plot and wonderful OCs that add to rather than distract from the story. Fake dating is fun enough but when you’re fake dating and also being wingmanned by well-meaning possibly supernatural sapphics, while also having fun in the tropics, it’s a recipe for a good time all around (at least for the audience). So lovely and sweet and that moment when Crowley and Aziraphale finally get together is magic.)

44. Road Trip Games and Love – rgfalso (T, the one where Crowley and Aziraphale go on a road trip together. This one almost takes place in real time, and has the most intense and emotional back-and-forth while these poor saps try to work out the Thing between them without actually talking about it for as long as inhumanly possible. Of course there are lots of road trip games, and of course those road trip games are a vehicle of conveyance for what they’re actually trying to say, and cue all the misunderstandings in the world. It’s frustrating and cathartic and amazing and the end especially is so, so sweet.)

45. The Most Stylish Wedding of AZ Fell and AJ Crowley – @leapoffaith1489 (T, the one where Aziraphale is determined to discard tartan for the wedding. Y’all. Omg. If relatively low-stakes cute wedding shenanigans are your thing, welcome home. If Aziraphale being pleasantly surprised is your thing, welcome home. If Aziraphale working through minor insecurities is your thing, welcome, truly, home. Featuring a lovely cast of side characters and a soft-as-butter plot.)

46. The Newlywed Game (Not What You’d Think) – @heavenslittlehellion (NR, the one where a game of drunken truth-telling goes a little farther than anticipated. Hello, welcome to the emotional gut-punch fic, you’ve arrived. The only thing that saves this from dunking into the last category on this list with the other h/c and whump fics is how low-stakes it is and how soft it is when they get past the unpleasant bit. People who love theories on what the Fall felt like, welcome to the table.)

47. On the Road to Love – Mizmak (G, the one where Crowley enters a motor rally race with the Bentley, with Aziraphale as navigator. While there’s great fun in Crowley and Aziraphale needling each other, there’s greater joy in their friendship and tenderness towards the other (and asexual bed-sharing fans, rejoice). It’s a fun concept all around and definitely worth the read.)

48. Mr. Fell’s Bookshop ficlets – @holycatsandrabbits (G, T, the series where Mr. Fell has regular customers and they love the place as much as they love its weird and eldritch owner. For folks who love seeing the Ineffable Duo through others’ eyes, this is a fun series to scratch that particular itch, and has spawned a number of spin-off fics, unless I’m mistaken. It’s a relatively low-stakes series, for people wanting something like that these days, too.)

49. Quiet Reflection – @shinyopals (T, the one where they have to duck into a church to avoid demons. If the phrase “spicy Jesus crackers” holds any appeal whatsoever, go read this fic immediately. It’s heartfelt and hilarious and really that’s all you can ask for in a good fluff fic. Also Crowley being held. Really, that’s all any of us want from life.)

50. Deck the Halls – forthegreatergood (G, the one where mistletoe should really not be this hard to get a hold of. Y’all you simply MUST stick around for the hijinks in this one. They are manifold and hilarious. Does it end in makeouts? Possibly. You’ll just have to read it, won’t you?)

51. The Secret Dress – GlitterSkullFairy (G, the one where Crowley has a secret wedding dress. This one is very dramatic and sad…and then Aziraphale pops in. Like with all things concerning these two, it immediately takes a turn from there. If putting Crowley in pretty dresses is a thing you enjoy, have a seat and enjoy the show, it’s a softy.)

52. Well…That’s New – @almaasi (G, the one where Crowley doesn’t realize he’s in love. If oblivious Crowley is more to your taste, this is the one for you. Takes the concept “what if Crowley was in love but didn’t realize it” and runs with it for all it’s worth. Hilarious and sweet and wonderful.)

53. serpent, serpent-bearer – @elsajeni (G, the one that’s about horoscopes. I realize the Soft section of the rec list is for things that are Soft but hhnnngkk you guys. This one is so cute. My heart can’t take it. They’re so gosh darned precious, with their newspaper and their horoscopes and their welcome invasion of each other’s personal space.)

54. If Only You Were Mine – @somethingscarlet13 (G, the one where Crowley gets so drunk he can’t remember who Aziraphale’s husband is, just that he’s married. This is a little sugar shot for your day, folks—short, sweet, silly, and did I mention sweet? It is so worth having a giggle at drunk Crowley’s expense, please do read it.)

55. Cupboard Love – @copperplatebeech (T, the one where Crowley is a cranky snek. I would also highly recommend this for folks who enjoy Madam Tracy, especially Madam Tracy being utterly unaffected by being face-to-face with the supernatural and cooing over things like the wonderful lady she is. Fun and a little silly and a lot adorable.)

56. affirmation, appreciation – pearlwaldorf (G, the one where Aziraphale helps someone in need a little differently than expected. This one has Aziraphale taking on the persona of an interested male party looking to pick up the spirits of a woman on the tail end of a messy divorce and Crowley understanding but still getting a little jealous. It’s so sweet and so lovely, both what Aziraphale and Crowley do for this poor woman and how Aziraphale reassures Crowley afterwards. Top notch.)

57. Forget-Me-Not – @dietraumerei (T, the one where Crowley gets amnesia. Not as dramatic as others, he just loses 200 years and it’s temporary, but it’s ever so sweet, watching Crowley fall back in love with the modern world and be gobsmacked that he and Aziraphale are finally together. There’s a lot of reassurance and tender sweet nothings thrown about and I’m pretty sure I developed a heart condition just from reading this, it’s too good.)

58. They Shake The Mountains When They Dance – @copperbadge (T, the one where Crowley finds Aziraphale’s scar. Operating on the theory that Aziraphale was injured in the War in Heaven and that’s why he clutches his leg and limps when he’s discorporated, this is the sappiest, sweetest rumination on the subject I have ever read. Crowley gets so protective and defensive, and Aziraphale is so gentle in talking him down. On the whole, it’s just wonderful and so, so cute. Omg.)

59. Familiar Care – ginger_mosaic (G, the one where the Ineffable Dads have to take their snabies in for medical help. This comes from the Wiggleverse, which on the whole I cannot strongly recommend enough, but this fic in particular centers around the most delightful OC veterinarian who handles Crowley and Aziraphale’s strange family very well. There’s also a fun twist at the end, so absolutely keep reading to find out what that is. And also, immerse yourself in adorable snake baby shenanigans, because they are the best sort.)

TOUCH-STARVED/BODY WORSHIP/WINGS

60. Rituals (or the Seven Layer Bean Dip Approach to Sex) – SleepySelfLoathing (T, the one where no seriously metaphysical angel/demon sex is super weird. Fans of truly esoteric ethereal/occult mating rituals rejoice, for this is your new home. It’s abstract but no less beautiful for it, I think; the imagery and emotional accompaniment are all lovely, even if they don’t meet conventional human romance standards. You can really tell that it means a lot to Crowley and Aziraphale, the ways they show how much they love each other. A weird and delectable little dish, by all accounts.)

61. Under Pressure – @copperplatebeech (M, the one where Crowley steals kisses. M for sensuality and body worship but nothing too explicit; also could be construed as dubcon kissing, for those of you sensitive to that. Hhhgkk y’all. Crowley thinks he’s being sly getting away with smooching Aziraphale throughout history while they’re both drunk off their rockers but does not count on Aziraphale actually remembering, and then once the Apocalypse is done with and they’re On Their Own Side and Can Aknowledge These Things…well. They do. Crowley is a mess and Aziraphale is a mess and they love each other so much. The writing is so tender and I’m CRYING.)

62. London Calling – forthegreatergood (G, the one with slow-burn wing grooming. There’s so much crammed into this bad boy and it balances it admirably—Crowley’s relationship with Aziraphale, Crowley’s relationship with Hell, Crowley thinking about retirement, Crowley getting preemptively banned from a certain European country for being a pest outside of its consulate, Crowley losing his cool over getting to touch Aziraphale’s wings. Humor, aching tenderness, the kind of longing that feels like a high, quavering violin note, tension and release. A beautiful piece.)

63. Elmie’s Ineffable Fireplace Fics – @almaasi (G, M, M, the series that is completely unrelated except for the physical and also figurative appearances of warm fireplaces. M for sensuality but nothing explicit. The first two are mainly short fluff; the third is a long Regency-esque AU with some gender and sexuality shenanigans on top of Real Danger and Intrigue. True to the writer’s promise, all three fics are pretty comfortable and warm, even if the third has some action and tension. They’re absolutely lovely, imo.)

64. The Hands Applauded (And This Was No Sin) – @ticketybye (G, the one where Crowley as a preoccupation with Aziraphale’s hands. Deals with both touch-starvation and touch-aversity in the same fic and weirdly enough it works. The fic is heartbreaking but it has a good resolution and that’s important.)

65. Moult – @sameoldsorceress (T, the one where Aziraphale molts and Crowley doesn’t. This is typical wing-grooming fare…right up until it isn’t. I won’t spoil the twist but rest assured that there is absolutely a twist. Other than that, it’s supportive and sweet and lovely and lord knows we all could use some of that right now.)

66. never get to heaven on a night like this – RestlessWanderings (G, the series where the Ineffable Wives are touch-starved and pining. The only reason this fic goes here instead of in Jaunts Through History is because especially in Crowley’s side of the story, the touch starvation is so horrifically visceral I very nearly bought myself a weighted blanket out of sympathy stress. They are both so afraid and so desperate for a bit of connection, the pining is absolutely ridiculous. And it helps that there’s worldbuilding there that’s both thematically appropriate and interesting to read. Engendered by lesbianism and catholic guilt, I believe the author said, and in this case what a delicious combination with an absolutely amazing ending.)

67. Strength in Modesty – flandersmare (T, the one where Aziraphale has a secret wardrobe. Y’all. I have a special love-hate relationship with clothes and my body and this fic somehow felt very soothing on both of those fronts. Corsetry is front and center, and it’s all very well-researched and well-presented. The story is so quiet and understated and is really told through excellent sensory details. The ending about broke my heart for tenderness. It’s a double love letter to Aziraphale and to fashion throughout history and I love it.)

BONUS

68. Tales of the Them – @lyricwritesprose (G, the series where Crowley and Aziraphale are the Them’s godparents, too. This is such a fun series, with a lot of stories that are not just funny in bits, but also meaningful. For fans of the Them and people who like stories about children that aren’t dumbed-down or grimdark.)

69. Stans in High Places – @doomed-spectacles (G, the one where there’s someone in the Earth Observation department keeping an eye on Crowley and Aziraphale. Another take on the angel(s) in charge of Earth Observation, this time featuring a singular angel called Grigori, and boy is he a cutie. His friendship with fellow angel Pravuil is also blossoming and sweet throughout, and the amount of innocent cuteness throughout is just spectacular. What an adorable story.)

70. Anthony J Crowley, Retired Demon and AirBnB Superhost – @theoldaquarian (G, the one where Crowley turns his flat into an AirBnB. Told as if reading a comment section, it is hilarious and paints a horrid picture of what interacting with Crowley—and Aziraphale!—is like for normal humans. I can’t give you any more details than that, you are just going to have to read it and laugh your head off about it like I did.)

71. A Guide to Fame for the Enterprising Demon – @asideofourown (T, the one where Crowley writes a book and accidentally becomes a queer icon. This is…so funny. And so sweet. And like most fics where human bystanders try to piece together what’s happening and come away with completely wrong conclusions, it’s utterly charming. You almost start rooting for the internet conspiracy theorists trying to unearth what exactly Crowley is from his (presumably) evasive or strange answers to interview questions.)

72. Hell Of An Angel – WaitingToBeBroken (T, the one where everyone thinks Crowley is a mafia family. This one is funny in a dramatic irony way; the way that every narrator in this is CONVINCED that Crowley is A. a family of redheads that all look eerily similar, and B. extremely dangerous, is entertaining all on its own. It helps that the writing is smooth and the characters are all fairly engaging, too. A fun little diversion for your day.)

H/C /WHUMP/BAMF

73. the only one i want – @qorktrees (T, the one where Crowley needs some convincing. The hurt in this one is real, folks. But so is the comfort. At last steps are taken to assure Crowley of how much he is wanted, of how much his love is cherished and his touch desired. If you cry while reading this, congrats and welcome to the club, we are all miserable touch-starved fools here.)

74. Always One More Time – boughofawillowtree (T, the one where Aziraphale has remaining psychological scars from Heaven. This one is tough, y’all, real tough. Aziraphale has a couple of abusive flashbacks and intrusive thoughts and his anxiety flaring up is a constant, so people sensitive to that should take heed. That said, this is a very healing fic, with a lot of underlying hurt that floats to the surface. But throughout Crowley does his best to be patient and understanding and even with a disagreement, it remains gentle and loving throughout.)

75. Smote and smitten – @nohaijiachi (G, the one where Aziraphale is a badass and we are ALL here for it. Screaming Hastur, briefly-sentient flaming swords, Aziraphale being amazing, and starry-eyed Crowley are all the ingredients chosen to make a wonderful little fic, and we are all grateful for it. What a guy, that Aziraphale.)

76. Nearly Romeo and Juliet – bisexual_dumbass (T, the one where Crowley’s hiding his panic attacks. This one hurts, friends. This one has miscommunications and fear and boundary communication, all while being so tense even the gentlest touch will snap something. It’s got learning to take care of yourself and value yourself and live FOR yourself. It is very important and I hope a lot of you read it because gosh dang.)

77. Pigeon Girlfriends With A Long Preamble – SleepySelfLoathing (T, the one that’s exactly what it says on the tin. This fic has it all: humor! Torture! Terrible humans! Wrathful Aziraphale! Pain and suffering! Tenderness and care! Pigeon girlfriends! The Hurt and the Comfort are present in about equal measure, but fair warning that what Crowley is made to do just before his rescue is more than a little disturbing, both to readers and especially to Crowley.)

#good omens #good omens fic recs #mega gomens fic rec list #mega fic rec list #whoof #probably take a break for a bit #then start work on six and seven's reviews #and maybe start on compiling eight #why do y'all write so much fic #why is it all so good

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - Isaiah 40:31

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: well, shit hits the fan and the end is near.

***

As the boy who was most assuredly Not The Antichrist - but who had nonetheless been their charge for about the first eleven years of his life - walked towards the front door of the bookshop in Soho, entirely unaware of being stalked by a man with a pocket knife, Aziraphale stood in the bedroom of a lovely cottage in the South Downs, not far from the Devil’s Dyke.

He knew it was rather rude, being roughly seventy-five miles away from the place where you happen to have an appointment in about five minutes’ time, but surely it was not too much of an issue, given that they would be right back in the bookshop by crossing the threshold of a rather miraculous door they had installed between the two places. And besides, Crowley had really wanted to show him something.

That something being a luxurious, huge and hugely gaudy canopy bed with gold-plated columns and red velvet drapes that wouldn’t have looked too out of place in Versailles, before revolutionaries took most of its contents to an uncertain fate. As a piece of furniture still occasionally turned up in flea markets, Aziraphale wouldn’t put it beyond the realm of possibilities.

Said bed now occupied the greater part of the bedroom that Crowley had insisted they ought to have in the cottage, against Aziraphale’s suggestion to turn it into another room for his books.

“We already have the loft for those, and the bookshop on the other side of the door,” he’d pointed out. “We need a bedroom.”

Aziraphale, who had actually last slept sometime in the nineteenth century and solely out of boredom while watching an especially poor performance of Troilus and Cressida - in itself far from Shakespeare’s best work, and the lead actor’s lisp had done it no favors - had been slightly taken aback. “But, my dear, we don’t need sleep,” he’d said, getting a snort out of Crowley.

“We don’t need to eat either. So what?”

Aziraphale had to concede he had a point, although he didn’t quite see the allure of laying in a semi-comatose state for several hours while hallucinating the same way he saw the allure of a slice of red velvet cake, and agreed that the cottage would indeed have a bedroom. It was only fair considering the space he had for his books, so that was a compromise he did not regret.

Telling Crowley he was welcome to choose whatever bed he liked himself, however, was something Aziraphale did regret. He knew that Crowley’s taste when it came to furniture ranged from dreadfully minimalistic to unbearably garish, but this - the golden columns, the red heavy velvet - was… a little too much.

“Well, what do you think?” Crowley was asking, looking as proud of himself as he had after moving that golden monstrosity he called a throne right next to Aziraphale’s old trusty armchair in the loft, entirely ignoring the way Aziraphale’s right eyebrow had twitched.

This time, it was the left eyebrow to twitch.

“Well, it is-- rather…” Aziraphale raked his brain for a polite way to put it. “Eye-catching.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Crowley grinned, even prouder. Aziraphale suspected his euphemism had been a little too subtle. “I remembered what you said when I came to save your butt in France.”

“... That I wanted crêpes?”

“That you had standards. French royalty standards.”

“Well, it was not quite royalty level, more along the lines of a noble--”

“This beauty comes straight from Versailles.”

Ah, of course. Of course it did.

“Or, well, not so straight. It went around across Europe quite a bit. But here it is, as you see.”

“Yes. I… I do see.” Aziraphale managed a smile. No harm done, he thought - he didn’t have a habit to sleep as Crowley did, so he would hardly ever need to be in that room at all. He would just entirely forget about that bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

“The mattress is new, clearly. You’ll like it. Real plush.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That sounds nice, but I am not in the habit of sleeping.”

“You should try. Nothing better than some time spent in a semi-comatose state while vividly hallucinating.”

A chuckle. “You’re not making it sound very alluring.”

“Ah, I should up my temptation game. I’m out of practice. When was the last time I tempted you into anything?”

“This morning, actually, you--”

The chiming of the grandfather clock downstairs - a very tasteful eighteenth century clock Aziraphale had long debated whether to move in the cottage or keep in the bookshop - cut him off, and reminded him of… well, of the time.

“I believe Warlock should arrive any moment now - we should head back,” he said, and they did. It looked like the boy might get there before Gabriel popped in to return the book, and if that turned out to be the case… well, Aziraphale really hoped he had enough sense to put the book in a bag or something like it. If not, they may need to have a few words.

There were things an eleven-year-old boy really didn’t need to see.

***

“Ugh, c’mon, they knew I was coming…” Warlock Dowling huffed, taking a couple of steps away from the door of the bookshop which had stayed closed, no matter how hard he knocked. He glanced at the sign in the window; it made just as little sense as it did the first time he read it.

I open the shop on most weekdays about 9:30 or perhaps 10am. While occasionally I open the shop as early as 8, I have been known not to open until 1, except on Tuesday. I tend to close about 3:30pm, or earlier if something needs tending to. However, I might occasionally keep the shop open until 8 or 9 at night, you never know when you might need some light reading. On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed. On weekends, I will open the shop during normal hours unless I am elsewhere. Bank holidays will be treated in the usual fashion, with early closing on Wednesdays, or sometimes Fridays. (For Sundays see Tuesdays). A.Z. Fell, Bookseller

Warlock briefly wondered who A. Z. Fell was, really - the founder? A co-owner? It definitely was not Brother Francis’ name, but he had claimed to be the owner, which was a leap from working as a gardener but not a claim Warlock had any reason to doubt. Brother Francis did not lie, after all. He hated lies and got really cross with him whenever he caught him lying, usually after Nanny-- after Crowley suggested he did.

“Pair of weirdos. Always been,” Warlock muttered, but it wasn’t really a complaint; they were a fun pair of weirdos to grow up around, or else he wouldn’t have tracked them down in London. After checking through the window to see if anyone was in, and seeing, no one, Warlock reached in his pocket for his phone and began looking for Crowley’s number.

Focused as he was on the screen, he failed to notice the man approaching with a hand in his pocket, eyes fixed on him and pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black. On the opposite side of the road Hastur, Duke of Hell, retreated from the mortal’s mind with a smirk and prepared to enjoy the scene with eyes just as black.

***

“... So no, I really doubt the London Dungeon holds prisoners anymore, but it would be an interesting thing to--”

“Silence,” Beelzebub spoke suddenly, stopping abruptly in their tracks and causing Gabriel to almost bump into them and drop the book, something for which Aziraphale would probably be very, very cross with him. He frowned.

“It’s not my fault that they have stopped using the dungeons, if that’s such an issue I suppose we could change plans and--”

“Something’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t you sense-- ah. No, you can’t anymore,” Beelzebub muttered, and looked around with a scowl. “A demon is at work. It was my order that no one was to approach the traitors.”

Gabriel blinked. “Maybe it’s Crowley--”

“It’s not,” Beelzebub all but snarled, staring at someone some distance away. Further down the pavement stood a man that looked… wrong, for the lack of a better word; something not human who made a passingly decent job at masquerading as human, but not quite good enough. Gabriel may not be able to sense demonic or angelic presences anymore, but he could see as much.

“Hastur,” Beelzebub scoffed.

Ah, Gabriel was vaguely familiar with the name - Hastur, Duke of Hell. Not someone he’d be pleased to meet anywhere in general, but seeing him there was especially worrying. He recalled Michael mentioning that out of all demons, he held a particular grudge against Crowley. Was that grudge really so great that he would ignore a direct order from Beelzebub to find Crowley in Soho and… and do what, exactly? “What is he doing here?”

“I’m about to find out. Wait here,” Beelzebub muttered, and walked - no, marched - directly towards the demon. “Hastur, Duke of Hell. What in Heaven are you doing here?”

Their voice caused the demon to recoil and turn his attention away from… whatever they had been staring at on the other side of the road. He was already deathly pale, but he seemed to grow just a tad paler as his gaze rested on a decidedly annoyed Prince of Hell planting themselves before him, arms crossed and clearly looking for a very good explanation why he would defy a direct order not to be anywhere near the traitorous demon that holy water could not destroy.

As he stammered some sort of reply, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the street. A man was walking towards the bookshop coming from the opposite direction, and he was… wait. Wait, he looked familiar - Gabriel had seen him before, a few months earlier, near the church where Daniel’s funeral service had just been held. He’d given him his coat because it was raining and talked briefly with him, and he had found it funny because his name was… his name…

“Noah!” Gabriel called out with a smile, walking towards him. “How are you doing? How’s your--”

The next word - dog? - died on his lips when he got to look, to really look, at Noah’s eyes. They looked no more human than those of the Duke of Hell currently getting a tongue-lashing only a few steps away, and they were fixed dead ahead of him as he kept walking, giving no sign of having heard or seen him. Walking towards the bookshop… and towards a boy fumbling with his phone right in front of it, back turned to them all. Something was off. Something was wrong.

A demon is at work, Beelzebub had said. Gabriel opened his mouth to cry out, to demand that Hastur, Duke of Hell, released that mortal from whatever hold he had on him - but before he could force out a single word, Noah’s hand came out of his pocket and something gleamed in the sunlight.

There was no time to cry out. No time for words, no time to think, no time to demand action from anyone other than himself. Gabriel knew there was one thing he ought to do now, one thing only. Ever since finding himself without plan or purpose, choices had not always come easy to him - the terror of choosing wrong often paralyzing him. But this one came with no effort: it was no choice at all. As a dark shadow fell on a boy he didn’t even know, Gabriel dropped the book he had come to return, and ran.

“NOAH! STOP!”

Noah did not turn, but the boy did. He lifted his gaze from his phone to glance over at Gabriel, clearly confused - then his confusion turned into alarm when Gabriel suddenly grabbed his arm and yanked him away.

“Hey! The hell?” the boy yelled, just as the knife descended on the spot he’d been standing only an instant before, narrowly missing the back of his neck. He tried to pull away from Gabriel’s grip, turning to call out for someone to get that madman off him - and froze when he finally saw the man standing behind him, eyes all black and lips pulled back in a snarl, swinging something at him.

Somewhere in his brain, he registered it was a knife. He tried once again to scream - mom, he thought, but if he’d managed to force out his voice he probably would have said something more along the lines of ‘shit’. Gabriel, from his part, didn’t try to speak again; he could tell Noah was beyond hearing him.

So he yanked the boy back once again, and threw himself between him and Noah. The result was, all things considered, extremely predictable.

Four and a half inches of steel buried themselves into Gabriel’s gut with a wet sound that went almost entirely unheard. There was a sense of heat, the pressure of a handle against his flesh and, at first, no pain. Gabriel found himself staring straight into pitch-black eyes for a moment before the pupils shrank to a normal size again, revealing the human eyes, light blue and filled with confusion. Somewhere behind Gabriel, the boy screamed and turned to bang on the door of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

People around them stopped walking to turn, not quite having caught up what was going on but slowly getting there. On the other side of the road, a panicked Duke of Hell disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as the Lord of the Flies turned to see what the commotion was about.

Gabriel tried to speak, to call out for Beelzebub - don’t hurt him, he didn’t know what he was doing - but a gurgling sound was all that left him, and something dripped down his chin.

“What…?” Noah muttered, blinking at him, and looked down. “Oh-- oh God, oh Jesus Christ, oh shit-- !” he cried out, voice high and panicked, and staggered back with the knife still in hand, dislodging from Gabriel’s flesh with another wet sound.

Blood came rushing forth, coldness set in, and so did pain. Gabriel’s knees folded, and he hit the ground just as the bloodied knife did. Noah stepped back again, shaking like a newborn calf.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry-- someone call an ambulance, I’m sorry, oh God…!”

Don’t bother calling out for God. They don’t answer. Not for me.

“Gabriel!” Beelzebub’s voice filled his ears, drowning out all the rest. There was a hand on the back of his head, lifting it, and he opened his eyes again to see them looking down at him, wide-eyed and scared in a way he had never seen them.

And Gabriel was scared, too, filled to the brim with the most primal, human terror - the most ancient sort of despair known to man. He suddenly knew why even Yeshua had faltered that night in the Garden of Gethsemane, pleading to escape the fate before him and avoid what he knew was unavoidable.

I don’t want to die.

He tried to speak, choking on his own blood. Somewhere behind him, a heavy door was thrown open and Aziraphale’s voice reached him as though from miles away.

“Warlock! My boy, what is-- oh. Oh dear, what…?”

“What the Heaven is going on?” Crowley’s voice was a couple octaves higher than usual, and suddenly there was silence, time itself stilled; the crowd all around them, Noah, even a bird flying past right above them remained fixed in time like so many statues. The boy was talking frantically to Crowley and Aziraphale, but Gabriel was unable to pay his words any mind. His gaze remained fixed on Beelzebub, and on Beelzebub only.

“Heal me,” he choked out. He felt cold all over, even with the wound itself throbbing in heat and pain the way the wounds on his back had, the day his wings were torn off. “Please.”

“Hastur will pay for this, he-- I-- of course, you idiot, be still--” their hand hovered above the blood-soaked shirt, and suddenly they hesitated. Their gaze found Gabriel’s, and held it. “... Sacrifice,” the Prince of Hell murmured.

“What…?”

“You sacrificed your life for another. That’s it. It’s your ticket back home, Gabriel.”

Home. Back in Heaven, where he belonged. Not quite in his old position - a mortal soul - but still, home. Except that… except that if he returned there as a mere mortal soul...

“No,” Gabriel wheezed. “No. I can’t. I-- would never-- be able to leave it-- again.”

“You never wished to leave it in the first pla--”

“Never see you-- again--” Gabriel coughed, and let out a weak groan at the excruciating pain. He could taste blood in his mouth, feel it down his throat, pooling down on the pavement around him; he felt his strength draining away with it. The back of Beelzebub’s free hand wiped some of it off his chin; the other still cupped the back of his head.

“... You will die either way in the end. You do not wish to reside in Hell and I will not force you.” Their plan of leaving behind Hell for good seemed to be far from their mind now. “This may be--” the Prince of Hell paused, and let out a shaky breath. “This may be your best chance, Gabriel.”

“No. Not now. Not yet,” Gabriel managed a smile. His vision was growing blurry. “I will take… all the time I can get. With you.” However little it may be. Such short life spans, but I will make it worth it. I must. I only get one shot. “So don’t-- let me die-- yet.”

For a moment Beelzebub only stared, their hand hovering above his wound. They swallowed, and opened their mouth to say something - only that someone else spoke first. Aziraphale.

“Oh, oh dear, what a dreadful mess-- Gabriel? It’s all right, hold on, I will heal you--”

“Keep away from him!” Beelzebub buzzed furiously, shooting a glare at Aziraphale, at Crowley, at the boy who was currently glued to Crowley’s side, staring with wide eyes at the scene before him and at the crowd frozen in time. The angel reared back, but did not give up.

“I mean to help him. Heal him.”

“I can heal him myself!” the Prince of Hell snapped, and pressed their hand on the bleeding wound. Pain shot up Gabriel’s body and he ground his teeth, waiting for relief, for healing, for the end of suffering… but none of it came.

Beelzebub pulled away a now bloodied hand, taken aback, struggling to comprehend what they were seeing. “It’s… it isn’t working. It won’t heal.”

Gabriel closed his eyes, despair sinking in his chest.

No. It cannot be. Not now, God, please. Don’t do this to me. Don’t let me die now that I have learned to live. Don’t take them from me again.

“... May I try, Lord Beelzebub?” Aziraphale spoke again, ever respectful, but the hesitation in his voice made it plain that he didn’t think they could succeed where Beelzebub had failed. Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, and felt something trickling down his temples.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why--

GABRIEL.

That voice, in the back of his mind and yet everywhere. Gabriel hadn’t heard it in such a long, long time, but hadn't forgotten it. His chest shuddered in a gasp, and he tried to speak again, to respond to the call - whether to cry, to beg, to curse he didn’t know. Before he could force out a single sound, another voice rose. Very familiar and decidedly concerned.

“Uuh, angel? Any idea what that is?”

“What-- oh. That might be our cue to move out of the way. Move away-- you too, Warlock, move back, my boy…”

What…?

Gabriel opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. Precisely above him, the blue of it was gone; clouds of blinding white had gathered in a circle, and within that circle was only light. The air around him seemed to crackle, and he knew what that meant. Gabriel tried to speak, to warn Beelzebub, but he could only cough up another mouthful of blood. On his tongue, he could now taste something else.

Ozone.

From a distance, once again came Aziraphale’s voice. “Lord Beelzebub, you ought to let go and--”

“No.” Beelzebub’s grip on Gabriel tightened, vicious and desperate at the same time. The air crackled, the clouds swirled, and Gabriel’s vision began to fade. His hand weakly gripped their jacket, but he was unable to do anything else. Beelzebub’s face was but a blur, but ah, their grip was unyielding. His eyes slipped shut, his head rolled against their chest.

“I refuse to let go. God cannot tell me what to do and neither can you.”

Don’t take them from me again. Please, please, please--

“Brother Francis, what the hell--”

“We’ll explain later, my boy - step back now, cover your eyes - don’t look, Crowley, make sure he doesn’t look--”

The crack of thunder covered his next words, filling the world, drowning out all noise. Gabriel felt the grip around him tightening, heard Beelzebub choke out something that sounded a lot like ‘you idiot’, and he opened his eyes.

And then there was only light.

***

In the instant before lighting struck, three things happened in quick succession.

First, Crowley pulled Warlock’s face to his chest to make sure he wouldn’t be blinded as many mortals had been before Heaven learned to somewhat tone it down; second, Crowley turned his back to the scene to avoid looking himself, and shield the boy while he was at it.

And third, Aziraphale’s wings unfolded to shield them both.

There was no heat, which was rather typical of Heavenly things: light without warmth, utterly unlike the darkness and heat - humid heat rather than raging flames, but all the more uncomfortable - that Aziraphale had experienced in his first, and hopefully only, visit to Hell.

Shielded by Aziraphale’s wings, Crowley kept his eyes tightly shut behind his glasses and Warlock’s face pressed against his shirt for several more moments after the last echo of the deafening thunder faded.

“Is it safe to turn, angel?” he asked, while Warlock kept muttering against his shirt a litany of words that mostly sounded like ‘what’, ‘the’ and ‘fuck’, in the order.

This time Aziraphale didn’t bother to make a mental note of talking with the boy about his language. Aside from being relieved the boy had not been stabbed, turned into salt, incinerated, blinded or deprived of his sanity, Aziraphale suspected they would have different, more pressing matters to discuss very shortly. “I’ll check. Don’t look yet,” he replied, and finally looked back.

The crowd of mortals was still around them, frozen in time, unscathed and unaware. The clouds were gone, quick as they had come - but there was a sphere of light before him, crackling with electricity where Beelzebub and Gabriel had been until moments earlier. In that light, there was… something. At first Aziraphale couldn’t make it out, but as he stepped closer and the light began to dull, he could see something all right.

And that something was a pair of folded wings.

At first, Aziraphale thought he must be looking at the wings of a demon and wondered how Beelzebub could survive the full might of the Lord; then, as the light pulsed and faded little by little, he realized that was not it. The wings were not the pure white of angels, but neither were they midnight black. Deep brown with a golden sheen, mottled with darker brown, black, specks of white. The wings of an eagle.

And they did not belong to Beelzebub.

One last crackle of pure energy, and the pulsing light dissolved. Aziraphale worked his jaw a moment, mouth dry, before he finally called out.

“... Gabriel?”

The wings shifted, and slowly parted. Gabriel was kneeling on the pavement, eyes blinking open as though he struggled to comprehend what was happening. In his arms, held tightly against his chest, was the Prince of Hell; their eyes were screwed shut as though they were waiting to be smited still, but they were in one piece - shielded from the full might of God by the Archangel Gabriel himself, who seemed to be just now beginning to process precisely what had transpired.

“What…?” he muttered, and the sound of his voice caused Beelzebub’s eyes to snap open. They pulled back from his chest, on their knees themselves, and looked up at Gabriel - and at the wings spread behind him. They opened their mouth to say something, closed it, opened it again.

“You have wings again,” they finally said. “But they don’t look like--”

Gabriel didn’t so much turn to look at them. “You are all right,” he muttered, and cupped their cheek with a long breath, smiling widely. “Thank-- whoever there is to thank, you’re--”

Beelzebub’s hand grasped the collar of Gabriel’s shirt before he could say another word, and yanked his head down in a sudden kiss. It was definitely not something Aziraphale had expected to happen and neither had Gabriel, by the looks of it, but he seemed… far from displeased. Actually he leaned into it rather enthusiastically, arms slipping around the Lord of the Flies’ waist.

Aziraphale stepped back, feeling just a touch awkward.

“Angel, is it safe to look or no--” Crowley finally spoke up, and turned without waiting for an answer. A rather unwise move, that. His gaze fell on the scene before him, and he let out a groan. “Uuuugh! No it’s not safe, not it’s not, for Satan’s sake it’s seared in my brain now, why didn’t you warn...”

He turned again and took a few steps away, rubbing his eyes beneath the glasses. Warlock, on the other hand, remained exactly where he was - eyes shifting slowly between Gabriel’s brand new wings and Aziraphale’s own, still in full display.

“... Brother Francis, I don’t mean to be rude or anything,” he finally said. “But what, pray tell, the fuck.”

“Well…” Aziraphale hesitated a moment, knowing he couldn’t count on Crowley stepping in for an explanation for at least another ten minutes, busy as he was trying to jab his eyes out of their sockets. In the end, he said nothing and turned to survey the scene.

Time stood still and so did every single living being in sight, including the man who had wielded the knife, a horrified expression frozen on his face. Gabriel and Beelzebub didn’t seem to plan on letting their mouths part ways anytime soon, still on the very spot where Gabriel had nearly bled out to death minutes earlier. A few steps away, in the middle of the road, was Aziraphale’s antique pornography book.

With a sigh, Aziraphale went to pick it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure to hide the cover from Warlock’s sight.

“I believe,” he finally spoke, “that we all could use a nice cup of tea right about now.”

***

"But those who hope in the Lord shall renew their strength. They shall soar on wings like eagles; they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not be faint." -- Isaiah 40:31

***

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#good omens #ineffable beurocracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #warlock dowling #winging it

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aughtpunk · 5 years

Text

White is Not the New Black

Crowley woke up feeling weird. Like, weird weird.

He laid in bed a good three hours just trying to find the best way to describe said odd feeling. Like if someone spackled a crack with whipped cream and for some unknown reason it worked. Like a completely boneless adorable kitten that kept slipping through his fingers. Like floating safely on an inner-tube in the middle of a stormy ocean. Like stepping on dew-covered grass knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no red ants for miles around. It felt like the time Warlock decided to bake cookies using marshmallows and kool-aid mix. It felt, for reasons Crowley could not comprehend, a bit like Aziraphale.

So of course Crowley decided to ignore it.

Crowley was an expert at ignoring his feelings. He should be, considering he’s been doing it since before The Fall. There was nothing with feelings per say, it was just they tended to get in the way of things. Feelings made it hard to do evil. Feelings compelled Crowley to save children, to save Aziraphale, to save those two bloody unicorns, to save Aziraphale, he was thinking about Aziraphale again, he was thinking about Aziraphale and that odd feeling in his chest only got worse.

“Shutupshutupshutup.” Crowley muttered to himself as he watered his plants. He opened his mouth to snap at them only to find that nothing would come out. It was as the feeling was forming a wall between him and his usual projected self-loathing that morning. Crowley fought down the staticy sensation and gave being mean to his plants another shot.

“You,” He said pointing his finger at a particular irritating Norfolk Island Pine, “you can do better! Don’t make your needles as sharp! Stop looking so smug for being mistaken for a Christmas tree! There better not be a single dropped needle on this floor or, or,” the words scratched at his throat, unable to escape but unable to settle as well, “or I’ll gift you to Aziraphale this Christmas! And you know he’ll go full Victorian on dressing you. He’ll use candles. Real candles.”

That got the Norfolk Island Pine to stop looking so smug.

(Crowley was rather proud of himself for the sudden popularity of the Norfolk Island Pine. He had convinced humans it would be a perfect Christmas plant, what with it being vaguely pine-ish and having the word Pine in its name. In reality the Norfolk Island Pine was possibly the worst plant to have around the holidays. It was a tropical plant that needed high heat and even higher humidity with multiple waterings a day and frankly had no business being in a cold dry climate. Because of this they tended to drop dead the second they left the store. The fact that once it died the dried pine needles became as sharp as rose thorns but three times as long was just an added bonus.)

Crowley rubbed an odd spot on his chest. Mentioning Christmas had only made the odd feeling grow feelers and wiggle about. Maybe he just needed coffee. Or a drink. Or Aziraphale.

Don’t think about Aziraphale.

Evil, he decided, he needed to go do evil. That would fix this right up.

***

Being evil didn’t help.

It did cheer him up in that the-misfortune-of-others-is-hilarious sort of way, but it did nothing to get rid of the feeling in his chest. In fact, the feeling felt as if it was growing. He couldn’t rid himself of the mental image of it being this multi-limbed fuzzy insect lodged in his chest. Right between his lungs, he decided. Just this spider-wasp-scorpion thing clawing at his internal organs. In a metaphorical sort of way, of course.

After an afternoon spent causing traffic jams and making people forget their significant other’s birthdays, Crowley knew there was no use putting it off any longer. He had to go see Aziraphale. Not that he didn’t want to see Aziraphale! In fact he felt totally the opposite way. Ever since they toasted to the world Crowley’s only desire was to spend more time with Aziraphale. Possibly all of his time. He never wanted to leave his angel’s side and that was a problem because there was no way Aziraphale wanted the same.

This was Aziraphale! The dear angel who spent a decade re-reading every book he owned because he quote ‘didn’t feel like going out’ end quote. Crowley knew that Aziraphale would be sick of him hanging around within days. Yes, they were best friends. Yes, they had chosen each other over Heaven and Hell. But that didn’t mean Aziraphale wanted Crowley to hold his hand and never let go.

The odd feeling wasn’t love. Crowley knew this because he had felt love for Aziraphale since Eden. He could feel it still as he drove over to the bookstore. His love had no odd descriptions attached beyond the usual overwhelming yearning for returned devotion. Not a single insect leg or boneless adorable animal to be seen. Just love. Simple, pure, unrequited love.

The bookstore was closed of course. Crowley could count the times he had seen it open on one hand (He would have been able to even if he got two fingers cut off before the count). That didn’t stop Crowley from opening the clearly-locked front door and walking in. The shop knew better than to keep Crowley out.

“Angel?” Crowley called out as he entered the shop. Even after all of these weeks there was always a funny twist in his stomach when he came to visit Aziraphale. This feeling, unlike the love and the squirmy feeling that current reminded Crowley of a bowl of ice cream covered in stale pieces of candy corn, was one of dread. The fear that Crowley would find the shop burning once more and his angel missing for good. Crowley had managed to convince himself that the reason he visited Aziraphale so often was to check in on things, and not because it was the only way for that fear to die down.

Crowley was very, very good at ignoring his feelings.

“Crowley! You’re just in time! I need your help with this.” Aziraphale popped out from between the shelves holding what must have been someone’s lost smartphone. Yes, a lost smartphone that just so happened to have little angel wing stickers on the case. The white case. The sparkly white case. Oh no.

“Oh no.” Crowley groaned, “Angel, where did you get that? Why did you get that?”

The angel beamed with happiness even as he kept his eyes glued to the screen. “It was Miss Device’s idea! This way we can keep in touch with each other in case anything happens! I already have the numbers for Adam and all of his friends, too. We really must go visit them some day. Pepper, the girl who killed War, she’s trying to explain how I can set up a twitter account and I thought oh, Crowley helped make that, I should ask him--”

Aziraphale finally lifted his head up enough to look at Crowley.

He froze on the spot, causing the phone slipped right out of his hands and land on bookshop floor with a muffled thud.

(Luckily the phone liked the angel stickers so much it refused let its screen crack.)

“Uh.” Crowley cleared his throat once the silent went on a beat too long. “Angel? Aziraphale? You okay?”

Aziraphale didn’t respond right away. His eyes were wide with shock, his lips parted, and he looked one loud noise away from passing out on the spot. “Crowley,” he finally managed, “Are you okay?”

Crowley almost lied out of habit, but the feeling stopped him again. Well. If anyone knew about weird feeling it would have to be Aziraphale. “No? Kinda. I feel...off.”

“Off.” Aziraphale echoed.

“Yeah. Like, like there’s something in me that shouldn’t be there.”

“I see. What does it feel like?”

“Like if someone glued fake fur to a balloon and inflated it in my chest.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond to that.

“And the balloon is filled with those little sphere things that grow when you put them in water.”

Aziraphale closed his mouth.

“What the hell are those called, anyway?”

Aziraphale took a few steps forward.

“I’ve seen them used for growing bamboo.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale finally said once he was within arm’s reach of his dear friend.

“I should try that sometime--”

“Crowley, show me your wings this instant!”

Crowley didn’t even think about questioning Aziraphale. He did as he was told, unfurling his wings for the first time since Almost-End and giving them a good flap to stretch them out. A few feathers shook loose, as they tended to, sending bits of white fluff flying across the shop floor. “There? Happy? I know, they’re stunning, I know, but that doesn’t--”

Bits of white fluff.

White fluff.

White.

Crowley spread his wings out wide enough to circle around him and Aziraphale.

White. They were white. Pure, brilliant white feathers sparkling in the bookshop’s dim light.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s shaking hands within his own and said in a hoarse whisper. “Crowley. That weird feeling you’ve been experiencing is holiness.”

***

“Fuck.”

Crowley laid on Aziraphale’s couch, waiting to see if anything would happen. When the feeling--the feeling of God’s Grace--didn’t go away, he decided to experiment a little more.

“Fuck. Shit. Arse. Arsehole. Dick. Prick. Fucking shitting arshole prick cu--”

“Crowley, cursing isn’t going to make you re-fall.”

Aziraphale placed a nice hot cup of tea on the small side table next to the couch. Not close enough to imply that Crowley had to drink it, but close enough to let the demon know the option was there.

No, Aziraphale reminded himself, not a demon anymore.

He was still kicking himself for not noticing the second Crowley stepped into the shop. Demons didn’t give off the same energy as angels. In fact, they absorbed it. Standing around a pack of demons was spiritually akin to getting one’s shoelace stuck in an escalator. Crowley’s pull just happened to be weak enough that Aziraphale stopped noticing it after the first few thousand years. At most all it did was given Aziraphale the heads up that Crowley was somewhere in the immediate area. But now?

Now Crowley was burning.

The ex-demon (that was easier than thinking of him as an angel) was absolutely crackling with holy energy. It was probably strong enough to give everyone in Soho a lovely day. Maybe even powerful enough for them to find a fiver in an old jacket pocket! Aziraphale hadn’t felt such pure holiness since...well...since before. Before it all.

Crowley sat up and removed his sunglasses. “What about my eyes? How do they look.”

“Still very snake-like.” Aziraphale said, which was the truth. Unfortunately the truth also required him to keep going. “But they’re less yellow and more um, gold.”

“Gold.”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“In a...um...golden-angel-halo sort of way.”

Crowley promptly fell back onto the couch. Aziraphale waited for him to say something, anything, but when it was clear Crowley wasn’t going to say a word Aziraphale did his best to fill in the silence between them.

“It must have been the whole saving-the-world thing that did it. Too much good all in one go. And frankly I don’t see why you’re pouting about this! Isn’t this good? Isn’t un-falling, ah, isn’t rising exactly what all demons strive for? Don’t you feel...better?”

Silence.

“You told me falling felt like having a part of you violently ripped out. That demons aren’t filled with evil, they’re filled with nothing. Absolutely empty! You said, and I quote, it feels like slowly bleeding out for eternity! That you spend the first thousand years on Earth simply getting used to the pain!”

“I was drunk.” Crowley finally replied.

“Drunk means you were telling the truth.”

Crowley let out a deep sigh before rolling onto his back. “Drunk means I was melodramatic. Falling didn’t hurt that much.”

“But it did hurt, didn’t it?”

Crowley didn’t answer that.

“Does it hurt now?”

“Hasn’t hurt in ages, angel. Decades. Not even sure when it faded. Just realized one day it was...gone.”

Aziraphale sat down at the other end of the couch, just far enough to let Crowley’s feet dangle in peace. Crowley was lying. He knew if he pressed Crowley would not only tell him the exact day but the exact moment down to the millisecond. Not that Aziraphale needed to do that. He already knew the answer. “The church.”

Crowley stared up at the ceiling above. “Yeah. After the church.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure when his hand moved onto Crowley’s ankle, or when he begun to soothingly trace a circle against his friend’s skin with his thumb. Funny. He had always dreamed of what life would be like if Crowley was an angel. If they were on the same side since the very beginning.

(What Aziraphale nor Crowley realized is that they had been on the same side since the beginning. Their side was formed the second they stood side-by-side on the Garden’s wall and made small talk. God had looked down upon them and said oh, oh this is new. This is interesting.)

“Do you really hate angels this much?” Aziraphale said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“What? Aziraphale, angel, course I don’t.” Crowley said as he finally sat up. “It’s just that it’s, well, it’s wrong. All of it feels wrong! It’s like, it’s like there’s always been this balance, right? You being all goody-angel and me being all, all demony-demon! It, it worked, didn’t it? Six thousand years it worked fine! I mean, humans go on about having a bloody angel and demon on their shoulders, right? No one ever goes oh no I’m in a terribly difficult situation, better consult the angel on my shoulder and the angel on my other should who is just like the first one but dresses in black. But not his wings! Nooooo, can’t have an angel with black wings. Gotta be white! Perfect bloody bone-bleached wings! Only pretty clean doves allowed in Heaven! Noah never would have accepted that olive branch if it was being held by a damned raven.”

Aziraphale stared into Crowley’s desperate now-golden eyes, his heart ready to burst from his overwhelming desire to help his dear friend. Yet at the same time thought over everything Crowley had said with a fine-tooth comb. He knew Crowley better than himself. He knew the snake always had a terrible habit of showing his hand. He also knew that sometimes Crowley was just...Crowley.

“Crowley. Darling. Are you upset because white wings ruins your aesthetic?”

“They bloody destroyed it!” Crowley shouted as he threw up his arms in defeat. “White wings! Six thousand years of black going with everything and then I get white wings dropped on me like a damn missile! Do you know what white wings go with, angel?”

“Cream and tartan?”

“Nothing in my bloody closet, that’s what!” As if to punctuate the point Crowley outstretched his wings again and pointed at them as if saying ‘see?’. And as much as Aziraphale hated to admit it Crowley was right. The white wings didn’t go with Crowley’s normal attire at all.

Aziraphale struggled internally with his centuries of British politeness. “Now Crowley, they’re very...well maintained. Impeccable grooming as always, darling. All the feathers are pointing the right way. Yes. Very good wings.”

Crowley sunk into the couch. “That bad?”

“You look like a salesman's half-hearted costume for an office Halloween party.”

“You don’t have to rub it in, angel.”

Crowley drew his wings close to his body, using them to create a feathery barrier between him and the rest of the world. Aziraphale had seen him do it many times, usually after humanity had done something awful or when a TV show he really liked ended. The worst part was that these sulk sessions could last months, if not years. Aziraphale had to do something to shake his now angelic-snake friend out of it before it got bad.

“I have an idea.”

Crowley peered at him through his feathers. “Good idea, or bad idea?”

Aziraphale thought it over carefully in his mind before settling on “Stupid idea.”

***

It was an immensely stupid idea. So stupid that if any of their human friends were around, yes even the children, they would have sat the angel and slightly-different-angel down and explained why this was a stupid idea. Why it wouldn’t work. That feathers don’t work that way. Ink doesn’t work that way. That the world didn’t work on cartoon logic. But they weren’t there, which meant Aziraphale’s stupid idea worked perfectly.

“There! That’s the last one!” Aziraphale stepped back with brush in hand to admire his work. The ink had soaked through Crowley’s feathers, turning them that lovely shade of endless void they used to be. “Now we just have to wait for it to dry--”

Crowley snapped his fingers.

“--or you could be an impatient child and miracle them dry. Really, Crowley?”

“Just because I’m all holy now doesn’t mean I’m into any of that patience is a virtue nonsense.” Crowley stretched his wings up and out, their feathers once more the color of the space between the stars. He twisted his wings as best he could, marveling at the way the bookshop’s dim light danced across the feathers. “They’re perfect, angel! Course we’ll have to do touch ups whenever new feathers come in but that’s a small price to pay for fashion. What do you think, uh, Aziraphale? You okay?”

Aziraphale stood there, brush still in hand, his lip trembling the way it always did when he was upset. “Crowley. Are you really okay with this? Being...one of us?”

Crowley took the brush from Aziraphale’s hand and dropped it into the large ink pot on the floor. “It isn’t like I’ve never been an angel before. Besides, I’m not with,” he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of heaven, “them. We’re on our own side, remember? I’m not with Heaven as an angel the same way I wasn’t with Hell as a demon. I just got to get used to this...holy-feeling.”

Aziraphale removed his cotton gloves and let them fall to the floor. “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

“It feels like someone handed me a baby lamb wrapped in a blanket and told me that if I drop it I’ll die.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Crowley shoved his hands as deep into his jacket pockets could go before mumbling “Yeah it’s alright, I guess.”

“I’ll just have to be a little bit more of a bastard to balance everything out.”

They smiled at each other, as they always did, right within arm's reach yet so far away. There had always been that barrier between them even as they stood side-by-side at the end of the world. A barrier that, in roughly thirty seconds, both men would realize wasn’t there anymore. Crowley reached the realization first, most likely because of those long dangly legs of his.

“I’m not a demon.”

“Yes, Crowley. We’ve established that.”

“I’m an angel.”

“Yes, Crowley.”

“Aziraphale, we’re both angels.”

Crowley may have reached the conclusion first, but Aziraphale was the first one to move. He closed the distance between them, happy to find that Crowley was already leaning down enough to welcome his angel with a kiss. When the world didn’t try to end again they followed it up with a second, a third, and then quickly lost count in the double-digits. They spoke between the gaps, neither man willing to let go long enough for proper dialog.

“I was afraid--”

“I thought we couldn’t--”

“What if Heaven found out--”

“What if you Fell--”

“What if it hurt you--”

“What if your saliva counted as holy water or something--”

“That’s not how it--”

“Doesn’t matter, not anymore--”

“I love you--”

“I love you so much, angel--”

“You can’t call me that anymore now that you’re,” Aziraphale suddenly pulled away, his eyes wide, “oh fuck, you’re an angel. If you’re an angel that means Heaven--”

“--Will find out.” Crowley said, slightly annoyed that the kissing had to stop for a bit. The second this conversation was done, however, they were going right back at it. “And Hell. Bugger all.”

Aziraphale reached up and tugged on Crowley’s jacket enough to pull him back down for a softer kiss this time. “Maybe we should beat them to it with an official announcement?”

“Angel, you got that right-bastard look in your eyes.” Crowley laughed, the holiness in his chest mixing in with the rest of his love. Once combined they settled in naturally, allowing the odd feelings to finally pass. “Another stupid idea?”

“Better. This idea is hilarious.”

***

There were angels missing in Heaven.

Gabriel flipped through the ledger again, as if the missing names would simply magically reappear. Oh look, those couple hundred names were just hiding in the index! Nothing to worry about here. No angels going AWOL and seemingly vanishing from Heaven’s gaze for good. But no matter how many times Gabriel went through the old ledger not a single missing-angel name popped up. The worst part was that it wasn’t like they fell because their name would have been scribbled out like the rest of the demons.

He paused mid-flip as an absolute terrible thought occurred to him. Some people thought Gabriel wasn’t smart, or a bit thick, or any other number of phrases that meant he wasn’t the brightest angel. This was only partially true. He--and many other angels--may have been clueless when it came to Earthly matters, but were very sharp when it came to celestial matters. That was why Gabriel returned to the first page of the ledger and began counting the scribbled out demon names.

Two hundred and seventy-five were missing, the same amount as the missing angels.

Gabriel closed the book with loving care before pressing it against his face to muffle his screams. He found screaming very therapeutic. He couldn’t really curse at God as that was a big no-no, but he could scream to the universe at large about that damned angel and that double-damned demon and their damn-damn-bloody-damned ineffable plan and--

Gabriel’s scream session was cut off by his holy smartphone going off. He could scream at whoever was on the other side, he thought. Even better! Gabriel answered the phone and was just about to start bellowing when the person on the other end cut him off.

“GABE! WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!”

Beelzebub. Great. His eternity wasn’t going bad enough. “Beez--”

“DO NOT CALL ME BEEZZZZZZ!”

Gabriel took a deep breath before continuing with “Beez, if this is about the missing names in the ledger I’ll have you know I had nothing to do with it, Heaven had nothing to do with it, and if you actually sat down to read the thing you would see that there’s just as many angels missing as demons--”

“I didn’t mean that! I meant the pizzzzzzzza party!”

“The what?”

***

“The Pizzzzza party!” Beelzebub sunk down on their throne, phone in one hand and slice of pizza in the other. “Hell is full of pizzzza!”

There was a beat of silence on the other end before Gabriel replied, “What like, just lying around in piles or--”

“No! There’s, there’s tables! And streamers! Balloons! There are balloons here, Gabriel! In bright cheery colors! And there’s this one really long table full of different types of candy and and ice cream it’s supposed to be a, a,” Beelzebub lowered the phone just enough to shout “Ligur! What did you say it was called?”

“An ice cream sundae bar!” Ligur shouted back.

“An ice cream sundae bar!”

“Hold up, didn’t you tell me that Ligur was dead?”

Beelzebub shrugged even though they knew Gabriel couldn’t see it. “He showed up right before the trial. Said he just stopped being non-existent.”

“I got better!” Ligur shouted again.

(Of course Ligur was better. When Adam said he was going to put the world back together he meant it. That included any and all demons killed over the course of the week. There were also a lot more bees and whales than before but Adam figured no one would notice.)

“Anyway!” Beelzebub snapped, “No one down here did this so it must have been one of your lot!”

“My lot?! If you think any of ‘my lot’ would sully themselves with pizza and ice cream--”

“No but your lot is more likely to use their powers to create a pizzzzzza party large enough for all of Hell because they thought it was nice or something!”

“I am insulted! I will have you know there’s not a single angel up here who would waste even a drop of mercy for ‘your lot’ and you know it!”

“Well if it wasn’t me, and if wasn’t you, then...who…” Beelzebub let their voice trail off. Much like their counterpart, Beelzebub was not stupid. But they were a fly, and sometimes it took their brain a bit of buzzing around before landing long enough to connect the dots.

“Fuck me.” Beelzebub said the exact same time Gabriel said “For fuck’s sake.”

It was at that moment Hastur popped out of the milling crowd of Hell and said “Hey boss? Ligur found a cake and uh, I think you need to see it.”

“Of course there’s cake.” Beelzebub said as they shoved their phone back into their pocket without bothering to hang up (Butt dialing was an invention of Hell after all). They wolfed down their slice of pizza disturbingly quick and followed Hastur through the crowd, eager to get this over with. If you asked why Beelzebub was impatient they would say something about needing the time to plot against this grand insult against Hell and all of its demons. They would not under any circumstances say because they wanted one of the cake’s corner pieces before a far less worthy demon claimed it.

The crowd parted as Beelzebub swept through, giving them a clear path to this mysterious cake. Beelzebub was slightly disappointed to see that it was round, therefore meaning there were no corner pieces to claim. In just a few more minutes Beelzebub would be even more disappointed when they found out it was an angel food cake. But at that very second all they could focus on was the sprawling script written across the cake in flowing gold-frosting letters punctuated with a tiny angel wing on both sides.

He’s mine.

- A. Z. F.

***

Back in Heaven Gabriel didn’t hear Beelzebub’s frustrated scream on the other side of the phone because he was too busy staring at a sticker.

He had no idea how he missed it during his numerous searches through the ledger. Whoever had placed it in the ledger did it in a way that it covered a name that could have been angelic or demonic scribbled-out. It was absolutely hideous. A mess of holographic rainbows and sparkles designed to catch the light of Heaven at just the right angle to annoy Gabriel with its glare. The sticker also so happened to be in the shape of a black and red snake wearing sunglasses.

Gabriel couldn’t even find it in himself to scream.

The door to Gabriel’s office opened as Michael stepped in with rather puzzled expression on his face. “Gabriel, I apologize for interrupting but I just got word from my informant that there’s been a massive miracle performed in Heaven and Hell and I wanted to speak to you about--”

Michael stopped talking. Odd.

“About…?” Gabriel asked as he finally tore his eyes off the garish sticker. Michael was staring at him. “About what?”

No, he thought, Michael wasn’t staring at him. He was staring up and over Gabriel’s shoulder. Dread pooled in Gabriel’s stomach as he turned around in his heavenly office chair to see what was behind him.

There, right on the back wall above his desk, was a large portrait of The Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Mankind, Boyfriend of That Angel We Don’t Talk About, and a General Royal Pain in the Ass, Crowley. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, shooting double fingerguns to make it absolutely clear that he was far cooler than anyone looking at the painting. Aziraphale was there too, pressed up against the serpent’s side with his head propped up on Crowley’s shoulder. And there, under the painting, was a shining golden plaque with a single line engraved across its surface in a style that Gabriel didn’t know, but any Earthbound human would recognize immediately as comic sans.

ANGEL OF THE MILLENNIUM - ANTHONY J CROWLEY

Gabriel didn’t bother to muffle his screams this time.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #risen crowley #Aziraphale/Crowley #aziraphale #crowley #look #I've seen so many Fallen Aziraphale fics #and not a single Risen Crowley #So it's time to fix that #In an extremely silly way

3K notes · View notes

thegoodomensdumpster · 5 years

Text

I WATCHED GOOD OMENS IN FRENCH SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO

and it wasn’t that bad. Here are my thoughts, barely edited as I wrote most of them while watching the show.

EP 1

OK i like god’s voice so far

possibilité d’embarras gastrique is a good formulation, I wonder if it’s the same in the book ( I think I kinda need to read it in french now...)

aghghdhgs « primo-délinquants »

of course subtitles don’t match the audio for a variety of technical reasons but when you get things that have very different underlying meanings i find it… not good This one about Crowley being evil / a demon : subtitles : « c’est ton travail » - « it’s your job » audio : « c’est dans ta nature » - « it’s in your nature » i mean dang

crowley sounds like a little shit asking az about his sword

« T’AS FAIT QUOUA » - he just loses his shit (kinda giving me some le coeur a ses raisons vibe)

ok crowley sounds very nerdy when he tries to explain that he took down the phone network, i think i actually like this voice acting

ligur sounds… very suave (im a little ill at ease)

crowley getting called mon chou by satan freddie mercury is a thumb up from me

i see the part where aziraphale speaks japanese wasn’t dubbed over and we can still hear michael sheen. it’s a bit disturbing considering french aziraphale has a higher pitched voice (and he sounds soooo much more anxious than sheen, give this angel a xanax )

“sandwich bœuf cresson” ( beef and cress sandwich ) deirdre really who makes this kind of sandwiches

im being reminded that the chattering nuns prepared little cut outs for their explanation about the antichrist switch… such dedication to useless crafts (it made me laugh on my first viewing and it’s still funny to imagine that some of them either ordered or built these things themselves just so they could make this two minutes long presentation for the most important act of their satanic nun careers)

retire-toi vil démon infernal, créature des abysses XD i swear az doesn’t sound even remotely convinced when he is saying the « get thee behind me foul fiend » line in french, it’s just too over the top for credibility, it sounds like it’s straight out of some super intense dnd session

they still can’t say bouillabaisse (which, like, weird because french, but still valid). nice touch is crowley couldn’t say soupe de poisson (fish stew) either and said poupe de soisson (sish ftew)

warlock mah boy how can you be a teenager and not like dinosaurs

c’est un dinosaure un nullosaure plutôt - apply burn heal

La façon dont warlock s’est exclamé « C’EST NUL » m’a fait penser au nain de naheulbeuk

the english version has nothing on french speaking aziraphale for the second hand embarrassement during the magic tour. it’s over 9000 i literally hid my head in my jumper when he was presenting harry the bunny. Horrible experience, 0/20, would not recommend

EP 2

oooh agnes has a lovely voice !

why is young newton having such a quality dub for the three sentences he has to say

dick turpin’s name is jesse james (tbf dick turpin is not known AT ALL in france, i discovered him reading good omens)

shadwell is pure chaos (as expected). No particular accent for him though, the chaotic energy was probably enough. Would have made me laugh if he had like, a chti or a marseilles accent.

aziraphale is so fucking stressed out by crowley’s driving i thought he was gonna explode

« tu es un gentil garçon » => « you’re a nice boy » said az to crowley DANG THAT’S SO INFANTILIZING AZIRAPHALE YOU’RE TALKING TO A DEMON FROM HELL NOT TO PINOCCHIO

ARGH FIRST MON ANGE OF THE SERIES i’m hit straight in the heart

anathema’s mom doesn’t have a spanish / latino accent at all when talking in spanish…. why...

dog being called toutou is definitely adorable (it’s basically « doggy » but way cuter imo)

tickety-boo has become ça gaze. that’s valid. it’s corny but i still use it unironically from time to time so ... i stan

EP 3

« je répands la fomentation » « i’m here spreading foment » « quoi tu fais des crêpes au froment ?????? » « what you’re making crêpes with wheat ??? » love the fact that we shoehorned in one more ref to crêpes

az called crowley mon cher camarade, unintentionnal communist propaganda ftw

« pas de repos pour les… bah, pour les bons » « no rest for the… good » – az was so deflated about the ineptitude he realized he was saying, he felt zero percent commited to his sentence

i was wondering how they would play aziraphale not being able to speak french in the bastille and they opted to have him stutter a bit and say to his executionner « excuse me i’m anxious » XD

« vous êtes le 999e aristo à mourir par mes soins. Mais vous êtes le premier en costume beige » « you’re the 999th aristocrat I’m going to kill, but the first one in beige attire » yeah i guess now that az isn’t english anymore his most noticeable feature is his cream aesthetic

« c’est au cas où ça tournerait en eau de boudin » « j’ADORE le boudin » => « in case it all goes pear shape » - the literal translation featuring food in french is « turning into black sausage water ». I don’t know what pear shaped inspires to english native speakers but the mere mention of boudin always make me giggle, it’s such a funny word and such a funny food

OH !!! no terrence rampa for the tv series, we’ve got anthony J. rampa. Rip terrence petit démon parti trop tôt :’(

« tu roules trop vite pour moi rampa » SERIOUSLY i know we can still infer « rouler » (here as in driving, but literally rolling) as a metaphor for their relationship but you could have said TU VAS TROP VITE that would have been so much better argh

has anathema got an emergency stock of potteries to break in case of emotionnal crisis ?

« Rampa, un démon très futé, il m’oblige à redoubler d’effort » « crowley, a very clever demon, he forces me to make double the amount of effort » oh so admitting you’re making an effort there aziraphale ? :))))))

dang i really want to know how shadwell said that major milk bottle died because not only did he die in combat but aziraphale’s reaction is a bit intense, it must have been quite a tale (this could be a crack fic prompt : «The Epic Tale of the Death Of Major Witchfinder Milk Bottle, by Sargent Witchfinder Shadwell» )

des sorcières et des phénomènes sorciéreux x)

CROWLEY CALLED AZIRAPHALE DUCON ?????? EXCUSE ME ????? #NotMyCrowley #CrowleyWouldNeverDoThat #CancelAnthonyJRampa2K20 => ducon would be an insult, the gathering of du and con, con being a very nasty but common swear word, and associating it with du- makes it extremely patronizing. it’s like « absolute pathetic digraceful moron +++ ». thanks i hate it *frowny face *

EP 4

l’apocalypse c’est pour aujourd’hui juste après le goûter : it could be translated as « apocalypse is scheduled for today right after tea time » except that « goûter » is not quite tea time but rather the little sugary snack kids take when they come back from school and that most adults drop out of (i haven’t and i’m sure az hasn’t either). thanks aziraphale for having exclusively food related notion of the time because tbh same

ligur has no right to be this sexy between ariyon bakare and his french voice actor that’s just not allowed

radio crowley’s voice vs french ligur’s voice, who has the sexiest voice : FIGHT

(jk french agnes nutter’s voice is by far the sexiest)

gender neutral doesn’t ‘quite’ exist in french but pollution has been assigned a female voice actress and masculine pronouns (i’m saying it doesn’t quite exist because officially we have no gender neutral, but it’s a serious wip among lgbt+ circles to the point where it’s started being used in a few medias)

hastur « en attendant qu’un plombier vienne » / « while waiting for a plumber to come » does hell have a special plumber unit or do demons have to call on human plumbers for their pipes damages ? Dang hastur having to call a human plumber for hell’s plumbery is another damn good writing prompt for a crack fic

Michael is called Michel in the subtitles but Michael in the audio *shrug emoji*

EP 5

to get a wiggle on has become « il faut qu’on se remue les fesses », literally « we need to shake our butts » like, yes, se remuer les fesses is a common expression to say « we need to act in order to get things done » but it really casts the image of people shaking their booty to some music and obviously crowley thinks the same Weirdly enough I have almost nothing to say for that episode. Sorry. But we’ve discovered most voice actors and actresses so far and no bit of dialogue really struck me as worth discussing or pointing fingers to mock it.

EP 6

« on va BROUTER quelques derrières » - « we’re gonna lick some butts » OK THIS IS UNQUESTIONNABLY FAR SUPERIOR IN FRENCH THAN IN ENGLISH you thought LICKING butts was good ??? you really thought that ???? AZIRAPHALE HERE SUGGESTS TO GRAZE BUTTS. TO NIBBLE THEM. TO EAT THEM. TO. MUNCH. ON. THOSE. BUTTS!!!! not just licking, guys. This is as serious step beyond licking. (oh yeah he should have said « botter » instead of brouter btw, which is really just kicking, fyi)

« moi je crois en la paix, pétasse ! » wow, language, pepper (fyi i think « pétasse » is far far worse than « bitch » even if it means roughly the same, pétasse is almost never used while bitch is rather common, so it’s a swear word +++)

Dagon sounds like she’s got a nasty cold. #GetDagonIbuprofen2K20

I can confirm that Crowley offers Aziraphale to not just stay at his place, but to move in with him. « tu peux t’installer chez moi si tu veux ». omg they were roommates.

Bad translation strikes again : i don’t know why, but the french dub doesn’t have the « tickety-boo » / « ça gaze » being referenced as Rampa / Aziraphale is being knocked down, which is… a real mistep. It was narratively significant and I’m quite mad the translators missed it.

The Jesse James explanation from Newt has become very nonsensical, instead of the neat and to the point pun « wherever I go I hold up trafic » we’re getting a circonvoluted « because it’s a crime to mechanic’s diligence ». I’m not judging that one too hard, I have no idea how to make it better, and that’s probably how it was translated in the book as well thirty years ago, but it definitely doesn’t have the same impact. On the other hand, it definitely IS a very bad joke that doesn’t even deserve a chuckle, so Anathema’s embarassement really matches the audience’s (aka mine).

OVERALL :

I wasn’t convinced by Crowley… I mean, Rampa’s voice at first, but as the nerdiness showed up it really grew on me. I still think that french dubs have often problems with some voice inflexions every here and there, and for instance in Rampa’s case it was when he was annoyed or frustrated ( at the Globe when complaining about horses and Shakespeare’s plays that aren’t comedies, and also when discussing Azirphale’s magic tricks, it’s like… there is a step between having the right amount of grumpy complaining and overdoing it that is overlooked. It’s overacted, it should have been a bit quieter imo. I don’t mean to criticize voice actors too hard either but as an audience watching french dubs this is a very recurring problem and it always feels off to me. It’s actually one of the main reasons I avoid french dubs whenever possible.)

I have a hard time judging Aziraphale’s voice dub because it clashes so much with both the idea I had formed with it when I read the book and Sheen’s delivery that I just… kinda filtered it. It was too high pitched for me, and too anxious (though for this last point I must admit it could be funny at times, but I’m not fond of this character portrayal). The rest of the cast was rather good, nothing to complain about. There wasn’t anything stellar either, but everything that needed to be conveyed was and it was professionnal. It was also very homogeneous, no voice really struck me as being way too bad or way too good compared to the others, so it was really consistant.

So I don’t have much to complain about overall despite a few wonky translations here and there, BUT there is one thing I felt very robbed of : Crowley calling Aziraphale « mon ange » happens only once, when giving a lift to Anathema, and I’m almost certain they translated it that way because otherwise the joke about Anathama mistaking them for a couple wouldn’t work. So, they were forced to make it that way. The rest of the time Crowley calls Aziraphale « l’angelot », and despite being literally translated by « little angel », it feels sarcastic more than anything else ( the « L’ » in front of « angelot » is part of the reason why, it creates some distance, the other reason being that this word in itself has a very corny vibe and people being affectionnate to each other wouldn’t use it as a term of endearment). So, that’s a shame.

I like the English dub much much MUCH better than the French, but the french wasn’t nearly as bad as I was expecting it to be. The voice actors and actresses were quite good, the dialogues mostly faithful and endearing despite a few really missed steps. It really had its moments. Props to brouter des derrières, that one was fantastic.

#good omens #french #french omens #tv omens #my stuff #meta #review #long post #text post #i hope you found this entertaining :)

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new-endings · 4 years

Text

chicken

crowley’s very cautious and wary about their newfound freedom, what with upstairs and downstairs leaving them to their own devices for the first time. he’s torn between savoring and basking in aziraphale's time and attention without the constant need to look over their shoulders or assuage the angel's fears about being seen together--

but also has that tentative anxiety that bubbles up inside him. he knows how he feels. he's felt it since the wall of the garden and had known its name since rome.

he loves aziraphale.

desperately.

but every time he's come close to pry those feelings out into the open, aziraphale (quite panickily and abruptly) denies, denies, denies.

and crowley understands. he always does and he will always go at aziraphale's pace. he never wants to be the one to spook the angel away from him for good. sure, aziraphale always comes back into his life one way or another, but after all this time--

he's not sure if he's ready to have his heart thrown back at his face again. not when there's literally nothing stopping them from being more other than aziraphale himself.

and then it appears. one day, out of the cold, grey sky, right in his apartment.

a chicken.

("it's a rooster, crowley, just look at its lovely comb!" "you’re telling me it’s a cock, angel. but it looks more like a prick if you ask me.")

and it refused to leave crowley alone.

crowley knows it's some kind of satanic punishment from downstairs. no matter what he does, no matter how many crashes he makes at the M25 to simply lose it, the bloody thing won't go away.

and the worst part?

it's completely smitten with aziraphale.

aziraphale, naturally, is delighted with its presence in return.

crowley warned him against getting too close to it; downstairs might be trying to spy on them through its beady little chicken eyes.

aziraphale chides him and says that the chicken doesn't even feel evil. not a whiff of fire and brimstone on it. meanwhile, the chicken-- rooster-- is more than content to make a nuisance of itself in aziraphale's bookstore while crowley visits.

naturally, it makes itself right at home on crowley's favorite sofa.

"i could roast it in some fire and brimstone," crowley mutters, ignoring the high-pitched squawk that follows. "that'll teach it."

the chicken also does this unnerving and completely annoying trick where if crowley's silently admiring the angel-- something he's done for millennia with or without the glasses-- it would do these soft little peeps and trills that completely ruined his angel-watching when said angel would look up from his book and coo at the nasty little bird.

the thing almost looked smug.

"you're not jealous are you dear?" aziraphale asked him once after the third-- no fourth-- time.

yes. "of what? being the colonel's next victim? ‘fraid not, angel."

the bloody thing started crowing obnoxiously at that, fluttering restlessly.

"oh dear, i think you've offended it."

"good. the feeling's mutual."

---

crowley adjusts. or at least, he does somewhat.

it becomes routine: wake up to the incessant clucking, make a spot of trouble out of habit, and saunter his way over to the angel's bookshop, the fluttering thing in tow. there, it would spend the day nestled either in his favorite spot on the couch--

--or the Worse alternative: nesting itself right there in the angel's soft, plush lap

crowley feels a twinge of envy before deciding it was too embarrassing to be jealous of a chicken of all things. still, he feels the need to at least warn aziraphale: "careful there, angel. wouldn't want bird shit all over those ancient trousers, would you?"

to which aziraphale would only roll his eyes and pat the chicken adoringly on the head. "you wouldn't do that, would you little dear?"

the thing would chirp sweetly and crowley’s mood sours even further; fine. the damn thing can have the sofa.

and when it gets late and the emptied bottle of wine was making all sorts of strange and funny suggestions in his head and making aziraphale's cheeks redden so prettily, crowley decides it's best to go before--

--before...he's not sure.

before he does something he regrets, he supposes, now that the alcohol has been (unpleasantly) miracled out of his system. so with that, he bids aziraphale farewell for the night.

the chicken is squawking again and crowley's not sure why but all he knows is that it's much more tolerable now that he's sober.

it’s a great distraction, all things considering. distracts him from important questions that he should be focusing on.

like whether or not aziraphale has been making subtle advances at him: like asking crowley to stay longer if he'd like, sitting closer to him, touching him more regularly.

but crowley's being-- skittish. he doesn't know if he's imagining these things or if aziraphale even knows what he's doing. maybe for aziraphale, these are friendly things that he's only now indulging in. crowley knows how cold and sterile heaven is now; they're not known for their soft and friendly comforts.

and crowley should feel honored that he wants these things from him. feels trustworthy and comfortable enough to ask these things from him

and crowley is--

but he wants more. wants it with such a frightening intensity.

in a way, he's almost grateful for the clucking nightmare. its drawn aziraphale's attentions away from...whatever it is he's trying to do.

crowley knows he can’t put it off forever-- nor does he want to. he’s just...not sure he’s ready to yet.

and he certainly wasn’t ready that night, after they share a rather lovely day that ended rather disastrously.

he can’t say for certain whether it was the wine, the stories, or the memories they shared; it could have been the laughs, the smiles, the closeness too. but two things were certain of that night: crowley got ahead of himself and he nearly kissed aziraphale square in his lovely mouth.

nearly.

and the thought-- the very possibility that aziraphale would push him away after doing so-- scared him so much that he wrenched himself away almost violently

(and in doing so, completely missed the heart broken and frustrated look on aziraphale's face)

he leaves in a daze, the sound of angry clucking following, haunting him all the way home.

crowley spends the next month holed up in his apartment, definitely not avoiding aziraphale or anything ("shut UP you BLOODY BIRD") but catching up on some much-needed sleep after the whole apocalypse fiasco.

he's left a voice mail on his answering machine for aziraphale to hear-- to know that this isn't forever-- but until he could...figure things out.

figure himself out.

and maybe when he gets this bloody chicken off his back--

but the answering machine stays silent.

a month later, he comes back into aziraphale's shop, an apology on his tongue that he hopes is just the right amount of nonchalant that they can brush this entire fiasco under the rug.

the bloody chicken is there, as usual, and does his same song and dance of darting off to exactly where the angel has buried himself away in his books.

aziraphale is surprised to see him but looks-- nervous. unsure. he gives crowley a relieved smile and crowley hopes that their many millennia of friendship can survive what almost happened weeks ago.

crowley apologizes, but before he could finish anything past "sorry for--" aziraphale shakes his head, a patient understanding in his eyes that made crowley's chest ache terribly.

---

things are relatively back to normal.

relatively.

and crowley doesn't mean "a month ago" normal--

he means 100 years-ago "back to normal."

aziraphale keeps his distance; there's no more touching and their meetings are cut short. there are no more offers for luxurious bottles of wine back at his shop and there are no more requests to stay longer.

another thing that unfortunately doesn't change is the way the chicken squawks in protest every time crowley nods and takes his leave.

"bloody thing," he spits as it settles into the passenger seat in the bentley. "if you like him so much, why don't you stay with him?"

he can't see the bird from his rearview mirror, but what he can see is his own question staring back at him.

crowley tells himself it will be fine. that aziraphale will be fine too. they'll get through this like they always have and it's not like his best friend is pushing him away anymore.

there's just some. distance in between. that's all.

there's always been some distance. crowley always went too fast for him and--

--and maybe the angel had gone too fast for him in return.

there's a tiny hope that buds in his chest at that, but it's torn from its roots when he comes by the next morning to a quiet bookshop and a note on aziraphale's desk addressed to him.

crowley reads it. reads it over and over again but the words don't quite sink in and the meaning doesn't quite fully reach him until he has a chicken panicking about the bookshop like its head had just been lobbed off.

Crowley,

Dreadfully sorry to leave without saying goodbye. I promise I won't be long, dear fellow, but I need some time to myself. I'm also sorry for the way I've acted and I hope you'll forgive me for crossing a line. I thought-- well. It doesn't matter what I thought, really. All I know is that I've wronged you and I'm deeply sorry. The next time you see me, it is my promise that I will act appropriately.

It is also my hope that things will be right as rain between us once again.

Yours, always,

Aziraphale

((he's in france right now; paris, to be exact. crowley knows this with every fiber of his being and he can't bring himself to miracle his way over there or take the first flight, train, coach and he hates himself almost as much as he hates the way that BLASTED BIRD is crying in the empty shop.))

crowley doesn't know how long he's been in the empty bookshop; just him and the blasted chicken

(it's a lie; he's been there 43 days in counting and still no sign of the angel.)

truth be told, he's not sure when the angel would be there and if he were to suddenly appear, what crowley could possibly say to him.

"it's not you, it's me?" yeah, real classy crowley.

"i would have totally snogged the living daylights outta you if i knew it was what you wanted" crass, but getting closer.

"i've loved you for so long and believed that you'd never let yourself feel the same way that the thought of you actually reciprocating terrifies me like nothing else?" too honest.

he looks over to the bird, making itself a nest out of the sparse articles of clothing that still held aziraphale's scent, clucking sadly as it'd been for the past 2 and a half months now.

it just misses aziraphale; just misses being close to him.

stupid thing, crowley thinks as he leans back on aziraphale's reading chair, the note still clutched in his hand. "you love him too, don't you?"

he was only greeted with silence as the bird cozied itself up to a forgotten 19th century coat.

it takes maybe a week more before crowley literally slaps himself out of his stupor and gets to work.

he was always rubbish with words, maybe almost as much so with physical affection--

but if there's one thing he knows, it's how get a point across with actions.

his angel's library is vast, but he knows every book from novella to tome in its walls, and he knows for certain which are his angel's favorites. he also knows that there are wards and miracles keeping all manner of riffraff and thieves from making off with his angel's precious books, but he knows the shop, the angel, trusts him with its dearest contents.

he uses this trust to make off with a few priceless books and a few angelwing mugs.

from there, he goes to his flat and gathers only his finest plants, the ones who've disappointed him least and packs a few fashionable contents, gets into his car--

and drives.

no, not to paris, where he knows the angel needs space, where the angel is nursing a broken heart with crêpes, fine wine, and ghosts of old friends within statues and paintings.

or hitting up every gay bar in the city but crowley refuses to think about that

he drives throughout england, seeking a comfortable distance of just-far-enough-away from the hustle and bustle of the city and the countryside.

there's a lovely cottage in south downs, not too far from the water, with a lovely plot of land around it, big enough for a garden.

it's almost perfect. almost.

and just with his plants, he'll whip it into shape until it is.

his name is on the deed and the downpayment has been deposited to its owners’ accounts and crowley gets to work

crowley got them a cottage. them.

and it's decorated with things of them. there's a sleek, modern kitchen and a veranda that houses his best plants, and a spacious office where his throne sits, and a master bedroom with black, silken sheets.

and alongside it, clashing hideously, lovingly, is a massive library (larger than a cottage of this size should house) filled to the brim with his angel's favorites and a few others crowley knows have been missing from his collection for centuries; there's a cluttered living room with a garish tartan quilt; there's a sitting room that houses a finely tuned piano and a harp that will sure to get the angel grimacing (and within a glass cabinet, a magician's set of cards, hat, and wand).

but things of them don't exist separately; neither space is completely devoid of the other. angel mugs are stashed within the cabinets of the kitchen, crowley's favorite couch is situated in the living room, the joint portrait he'd commissioned leo of him and aziraphale hang in his office, crowley's personal favorites (the "funny ones") litter the vast library collection, and alongside the harp and piano is a decades-old bass and copies of the velvet underground--

and a large tartan blanket sits atop the black, silken sheets of the master bedroom.

even the damned chicken has a space of his own. a little doghouse and a doggy door through the kitchen and it makes itself comfortable there in the cottage as crowley slowly perfects it, so long as it does its job of picking off pests that dared to snack on the blooming garden.

it’s a lot and perhaps too much, but crowley knows he's garbage at words and even more garbage at being honest about his feelings.

more importantly than his own fear and pride, he wants aziraphale to know that he doesn't want distance between them. that sharing his space, his home with him is something that he wants. that, if aziraphale so desired, sharing his life with him is also on the table.

he hopes that's what the cottage conveys. he hopes that’s what his angel will see.

with his preparations done, he sets back off to london.

it's been a year since he's seen aziraphale now. the bookstore light is on and he can sense that ever-familiar ethereal presence. when he turns off the bentley's engine, crowley is torn between tripping over his own two feet to scramble through the doors and hyperventilating in his car.

the excited squawking further punished him into making a choice. he opened the doors of his car and he walks inside the shop.

he really isn’t sure what he’s expecting. a new haircut? old waistcoat and jacket foregone for some avant-garde monstrosity from parisian couture? a tattoo of a one-night's lover attached to it?

instead, aziraphale sits there, inspecting his books with a miffed and puzzled expression.

so focused was he with his missing favorites that he barely greets crowley with a “hello” and instead pins him with a question of "did you borrow my signed copy of les proféties?"

crowley thinks of brushing off the comment, but the blasted chicken started up its warning-clucks. instead, he shrugs. "guilty."

for the first time in a year, aziraphale turns to face him and crowley's knees almost buckles at how much he missed that annoyed expression in those stormy blue eyes. "and would you like to tell me why?"

instead, crowley crosses the distance between them and wordlessly asks for his hand. "found a better place for it."

there's a tired, guarded look on aziraphale's face but he relents with resignation and takes crowley's hand in his own.

the drive over is fraught with tension. crowley wants to ask how paris was—but he knew he wouldn’t like the answer; he also knows that aziraphale would draw all the wrong conclusions if aziraphale knew where he’d been all along and did absolutely nothing to bring him home.

so instead he lets queen blast away on the stereo and look balefully at the chicken lovingly nuzzling at aziraphale’s stomach as it made itself comfortable on his lap.

aziraphale breaks the silence by asking how crowely was and what he’d been doing since the last he’d seen him.

crowley didn’t know how to answer so he merely said, “you’ll find out.” those words were the closest to praying he’d come in over 6,000 years.

when aziraphale sees the house, sees the living room, the library, the office, and garden, he understands. crowley knows this as he offers him the keys, an angelwing keychain attached to it and says, “only if you want.”

crowley suddenly finds himself with an armful of angel and he loves it. he strokes the soft, downy curls of aziraphale’s hair and murmurs apologies he didn’t know he could voice.

aziraphale’s sorry too.

they share a kiss that should have happened a year and a month ago, a century ago, a millennium or 6 ago—

and for the first time in over a year, there were no squawks to be heard.

the chicken's miraculously gone the next morning. aziraphale's heartbroken but not nearly as much as crowley-- that thing had been his companion for that lonely year after all.

crowley still wonders if it was some kind of trick from downstairs since it'd been following him for so long.

he gets his answer in the form of a dove.

it appears on a low branch of an apple tree crowley is growing in their garden. it looks pointedly at him and then turns its gaze to aziraphale in the kitchen who is baking a sweet-smelling something with a happy look on his face.

it chirps at crowley as if to say, Finally

and flies off to other skies.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #azicrow #crowleyxaziraphale #aziraphale #crowley #did i really write a 3k+ ficlet based on a prompt about chickens?#yes

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moveslikebucky · 4 years

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Mr Cortese/Mr Harrison (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Ineffable Tutors (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Touch-Starved, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Hello friends I am back at it again with the tutors - this time just a little soft hurt/comfort. Full fic is under the cut, but can also be read on AO3 at the link! Special thanks to the wonderful @writingelizabeth for the beta read <3

---

If it had been any other day, Aziraphale could have ignored it. Could’ve thought of it as a trick of the light or a flight of fancy. Could’ve left well enough alone and not let his mind latch on to what he thought he saw.

Aziraphale is well-practiced at this; at making excuses for things. At not reading into the way yellow eyes linger a bit too long, on the meaning behind favors and gifts. He decidedly does not get caught up in the fleeting touch of long spindly fingers to his short and stout ones over a passed bottle of wine. Well, maybe just a little bit. Lets himself think of it in the wee hours of the night when no one is around to notice.

But the clock is ticking and the world keeps spinning, and nothing in all of creation is slowing it down. The End (capital E) is coming, all rather soon now; and Crowley, for whatever reason, is wearing tartan socks today.

They aren’t just any tartan, they’re Aziraphale’s tartan. And all the pomp and rules and meanings behind it. He’d often wondered, in the back of his mind, if Crowley had understood. They had been there when the tartans of the old clans were first made; when they were first passed down. They knew the rituals, the familial bonds required. The seriousness of the gift of tartan.

And one night in 1967, in an intricate ritual of his own devising, Aziraphale had passed Crowley a thermos of holy water, printed with his own tartan. He had hoped Crowley understood the significance, understood that this was Aziraphale reaching out in more ways than one. That he meant everything he said about “someday”, that he wanted Crowley safe, and, under all that with a beige pattern on a tin thermos, that he wanted Crowley by his side, under his mantle.

And today Crowley had worn tartan socks. Aziraphale had noticed as he watched Crowley teaching Warlock maths (Crowley had always been regrettably good at maths; Warlock was shaping up to be much the same). Crowley had deigned to perch on top of the desk in the library they were using as a one-student classroom, crossing one leg up over his bony knee. The cuff of his trousers had ridden up just enough that the pattern was evident. A tiny peek of beige and tan crosshatch, unmistakable to Aziraphale, who’s been wearing that pattern for centuries. He’d spent the majority of his own lesson distracted by the thought of bony ankles, and the majority of the ride in the Bentley back to the shop distracted by further thoughts. Ones that involved interlaced fingers and gentle brushes of lips; thoughts he wasn’t allowed to entertain.

“Well, this is you,” Crowley says matter of factly when they pull up outside the old bookshop. Aziraphale finds he’s not really ready for the day to end, and he could use a drink.

“Would you like to come in, dear? Maybe go over next week’s lesson plans, possibly over a nice bottle of Château Latour?”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” Crowley says with a grin as he shuts off the engine, the both of them clambering out of the car to head inside. Aziraphale fumbles with his keys as Crowley drones on about how Warlock is doing in his schoolwork.

“Boy’s a natural, angel! Absolutely a wizard at algebra, who would have thought it?” Crowley says as they enter the shop, candles popping to life of their own accord and blinds drawing themselves. Far too late in the evening to be opening anyway.

“Quite a whiz at numbers, yes. By far his favorite subject.” Aziraphale heads to the back storage as Crowley makes himself comfortable, plopping himself down on the old Chesterfield that’s as much his as anything else in the world at this point. Like he belongs there; like it’s home. Aziraphale takes a moment in the wine storage. Just a bit, just to breathe. It would be unfair, now, to act on these feelings. There are only a few short years left until they learn if their methods have been successful.

It would be cruel, Aziraphale thinks, to give in now. To let the emotions and feelings and yearning finally overtake him, drag him into the undertow and pull him out to sea. He knows, of course, has known with great clarity since 1941 that Crowley loves him. Has known with an agonizing heartache of his own love since 1862. It had snuck up on him, wormed its way into his heart as a seed way back in the Garden. Blooming bright and brilliant on one of the worst days of his life.

No, none of that now. There isn’t enough time. He wipes away the scant few tears that have decided to track down his face, breathes in deeply, and grabs the wine, determined to, at the very least, have a nice evening in.

Crowley is still chattering from across the shop, going on about something to do with Atila the Hun’s grandmother. Aziraphale can hear the pride in Crowley’s voice, still amazed at how much he’s taken to his disguises. Ashtoreth was much softer than Crowley would like to admit, a caregiver and a nurturer. And now, as Mr. Harrison, Crowley is able to impart knowledge. One would think, with Aziraphale being the bookshop owner, that he would take to teaching much more readily than the demon. But, one would be wrong.

Crowley has spent his entire existence asking questions. Sometimes the wrong ones, and sometimes the right ones. But it is in his nature, down to the very core of him to be inquisitive, to wonder, and to learn. Is it any wonder he takes so readily to gifting that knowledge out?

He did give humanity the knowledge of good and evil, after all.

“What was that about Gandhi, dear?” Aziraphale asks as he rounds the corner. “I didn’t quite catch —“

Aziraphale is struck speechless, much to his chagrin. Crowley’s tweed jacket has been discarded over a nearby chair, and his trademark boneless sprawl is nothing new. But his feet are propped on the edge of the couch; and right there, wrapped around his ankles, is unmistakably and unequivocally his tartan.

“Didn’t quite catch what?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale locks eyes with him slowly, not sure what to say. Crowley, for his part, looks confused. He follows to where Aziraphale’s eyes had been, sees the cuff of his trousers has crept up just a tad. Aziraphale watches the realization dawn on those long-loved features. Watches the slow turn of Crowley’s eyes back to him.

“You’re wearing my tartan…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“And…how long?”

“Don’t ask me that, angel—“

“How long?” It’s more forceful the second time, just a bit of heavenly presence behind it. Enough to make Crowley sit up and take notice, swinging his feet to the floor and tapping his heels nervously. Aziraphale isn’t sure Crowley even understands what he’s asking; not sure that he knows either. It’s not some big cosmic secret; they both know. They don’t speak about it, don’t observe it closely. Keep your distance and keep him safe; the mantra that plays in Aziraphale’s head, late at night when the shop is quiet and his only company is the old and dusty books.

Crowley avoids his eyes, wrings his hands together as he stares at the floor. The air between them is thick and heavy, though with what, Aziraphale isn’t sure yet. Crowley’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly; Aziraphale balls his hands into fists at his sides. Well-manicured nails digging into his palms, grounding him into the moment. Crowley scratches his beard, runs that same hand up through his hair before sighing heavily.

“Don’t remember a time when I didn’t.” He finally says, his voice cracking, his eyes finally meeting Aziraphale’s.

The moment stretches between them, thick like treacle. Aziraphale can’t give in now; not when they have so much to lose, not when what’s at stake is everything. What would it gain them if they fail? A few happy years and a bit of distraction before their weapons are at each other’s throats? Just two unwilling soldiers on either side of a war they didn’t want, on the battlefield that was once their home.

But then, what if? What if, in this short stretch of time before everything potentially goes to Hell (literally), they could lean on each other? It wouldn’t be much, but it would be theirs. But what’s the point if it could be painful later?

Before Aziraphale can break his thoughts to respond, Crowley stands and crosses over to him, takes the wine bottle from his shaking grip, and sets it aside.

“Look, angel, we can forget this. I’ll go back to my flat, we’ll call it a night - pretend this conversation didn’t happen.”

Crowley is standing so close to him, less than a foot away even though it feels like miles and Aziraphale doesn’t want him to go, doesn’t want to forget about this. He doesn’t want to run anymore and he realizes, with solid clarity and conviction, that the reason for anything — the reason they should stop running and be happy now — is precisely because things could be painful later.

“Don’t!” Aziraphale reaches out and grabs Crowley’s sleeve as he turns away, freezing the both of them in the moment. Amber eyes meet his, searching for answers that Aziraphale doesn’t have. He’s on the wrong foot, out of his element with no idea where to go next. There isn’t a precedence for any of this, there never has been. Not for an angel’s love —singular, not plural— pent up for centuries with nowhere to go. An angel’s love is meant to be all-encompassing, of everything that exists in all of the world, not like this. Not with a single focus point. Not with only one star pulling that love into an orbit that is nigh inescapable.

What even happens now? Aziraphale doesn’t know. But he lets his instincts take over, lets this far too human need that has consumed him since a cold and dreary day in a park in 1862 take the lead. Lets the sense of dread melt away from him, lets it be replaced by anticipation instead as he threads his fingers through Crowley’s. They fit together perfectly and his heart jumps into his throat.

“Aziraphale…” His name in Crowley’s mouth is a question, one that Crowley has been asking for longer than Aziraphale has ever wanted to admit.

“Don’t go, please, I…” Aziraphale’s words fail him. How does one say something that has been left unsaid for so long? How does one give voice to that? Tears sting at the corner of his eyes as he grips Crowley’s hand tighter.

There’s the soft caress of a thumb on his cheek, lightly brushing away those tears. A calming voice whispering comfort as he’s pulled into arms that are so familiar to him in every way except for this . They’ve never held hands before, never held one another like this, and yet it feels so right and so familiar. It feels like coming home.

Crowley holds him close, lets him cry; stays steadfast as Aziraphale crumbles, rubbing circles into his back. Comforting him, of all things. Shakily, Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s thin frame, finally knowing what it’s like to have the one he loves most in his arms. It starts his tears falling anew, knowing that he’ll never be able to go back. They’ve crossed a line, and neither of them can turn away from it any longer.

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley whispers softly on a cracked voice, “S’gonna be alright.” It’s only now that Aziraphale realizes Crowley is crying, too. He squeezes the demon tighter, nuzzles his face into his neck, marveling at how Crowley’s sharp angels compliment his own soft curves. How they fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle, two halves of one soul, like the old philosophers used to say.

They stay like this, for hours or minutes Aziraphale can’t say. All he can do is stand here, breathing in the faint hint of brimstone that lingers on Crowley’s skin, feeling the rise and fall of Crowley’s breathing. He’s never been held like this, never held anyone like this. He’s seen the humans do it, of course. Watched Adam wrap his arms around Eve to offer comfort in the unyielding wilderness, watched as Yeshua’s mother wept openly in Mary Magdalene’s arms. All through the millennia, he’s watched as humans have touched each other, have been vulnerable with each other in the hope of just some simple comfort in life. It’s different for them, when life is so fleeting and so short. Where love is not just something to want, it’s something needed from the moment they are born until the last breath that they take. When time is so short, so ephemeral, it’s impossible to face it alone.

Time has never been short or fleeting, not for him or for Crowley. The wide expanse of forever has always stretched out in front of them, just as the wide expanse of before stretches behind. Both of them older than the universe itself, architects in the crew of God’s creation. When you cannot truly be killed by mortal means, it’s easy to forget that an end is planned. There’s all the time in the world. Wait for me, go a little slower, we’ll get there.

There is no time now, four years at best if their plan doesn’t work, and Aziraphale can feel the crushing weight of mortality now. He wonders how the humans have ever survived underneath it.

But for now, there are thin fingers carding through Aziraphale’s pale curls, whispering words of comfort. There’s a warm hand on the small of his back, tracing circles with a thumb. The gentleness and softness of the actions make his chest hurt and he wonders if this is what the humans call “heartbreak”. He pulls back reluctantly, needing to see Crowley’s face, needing to read the emotions there.

He swipes a calloused thumb across Crowley’s cheek, collecting a stray tear that’s lingering there. Just this once, just for now, he lets himself get lost in Crowley’s eyes. Yellow like molten gold, glowing in the relative darkness, brighter than the candles. Aziraphale lets his hand rest on Crowley’s cheek, taking in the surprising softness of the beard he’s been sporting these last few months. Crowley leans into it, eyes searching Aziraphale’s own as he turns slowly —every so slowly—and places a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s palm.

Nothing has ever felt like this, so simple and gentle of a gesture, and yet the maelstrom it causes within Aziraphale could destroy an entire coastal city if he let it. This flood of love and acceptance and belonging, this overwhelming feeling of yes, you, you are the one I should be running to, that I should be going through this life with. It’s always been you how could I have ever pushed you away?

And so Aziraphale doesn’t push him away; resolves to never do so again. Instead, he lets his hand drift along Crowley’s jawline, around to the back of his head. Lets his fingers finally, after so long spent wondering, learn just how soft Crowley’s hair is. He pulls, Crowley comes willingly to meet him halfway, and for the first time in six thousand years, Aziraphale kisses him.

It’s almost anticlimactic in its simplicity. A gentle brush of lips, an intimate touch reserved for humans and not for them. The heavens don’t shake, lightning doesn’t strike them down, God herself does not descend in a glorious cacophony of trumpets to cast him into the pit. It’s just him and Crowley, standing in the bookshop, with their lips and hearts and souls pressed to one another. Content and calm in this human-bound method of affection, this gentleness.

They break apart slowly, as if moving through a fog. Aziraphale lets his eyes fall open, sees Crowley’s still closed, a small and quiet smile quirking up the corners of his lips. It’s unbearably tender, and Aziraphale wants nothing more than to hold him until the sun burns out. Crowley opens his eyes slowly, meets Aziraphale’s gaze. The small and quiet smile spreads, breaking across his face like dawn light.

“I do hope that was alright, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into the fading darkness of the room, afraid to speak too loudly, to break this spell that’s between them right now. Crowley still holds him tight, like he’s something precious or worthy.

“Angel, I…” Crowley’s voice trails off, no longer more than a string of consonants with no vowels to hold them together. Like too many things are trying to rush out of his mouth at the same time and none of them make sense. Aziraphale just waits, lets Crowley hold him, lets him find his words until he finally lands on three.

Three words, spoken softly and nervously on shaky breath. Spoken in such a way that hints a gearing for rejection; at waiting for the penny to drop. At an expectation of once again being let down, of being too much.

Aziraphale smiles at him, tangles his fingers through Crowley’s hair, feeling the short strands slide smoothly through them. He says three words back. Crowley leans in, and their lips meet again. More insistent this time, more sure of themselves. It feels right, kissing Crowley. Feels like they were meant to fit together this way, like his lips have been waiting countless lifetimes to know the shape of Crowley’s lips.

There will be time for talk later, time for confessions and promises. For apologies and what-ifs. But for now, they sink to the sofa, wrapped in each other’s arms, and just for a moment in time, they are able to hold one another. To forget about what’s coming and just exist and touch and kiss each other softly like the humans do.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable tutors #aziraphale #crowley #my fic #link

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cleverlittlejay · 4 years

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Raphael anon back once again with a hilarious thought: Family therapy with Crowley, Lucifer, Gabriel, & Micheal and it’s just so wild & the poor therapist is so confused. They assume it’s just rich people scandals & shenanigans but all of these drama queens in a room together trying to work through over 6,000 years of family issues while some poor human tries to keep everything from becoming a chaotic nightmare without the full story of what’s going on is infinitely funny to me.

hello, anon! this was such a delight to write! also, fun fact, i’m a psych major and took one (1) intro to counseling psych class, but that actually helped in writing this, so that was fun! This is also super long (1k words!) so it also goes under a read more. (another fun fact: i stole the name Dr. Martin from Lucifer on Netflix because why not.)

(one more fun fact, i genuinely hate the Neflix!Lucifer stereotype that a psychiatrist who went to med school would be a therapist. it’s two different fields. ok sorry, it’s fic time)

Dr. Martin was good at her job. She worked hard to become a therapist, and she genuinely believed that she could help her clients. It’s why she started her private practice.

Her next appointment was a family therapy session. She briefly wondered how her secretary forgot to mention that she had an appointment or that she had new clients at all, but these mistakes happen. Sometimes computers just don’t want to work, deleting emails and not saving the clients’ last names in the file.

The family consisted of four siblings. Lucifer, Michael, Gabriel, and Anthony J Crowley. Anthony, she learned, preferred to be called Crowley, and the other three siblings did not share that last name.

The four siblings did not get along. At all. And they wanted to, Crowley explained, but they just couldn’t see eye to eye.

“It all started when Mother kicked me out,” Lucifer said. “More specifically, she had Michael kick me out because she’s–”

“Because,” Michael interrupted, “you were an awful son who refused to listen to her. Causing trouble, thinking you’re better than her. Asking questions.” That last part was clearly directed at Crowley, who offered a light shrug.

“Interrupting isn’t kind, Michael,” Dr. Martin said. “Please let Lucifer talk, and then you can say your part.”

If looks could kill, Dr. Martin would’ve died a hundred times over in her career. Michael’s glare was terrifying, but she’d seen it all before.

The final picture was that their mother kicked out Lucifer and Crowley due to rebelliousness. The two questioned her authority and so they had to be removed before they corrupted any others. Now, after the disappearance of their mother, the siblings decided to get together again and reconnect.

A cult, Dr. Martin realized. She was working with the aftereffects of a cult. The religious names, the absolute authority, the punishment that included some kind of fire, the isolation from others, it all painted a very clear but dark picture.

She thanked them for their openness and had her secretary book their next appointment.

Then, she realized how much she didn’t know about cults–she owned a private practice, she didn’t work with law enforcement or social services–and began her research. She read articles on cult-related family dynamics and trauma. She even called her old colleague for some direction.

The next session, the two eldest siblings focussed on each other. As Lucifer and Michael went on, Crowley and Gabriel seemed content to watch them argue as Dr. Martin futilely attempted to control the session.

“Even now, you’re a pest,” Michael sneered, ignoring the no-interruptions rule. “Your demons cause nothing but trouble and you barely control them.”

Inner demons were difficult to control, sometimes spiralling and causing issues in real life. It took strength to admit that you need support in fighting your battles.

Lucifer spoke before Dr. Martin could voice that.

“Maybe you should control your angels, Michael. Always wandering into trouble, making friends with demons and then getting hurt. It’s almost as if they don’t respect your command.”

“Tell your demons to stop fraternizing with the enemy!”

“Hey,” Crowley interrupted. “I thought that sides don’t matter anymore. I can fraternize with an angel if I wanted to.”

“Now, yes, but not before,” Michael said patronizingly, as if she was leading the session rather than Dr. Martin. “But you endangered yourself and Aziraphale by being with him.”

“Not like Aziraphale was in danger,” Gabriel grumbled. “He got away with it.”

The session ended without any of the siblings making any progress. It was fine, Dr. Martin rationed. Progress is not always linear, and she needed to first create a safe space where they were comfortable speaking up.

She also realized that her original theory was wrong. It wasn’t a cult. It was the mob.

Different sides, angels and demons, both told that the other is the enemy. Perhaps Lucifer and Crowley disagreed with their “mother’s” rule and were punished for noncompliance. Michael was clearly the enforcer, punishing those who stepped out of line. It blurred the definition of “sibling,” but it explained the disdain that Lucifer and Michael had for each other.

This realization led to a new line of research. The mob was harder to research from a psychological or counseling therapy perspective, and Dr. Martin ended up making even more calls to colleagues and old professors.

“First a cult and now the mob,” her old classmate laughed. “You have some interesting clients.”

Dr. Martin refused to admit that she was wrong about the cult. No one had to know.

She changed her strategy during their next session. The past was important to understanding a person, but perhaps it was better to focus on the present.

“Despite everything that happened, Lucifer and Crowley being kicked out and you being forced to lead, how do you feel about Lucifer right now?”

Michael didn’t answer immediately, which was a good sign. When she answered, she didn’t look at Lucifer or speak to him directly, but she knew that he was there and listening to her.

“I don’t hate him,” Michael said slowly. “He’s still my brother. I didn’t have a choice, you know. I had to do it.”

Dr. Martin could imagine the lack of choice. It was likely that if Michael didn’t do as told, she would’ve also been punished. It was coercion, and Michael couldn’t be held fully accountable.

“I don’t hate you, either,” Lucifer said. There was a forced air of casualness around him, protecting Michael from rejection. “You’re still my baby sister. No fall can change that, Micah.”

Progress. It took three sessions and a lot of pain and bitterness, but they were making progress. Michael and Lucifer finally broke through their hard shells to admit that there is a possibility to move forward in their relationship with genuine love and affection. That kind of hope was why Dr. Martin was a therapist in the first place.

Dr. Martin scheduled their next appointment. She was hopeful for their next session, creating an outline that would include more dialogue and encourage the younger two siblings to speak more often. The four of them had hope yet.

Dr. Martin was good at her job. She would help bridge a 6000 year old gap of pain and misery to create a new era of peace. Not that she knew that, of course. She was just a therapist to a weird group of siblings.

Humans, She thought in amusement, were clearly Her best creations yet.

#anon that offer for my firstborn is still valid #also sorry that this was less shenanigans and crowley related #i can do a follow up if you want?#i just love outsider povs so much #you do not understand #thank you for the prompt #and i might post this on ao3?#its long enough lol #ok rambling over and time for search tags #good omens #raphael theory #my post #yall can reblog and it would be cool if you did but its your choice #Anonymous

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dietraumerei · 5 years

Note

Fic prompt - nice weather (any kind of nice) and cuddling for the Ineffable Spouses. Rainy weather snuggled up together with Drink of Choice? Sunny and snuggling in a garden in south downs? Gimme those soft feelings. Bonus points for bad mockery impressions of their former bosses. Post apocalypse, of course.

This took a little bit of a left turn into angst, but I hope I’ve added enough fluff and comfort and loving to make up for it!

CW: discussion of past abuse.

“Here you go, dear,” Aziraphalesaid, handing over the cup of tea. “Nice and hot.”

Crowley peered out from under his pileof blankets, and stuck out his snake-tongue at the rain pounding downagainst the window. It's not as though they had anything planned forthe day that had been ruined, it was more on...general principles,really. It was chilly and spring and raining and just ugh.

“Yes,dearest,” Aziraphale said, and ruffled his hair like he wasn't somekind of totally evil demon. He was a totally evil demon.Just. Retired.

Crowleycontemplated sticking his tongue out at Aziraphale, but he reallydidn't want to chance cutting off his only source of hot tea, not tomention cuddles.

“Thisis exactly the rain we'd get in Hell,” he grumbled. “Always greyand drippy.”

Aziraphalemade a face. “Oh, surely it's not that bad?”

“Well,no. The walls don't smell funny here,” Crowley conceded. “Althoughthat might have just been Dagon.”

Aziraphalesearched his memories. “I think it was at least partly Dagon,” heoffered, and Crowley grinned.

“Oh,you should have seen her when it got properly damp. Specially hot andhumid, not that it was hot down there much, not like you'd think,”he reminisced.

Aziraphalegave a little shudder. “Oh, I can only imagine,” he said.

“Idon't know what you're all complaining about,” Crowley mimicked,sitting up and hunching his shoulders slightly, peering around in apitch-perfect imitation of Dagon. “We're in Hellfor Satan's sake!”

Aziraphalelaughed and applauded the impersonation. “Oh, you've caught themperfectly.”

Crowleyturned, smooth and fishlike and utterly unlike himself. “There willbe six extra hours of training for any demon caught drying themselvesoff! To do so is to deny your Hellish nature!”

“Mygoodness,” Aziraphale admired. “It's like I'm there.”

Crowleydropped the imitation and grinned at him. “They were quite thestickler.” He tilted his head. “Did you even haveweather in Heaven?”

“Oh,goodness no, can you imagine? It was bad enough when Gabriel camedown to Earth,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes.

“Ihope a bird shat on him,” Crowley said.

Aziraphalelaughed, a wonderful rich belly-laugh that always warmed Crowley tohis toes. He'd heard it an awful lot more since they'd become theirown side.

“Oh,goodness, he'd have discorporated.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Youthink I'm fussy?” Hestraightened up even further – somehow – and put on an Americanaccent to try and capture Gabriel.

“Aziraphale!If you must maintainthis stupid little shop, can't you keep it clean! I've got dust on myjacket! It's alpaca!”

Crowleysmiled – the imitation was good. Not perfect, but he couldabsolutely see it. “What a complete prat.”

“Andthe inkstains!” Aziraphale continued in his...accent which wasdefinitely somewhere in North America, probably. “It's unbecomingto one of the Heavenly Host. Six raps on your knuckles, Aziraphale,and don't let it happen again.” He dropped out of the accent, anddid what passed for relaxing. “Good heavens, I'd have been asmoking crater.”

Crowleywasn't smiling anymore. “He hit you?” he asked, in a voice he hadlearned to make very gentle.

Aziraphalefinally looked at him, and cringed. “Oh dear. This is one of thosethings that isn't funny to you at all, is it?”

“'fraidso.” Crowley opened his arms and gathered Aziraphale close, morefor his own comfort than anything else. Because it did comfort him,to hold his soft angel and cuddle him and love him and know that ifanyone showed up to hurt a single hair on his head, Crowley wouldreduce them to a small dark spot on the carpet.

“Itwasn't very bad,” Aziraphale said. “It could have been worse.”

“Itshould never have happened at all!” Crowley protested. “Hittingyour hands, over a bit of dust and a stain!” He found Aziraphale'shand and brushed a soft kiss across his knuckles, turning to touchhis cheek to Aziraphale's fingers.

“Sweetheart.”Aziraphale's voice held a smile, and he turned his wrist to cupCrowley's cheek in his hand. “It's all right. It's past.”

“Itisn't all right at all, but I'll give you 'it's past',” Crowleygrumbled, arranging them so he could get arms and legs aroundAziraphale, a protective demonic cage for his bastard angel.

“It'sall right now.” Aziraphale smiled and kissed him, and kissed himagain, and kissed him a third time as the rain beat down on thewindows of their sitting room. “I love you.”

Crowleyclosed his eyes and remembered to not discorporate. Aziraphale didn'ttell him very often, not out of lack of love, but because it alwaysshook Crowley to his core. It made him feel like a stone wall beingunbuilt; not destroyed, but reduced to component parts, ready to berebuilt even better. They were trying to ease him into hearing it,kind of exposure therapy so the next time Aziraphale forgot and toldCrowley he loved him over lunch, they didn't have to stop time, waitfor Crowley to be able to person again, and spend the rest of the dayin bed.

“Ilove you, angel,” he said, and nuzzled Aziraphale's shoulder, thevelvet of his waistcoat so deliciously soft. “Drink your tea beforeit gets cold.”

“Yes,dearest.”

Crowleystill didn't want to open his eyes, but that was all right. He had ablanket, and rain against the window, and he'd made Aziraphale laugh,and made him feel safe. Not bad, for someone who'd been kicked out ofHeaven.

#my fic #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic #thank you for the prompt!#this was lovely to dash off while I wait for my laptop to charge :)#kayasurin

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oopshidaisyy · 4 years

Text

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there’s probably a word for it in unmodified sumerian by ghostsoldier It’s weirdly flattering, in a way, that Cecil can wax rhapsodic about his very cells. Carlos can empathize: every single one of his tests has shown that Cecil is just as human as he is, and yet he’s also absolutely not. Carlos knows he’s not, with the sort of bone-deep certainty he usually reserves for universal constants. Cecil’s not human, but he is, and Carlos finds he wants to shout it from the top of the radio tower. How wonderful this makes Cecil. How beautiful. How imperfectly and uniquely perfect. Carlos/Cecil, 1k, T

my whole trajectory’s toward you, and it’s not losing momentum by theappleppielifestyle 14 year old Eddie gets a glimpse into what's coming. Richie/Eddie, 8k, G

An Invitation You Can’t Decline by thehoyden “I have standards,” Aziraphale huffed. “Don’t I know it,” Crowley sighed. And then, like he’d done it a hundred times before, he covered Aziraphale’s hand with his. Aziraphale/Crowley, 1k, E

Love Hath Made Thee a Tame Snake by thehoyden He was the bloody Serpent of Eden, and he wasn’t going to stand for this kind of flagrant trespassing. Aziraphale/Crowley, 3k, E

all of this then back again by firstaudrina Magnus is joking when he says, "You," but Alec says, "Okay." Magnus/Alec, 2k, M

Believe Me if You Can (The House at Pooh Corner) by gyzym In a world where Arthur is Rabbit, Eames is Tigger, Cobb is Pooh, Yusuf is Eeyore, Ariadne is Piglet and Saito is Owl, nothing makes sense anymore. Arthur/Eames, 11k, T

not so different, you and i by theappleppielifestyle Three years ago, the idea that Tony Stark being one of her best friends would have been something she’d laugh at. Not even laugh- she’d have given whoever suggested it a dry look and changed the subject. Nat & Tony, 15k, G

unintended results by theappleppielifestyle Tony stares at the ceiling, white-knuckling his pockets. I will not get off to Steve jerking it. I will not get off to Steve jerking it. I will not- That thought is put on hold as something starts to buzz, and Tony has to bite down forcefully on his tongue to stop himself from groaning out loud when he realizes what it is. Steve/Tony, 2k, E

Left Side Advantage by susiecarter Post-MoS AU: A year after Black Zero, the Metropolis city government decides to hold a commemorative gala, with Superman as a guest of honor. And after a year of trying to gather intelligence on Superman without all that much success to speak of, Bruce Wayne is definitely going to attend. Except it turns out he may not be the only one with plans for Superman, and there might be a few other pieces of the puzzle that he's been missing. Clark/Bruce, 61k, T

Enemies to Lovers by susiecarter Then: Bruce and Clark argued, fucked, kissed, and didn't talk about any of it until the day they stopped. Now: they're living together in the lake house, trying to figure out how to be around each other day in and day out without stepping on each other's toes or crossing any lines. Which might be easier if Clark weren't pregnant. Or if Bruce weren't being so weird about it. Or if the mother box hadn't rearranged Clark's insides on a whim in the first place— There's a lot that could have made this easier, basically. But then Bruce and Clark always did do things the hard way. Clark/Bruce, 28k, E

dear friend by firstaudrina Jo might have said, “I left something for you in the old mailbox and I think that you should read it.” Jo & Laurie, 1k, G

le coup de foudre by firstaudrina three vignettes about desire. Lestat/Louis, <1k, G

Circuit by thingswithwings Post-movie. Watson finds a reason to go back to the flat on Baker Street. Holmes/Watson, 1k, E

2 become 1, or: these are totally normal roommate shenanigans by dollsome Chloe decides to fake-seduce June in an act of vengeance. Naturally, June strikes back. Chloe/June, 3k, T

un oubli profond by arriviste Three (in)glorious days. Enjolras/Grantaire, 6k, M

How to Tame a God by theorytale Loki is unstable. Tony is a genius. Together, they fight crime still don't like each other very much. There might be some benefit in alternative tactics. Loki & Tony, 5k, T

Ready, Fire, Aim by gyzym There's no "I" in "Avenger." Steve/Tony, 21k, M

it should follow, you know this (like the panels of a comic strip) by gyzym Four, eleven, fifteen, twenty-one, thirty-six, forty, as old as he's always been, too young, and everyone knows Tony Stark. Steve/Tony, 1k, T

music to watch girls to by firstaudrina They're both laughing, helpless and stupid with it. Izzy doesn't remember half as much of this before Clary came here. She remembers smirks and side-eye and the occasional chuckle but never gasping laughing over something that isn't even that funny, when you think about it. Clary/Isabelle, 1k, G

let me lay waste to thee by postcardmystery Ink stained fingers and ale left untouched. The cheapest paper left to rot and cuffs stained with little spots of black. A life shared but never quite lived together. A boy who wanted to be a poet, remembered as a playwright, and a boy who wanted to stage, remembered for his blood on a dagger held by no one. Marlowe/Shakespeare, 4k, M

Crash Landers by gyzym In which Stiles learns to Stalk That Stalk. (Or, how to accidentally woo your unfriendly neighborhood alpha in roughly five hundred handwritten steps.) Derek/Stiles, 31k, T Note: i’ve never watched teen wolf i just think this fic is neat

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earsofducks · 4 years

Text

Day 8 - Soulmates

Well, this is it.

Wow.

Thank you to @ineffablehusbandsweek for a fantastic week of prompts, and for setting this all up and reblogging and stuff. Amazing.

Thanks also to everybody that read my stuff. It brought me a lot of joy to know that some people actually ENJOYED some of the things I wrote. Y’all are fantastic.

Also thanks to Gaiman and Pratchett and Tennant and Sheen for a fracking amazing OTP. Gawsh. They’re so good.

Anyway, I’ll shut up now. Thanks for everything.

Crowley took a long time to realize Aziraphale was his soulmate.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d met him. Crowley hadn’t heard any of the lore at that point, probably because he hadn’t spent any more time than was necessary in Hell. All he knew was that the angel had beautiful eyes and lovely wings and a heart that prioritized a pregnant couple’s wellbeing over his own.

And that was more than enough.

It wasn’t even when he first heard the chatter about soulmates.

He’d gotten himself discorporated. Hung around Sodom just a little too long. (He’d been so sure he could convince - well, it doesn’t matter now.) And while he was waiting for his new body, he’d had nothing better to do than hang around and listen to the other lowlifes discussing the latest news, which was that apparently every demon had an angelic counterpart that was their soulmate. (When Crowley asked why the Almighty would give demons angelic soulmates when they could never really be together, the consensus was that it was all a big joke. That was when Crowley first started feeling bitter at Her for creating soulmates.) Also, continued his hellish colleagues, when demons were in close physical proximity to their soulmate their black-and-white vision would burst into colour, but the angel would remain unaffected.

And Crowley, being an idiot, thought huh, weird, instead of when I was around Aziraphale I noticed his eyes were blue.

No, Crowley didn’t put two and two together for a very long time. This was mostly because somewhere between being told about soulmates and being given his new body he’d managed to convince himself that it was all a big misunderstanding. Soulmates weren’t real. How silly! No, they were probably invented by some poor sod who was missing being an angel and thought to comfort himself with a daydream. (Crowley had not yet realized that ‘imagination’ was not very popular in Hell.) And then, shortly after Golgotha, he and Aziraphale were drinking in a tavern somewhere and he absentmindedly remarked on the bright red of a piece of pottery and then it struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Oh no, he thought.

He spent a while trying to avoid Aziraphale and the many difficult feelings that arose when he was around Aziraphale, because it was all so much to handle. But the longer he spent away from his angel the more miserable he felt and the more bleary and unbearable his black-and-white existence became and when Aziraphale turned up in a bar in Rome he found himself unable to say no to oysters.

After that, Crowley accepted his fate. He was in love with Aziraphale. Aziraphale was his soulmate. He would never be able to tell Aziraphale about either of these things, because Aziraphale was an angel and he was a demon and angels and demons weren’t allowed to… well. Do the things Crowley would like to do.

And life goes on like this, with Crowley loving Aziraphale as quietly as he can and having his heart broken every few years and screaming drunkenly at God about how the soulmate joke isn’t funny, until the Apocalypse. Which doesn’t actually happen.

After he and Aziraphale go to the Ritz, they retire to the bookshop for a good old-fashioned nightcap. They drink and drink and drink until they’re both thoroughly smashed, and that is when it happens.

“Why’s your corporation so faulty?” Aziraphale asks, apropos of nothing.

“Wha?” Crowley asks, understandably confused.

“The - the - the - ” Aziraphale waves his wine glass around and makes a variety of expressions while he wracks his brain for the right words - “The colours.”

“What about the colours?” asks Crowley, whose stomach has gone very cold. He feels very sober very suddenly.

“They’re….” Aziraphale squints as he thinks very hard. “They don’t happen.”

“Oh,” says Crowley, relieved. “Nah, can’t see colours. Lost that when I - you know.”

“I’m terribly sorry, dear boy,” says Aziraphale, looking less drunk. Crowley looks at the wine bottles, which are less empty than they were a moment ago. Looks like they both accidentally sobered up a little.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Crowley, trying to shrug and discreetly sober the rest of the way up at the same time.

“But not all the time,” says Aziraphale, pointing a finger at Crowley.

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

“Uh,” says Crowley.

“When your corporation was near my corporation,” continues Aziraphale, oblivious to the panic which is rapidly taking over Crowley’s brain, “colours happened.”

“Ah,” says Crowley. “Mm,” says Crowley. “Ngk,” says Crowley.

“Why?” asks Aziraphale again.

Crowley hems and haws and hedges until Aziraphale starts to get annoyed and says, “really, my dear, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. It’s not as if you could say anything that would make me like you any less. I wish you’d just tell me.”

Undone by the ‘my dear’ and the ‘nothing would make me like you any less,’ Crowley does.

Aziraphale sits very still. Crowley sits still, too, tense and nervous and full of regrets. What a pathetic excuse of a demon he is. In love with an angel. Unable to let go of said angel, even when he knew it wouldn’t work out, wouldn’t lead to anything but pain for him and awkwardness of Aziraphale. Refusing to let go of -

“Soulmates?” says Aziraphale, very softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes Crowley’s foolish heart leap.

“Er, yeah. ‘S - dunno what She was thinking. That it was good for a laugh, probably. Watching me - uh, I mean us - I mean, demons, you know - when we couldn’t have what we - uh - dunno. Weird. Silly. ‘S silly, isn’t it? Sorry.”

“No,” breathes Aziraphale, and Crowley’s heart climbs higher. Stupid organ oughta know that the higher you are the more the fall hurts. “No, my dear, my very dear, my most beloved - oh, no. Not silly.”

Crowley’s brain cannot be expected to handle both very dear and most beloved at the same time.

“Yungrhwha?”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, and he’s beaming, he’s shining, he’s radiating… something, something that Crowley is scared to think about, scared to hope for - “Crowley, you’ve waited so long for me.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything. He’s blushing and painfully aware of how pitiful he is and unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Crowley, my darling,” says Aziraphale, and Crowley can’t breathe, “I love you.”

Crowley lets out a sob at that, a harsh, punched-out sound. He didn’t mean to. It just happened.

“Beloved,” says Aziraphale tenderly, and reaches out and pulls Crowley into a soft, tight, warm embrace. Crowley cries harder and grasps at the fabric of Aziraphale’s jacket. “I love you,” Aziraphale says again, and Crowley doesn’t know how to do this. “I love you more than I will ever be able to say. I’ve loved you for millenia. I never knew - ” Aziraphale’s voice trembles. “Soulmates,” he says at length, full of awe. “We’re soulmates, Crowley. We were - darling, we were made for each other. She made us for each other. I’m yours, lover of mine. I always have been. I always will be.”

“‘Ziraphale,” gasps Crowley, overcome. He’s reasonably sure that demons were not meant to hold this much happiness. “Angel - angel - ”

“Shh,” croons Aziraphale, clutching him impossibly tighter and rocking back and forth. “I know, my heart. I know. You gorgeous, brilliant, impossibly sweet thing. You’ve been telling me as long as we’ve known each other. I know.”

It takes Crowley a long time to calm down, to start breathing normally again, to stop hanging onto Aziraphale like the angel will float away if he so much as loosens his grip. Aziraphale murmurs comforting, devastatingly lovely things the whole time.

“Love you,” says Crowley, as soon as he’s found his voice again. It’s croaky and hoarse. He doesn’t care. “Love you. Love you, love you, love you.”

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale, sounding like he might cry, “I love you, too.”

And they sit there, holding each other, for most of the night. Crowley’s breathing evens out completely. He gets a crick in his neck but doesn’t budge an inch, unwilling to risk anything when he’s just gotten everything he’s ever wanted. “Soulmates,” Aziraphale says wonderingly, every so often.

Crowley falls asleep thinking that he’s not mad at the Almighty for making soulmates. Not anymore.

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

Poetry

Summary: Crowley wants to write a poem for his husband for Valentine’s Day. But after ruining several pages in his notebook, and with Anathema’s help, he discovers that, when speaking from the heart, poetry is not necessarily required.

Notes: Written for the @ineffable-valentines’s prompt poetry.

(AO3)

“House? No, no, that doesn’t work. Mouse? *grumble … grumble … grumble* That sounds stupid! Louse? Oh yeah, helluv romantic blood eating parasites are …” Crowley attacks the page he’s writing on with his eraser till his pencil nearly wears through. “Shit!” he mumbles when he tries writing over the spot and his pencil lead breaks. “Stupid cheap …!”

Anathema, sitting across from him at the tea table in Aziraphale’s back room, watches Crowley do battle with his notebook, amused and sympathetic … but mostly amused.

“May I ask a question?” she interrupts.

“Wat?” he snaps.

“Why poetry?”

“Well, book girl, it’s come to my attention that I give Aziraphale presents I think he would like instead of things he actually enjoys,” he explains, glaring at Anathema since that particular lecture came from her after seeing Aziraphale’s prized collection of iPads, laptops, cell phones, and eReaders, mint in their boxes, unopened and untouched. Aziraphale told her he treasures them because they’re gifts from Crowley, but that he’d prefer a nice cannoli over the latest tech.

“I know that,” she says with a smug smile that makes Crowley bare his fangs. “What I’m asking is why you decided to write him a poem?”

“’Cuz Aziraphale likes words,” Crowley says, deciding to make due with the remaining stub of his writing utensil and return to his work. “Books and plays and things like that.”

“So why not buy him a book?”

“I’m not sure there’s any he wants that he doesn’t own already.” Crowley glances at the stacks and shelves around them, crammed full of hardcovers and leather bounds. “None that wouldn’t require me breaking into a museum, and I’ve been strictly forbidden to do that.” Crowley scowls at his page when he notices most of the white space smudged with graphite and the ghosts of words left over from constant erasing. He turns to a clean page, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “But apparently I suck at poetry! I can’t get anything to rhyme, so I keep repeating the same five words over and over again. And one of those is the!”

Anathema’s brow furrows as she tries to think of even one word that rhymes with the that someone would include in a romantic poem. “Wait a minute! I thought Aziraphale said the two of you inspired Shakespeare!”

“Yeah, but that’s Shakespeare. Inspiring him was easy. Back then, the English language was only about two hundred words max. And he made up half the words he wrote. How important could it be if he’s making shit up? This poem is a present for angel. It has to be … it has to be perfect.”

“Well, I applaud you for at least attempting to do this for him,” Anathema says, smiling at Crowley as if he were an adorable, stray puppy. “Poetry can be tricky if you’re not used to writing it.”

“And while I appreciate being applauded, I need your help! That’s why I called you! I need to get this finished. Valentine’s is four days away! I only get a few minutes here and there to work on it when angel pops out for a nibble. Speaking of which, he’s going to be back with lunch in about …” Crowley checks the hulking watch monopolizing his wrist “… ten minutes!”

“Okay, then, for the sake of ease, let’s not worry about making things rhyme. A poem doesn’t have to rhyme in order for it to be good.”

“Yeah, but the funny ones do. Like …” He grins like anything when a proper example pops into his head “… There once was a man from North Ennis, whose left hand was shaped like a …”

“You’re not writing limericks, Mr. Crowley!” Anathema rushes out before he can finish. Thank goodness Newt couldn’t come, she thinks. Then she’d definitely be hearing the end of that bawdy rhyme. “You’re expressing emotion, right? You want to tell him how you feel?”

“Yeah …”

“Let’s try this. Pretend that you aren’t writing a poem. If you were going to just come out and tell him how you feel, what would you say? Here …” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone “… let me record you. This way if you come out with a gem or two, you won’t forget.”

“O-kay …” Crowley sits up straight, preparing for Anathema to ready her phone. She holds it up and gives him a nod, letting him know to begin “… I’d tell him …” Crowley pauses, gathering his thoughts together. Granted, they’re easier to find when you’re not linking them up with words like louse “… I’d tell him I love him. That, uh … there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about him. Even when … when we were apart.” He finds it distracting and uncomfortable to look at Anathema while he’s saying these things, so he closes his eyes, focusing on the insides of his lids to help him concentrate. “I’d tell him 6000 years is an awful long time to exist without something to hope for. And he gave me that. Hope. Because being a demon, I don’t normally have much of that. I get to be naughty, of course. Have a little fun. It’s part of the job. But outside of that, there’s really nothing to look forward to. But seeing him, even for a moment, was something I looked forward to. I’d tell him that the times I spent with him were the best of my life, even when all I was doing was rustling his feathers.” Crowley laughs thinking of the times he dropped in on Aziraphale unannounced to pawn off some bullshit assignment to have an excuse to talk to him for five minutes.

Just five minutes.

But they’d end up being the most important five minutes of his decade.

“I’d tell him … I’d tell him that there is no me without him. Not any more. Not for a long time now. That’s why I couldn’t leave the planet without him. And when I went to his bookshop and saw it burning down, I …” Crowley’s lips pinch together, his throat tight. He stops again, his voice fading with those words.

“You … what, Mr. Crowley?” Anathema coaxes gently.

“I didn’t care about anything anymore. Not demons or angels, not doing my job, not this whole world. Because my world … the one I loved … was gone. You know?”

Anathema doesn’t know. Not really. But she nods anyway. “Yeah. I know.”

“Look at me,” Crowley sniffles, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.“Gettin’ all weepy. And on video, too.” He gestures to Anathema’s phone. “How … how was that? I can’t really think of anything else to say.”

“That was … beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Anathema says, getting emotional herself. “I think … it was perfect. You don’t have to turn it into a poem. You don’t have to change a thing. Just show him this.”

“Do you think he’ll like it?”

“Yes.” From behind them, a new voice, thick with tears, enters the conversation, from someone they didn’t hear walk in, too wrapped up in Crowley’s emotional monologue. Crowley turns towards it, sees blue eyes shimmering his way as Aziraphale clears his throat, wipes his eyes. “I believe so.”

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffablevalentines #good omens fanfiction #Crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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ourownsideimagines · 5 years

Text

The Eye of the Storm (Crowley x Fem!College Student!Reader)

Characters: Crowley, fem!reader, reader’s asshole ex boyfriend, a friend named Raul.

Requested: Yes

Requested by: Anon

Point of View: Second Person

Summary: When your ex won’t stop bothering you, your boyfriend Crowley takes it upon himself to help you.

Warnings: Stalking from an ex, harassment from ex, unwanted touching from ex, minimal editing. I might have cursed???

Words: 1436

A/N: I sprinkled in a thing from the book where when Crowley is under stress his eyes go red.

---

You’d never exactly thought of school as a safe haven - especially not now.

You’d been going to the same university for a number of years now, and in that time had met and dated a young man named Steven. The relationship had only lasted a little under a year, and ended when you’d realized just how controlling he was.

He’d never let you go out with friends, especially not other male or masculine-presenting friends. He had to know where you were at all times, and if you couldn’t talk for a certain period of time (like during tests or going to the cinema) he threw a fit. The last straw was when he began to track your phone.

After the initial break up he continued to show up after your classes, and he’d follow you around like a lost puppy begging for forgiveness. He even found your new place of work, much to your dismay. But now it seemed like he was finally leaving you alone. It had been months since your last encounter with him, and you had happily began to date the demon Crowley. You’d known him for a while, having met him your freshman year when taking a trip to A. Z. Fell and Co. Bookshop in Soho with your sister. You couldn’t remember just how you’d become friends, let alone how you’d figured out what he was, but you could remember every moment of falling in love with him.

In fact, he’d been the one to finally convince you to dump Steven. You’d neglected to tell him about the harassment that had followed, not wanting to get him all mixed up in your affairs but when your relationship developed you became nervous - you knew you’d have to tell him at one point or another. When it came to an end, it was a relief.

At least, you thought it was.

As another class came to an end, you exited the classroom with your friend, Raul, who was excitedly blabbing on about his plans for the next essay. You were only half listening, and your eyes wandered down the hall. You felt your blood run cold when you spotted Steven waiting by the exit route you usually took. You grabbed Raul’s arm and he came to a halt.

“Let’s take the other exit.” You said. Raul gave you a funny look.

“Is something wrong, (name)?” He asked. “You look white as a sheet.” You took in a deep breath.

“There’s just someone I’ve been trying to avoid over there.” You tugged him back in the direction of the other exit. It would mean more walking to get to your class, but you’d take that over Steven any way.

“Okay, okay,” He laughed nervously but allowed you to guide him. You weren’t sure if Steven saw you, but at that point you didn’t much care. Maybe if he saw you with Raul, he’d have the brains to keep away. Sure, despite his height and his muscles, Raul wouldn’t hurt a fly. But Steven didn’t know that.

“Oscar’s waiting for me in the cafeteria,” He told you. Oscar was his boyfriend. “Do you want to join us?”

“Can’t.” You sighed. “My next class starts in ten minutes.”

“Oh, then you better run.” Raul laughed. “Don’t want to miss Mr. Gibson’s lecture.” Raul had taken Mr. Gibson’s class last semester and would often listen to you rant on about it. And to be honest, a part of you couldn’t wait to get to the class. You weaved in and out of foot-traffic, head down as you texted Crowley, asking him to come pick you up. Typically you’d take the bus and then grab a taxi to Aziraphale’s shop, but you didn’t want to risk being stuck on public transport with Steven. Crowley texted you back almost immediately, saying to meet him out front when your class let out.

Your mind couldn’t help but wander during Mr. Gibson’s lecture. Typically you’d be able to at least scribble down a word here and there but all you could think of was the fear that Steven was waiting for you.

And he was. You didn’t notice him at first because he was unusually blended in with the crowd. It didn’t take you long to spot him, though, and your feet instinctively began to carry you a bit faster away. If there hadn’t been such a crowd flooding out of the classroom with you, you had no doubt he would have tried to make a scene - then make it look like you had started it. He was good at that kind of stuff, and it was another one of the many reasons you’d broken things off.

You were halfway to the meeting point with Crowley when he’d finally caught up with you. You tried to ignore him, each gentle call of your name. And you tried not to flinch at the more aggressive ones.

“Love,” He grabbed for your wrist, which you quickly yanked away, turning finally to face him.

“Don’t touch me.” You snapped at him. A few people nearby turned their heads, and you had to bite your tongue to keep from snapping at them as well. “Don’t call me that. I don’t want to talk to you, leave me alone.” You began walking again, and Steven followed.

“Love, c’mon I haven’t seen you in ages.” He didn’t make an attempt to grab you this time, to your relief. But he wasn’t slowing down. The cars were coming into view. A part of you hoped Crowley had decided to stand outside his car - the other part worried momentarily what might happen if he was.

“That’s why I broke up with you.” You were almost there. You began to walk a bit faster, but Steven sped up to keep pace.

“C’mon, I’ve learned my lesson, this really isn’t funny anymore.” To anyone, his tone would have sounded playful. But you knew better. He was seconds away from snapping, and that terrified you.

“You’re right, it’s not funny, so stop following me.” You all but spat. Just when you thought you were in the clear Steven seized your wrists and pulled you to him, face to face. “What the hell, let me go!” You cried out.

“Look at me,” He demanded. “Look at me.” You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Come on, love, let me see those pretty eyes-”

“Pardon me,” A wave of relief crashed over you when Crowley’s words hit your ears. “But I’m gonna have to ask you to get your hands off of my partner.” He said, and you could hear the low hiss in his voice.

“(Name), who the bloody hell is this?”

“I’m her boyfriend.” Crowley put an arm around your waist and pulled you away from Steven, who had fought to keep his hold on your wrists, but you jerked both arms back quickly. Steven was flabbergasted. “And who might you be?”

“My ex,” You mumbled, remembering that they had never met during your period of dating. “Steven.”

“How… How could you do this to me?” Steven put a hand over his heart. “We had something, and you’re gonna throw it away for this…” Steven stopped mid sentence as his gaze came back to Crowley.

“This what?” Crowley hissed. Steven said nothing. You could see a faint glow of red beneath Crowley’s sunglasses. “What am I, Steven?” Said man opened his mouth to speak, but found his throat dry. “That’s what I thought. Now, how about you go back to your normal, boring classes? And how about you start leaving (name) alone? Because if I ever hear you’ve bothered her again you’ll have much more to worry about than failing the semester.”

There was a split second between the end of Crowley’s words and Steven making a mad dash back towards campus. The red from behind Crowley’s glasses had yet to fade, and you took it upon yourself to calm him down. You took his hand gently, and his head snapped in your direction. You brought his hand up to your face, placing a gentle kiss to his palm before pressing your face into it. You nuzzled his hand for a moment before reaching up your other hand to caress his face. The red began to dull, and if the two of you hadn't been standing out there in the open you might have dared to try to remove his glasses. You would have to settle for gentle touches though, which you didn’t mind.

Crowley rested his forehead against yours.

“I hate men.” He murmured.

“Yeah,” You replied. “Yeah, I know.”

#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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