#all those ways of trying to make aziraphale better than Crowley and making Crowley weak and pathetic and dependant on him

[lenaellsi]

starting to get frustrated with the whole "the end of good omens 2 is just a miscommunication" thing like. okay, that's part of it? but it's not all of it?? like yes, they are both taking things the other is saying the absolute worst way they could and not communicating vital information but. this would not be fixed by them having impeccable communication skills. it's a conflict of morality. because that's a thing that happens to them? all the time?? you could even call it one of the main conceits of the show??? (thoughts under cut to save a dash)

like. aziraphale literally still thinks heaven and angels are inherently better than hell and demons. he says that. full stop. that's not a miscommunication. i am bemused by the idea that aziraphale just wants to make heaven good enough for crowley because...no? yes, he wants to make heaven better, and yes, he wants them both to be safe, and crowley to be happy. but entirely apart from that, he wants crowley to be an angel again. he does not like that crowley is a demon. this is textual. "like the old times," and "you're the bad guys," and "not even demons are that stupid," and "you, unfortunately, are evil," and "i know the angel you were," plus all of the stuff from s1. he's been saying this with his whole chest for the entirety of two seasons. this isn't JUST a miscommunication. it's a mistake, born out of the same black and white thinking that led to aziraphale trying to teach the virtues of poverty in episode 3.

it doesn't mean he's "bad" for thinking it (because actually, it turns out that people aren't inherently good or bad, even when they make mistakes that hurt others! and that's! the point! of the show!) it just means he needs to learn and grow next season. right now, he thinks of crowley (who he adores) as the exception to the general rule that Heaven Is Good and Hell Is Evil, when what he really needs to do is throw heaven's rules in the garbage. we, the audience, know that, because we're watching from an objective point of view and have more information than aziraphale does. crowley knows it, because he learned it the hard way. we've seen crowley succeed in talking aziraphale around before--see armageddon, the arrangement, food and drink--but honestly, i do think that this is something aziraphale has to decide for himself, in the same way he was the one to ultimately make the choice that he would not fight in a war again.

and crowley needs to do some major growing too. his urge to run away and hide from problems, his inability to look inward and recognize his own feelings, his temper, and his fear of being seen as weak or soft were all explored at length this season, and those issues resulted in him really bungling the argument at the end. the main problem at the center of this--the destruction of the universe--is a fight they have been having, literally, since time began. crowley has tried to fight for earth in the past (see: the antichrist plan) but again, his instinct to jump ship when he thinks things are hopeless is something he needs to overcome.

i think you can reasonably debate whether aziraphale's choice to try to change heaven from the inside has merit. (not because heaven will listen to him, but because he'll have the opportunity to mitigate their influence at a crucial time.) there's an argument about institutional corruption and harm reduction at the heart of this that i, a tumblr user with a good omens fan blog, am not going to argue about in a text post. but i just want to recognize that this is not ONLY an issue of crowley and aziraphale talking past each other. there is real conflict here, and real character growth at stake, and it HAS to be resolved before they get their happy ending.

[wishfullyeternal]

Aziraphale x Crowley- A Hopeless Encounter

A/N- I am well aware that I never post on here anymore, however, this piece would not leave my head and I had to make a story out of it. I'm trying to improve my craft on this one, so plot and emotions were not my first thought when writing this piece. I plan to continue it, but who knows. I'm much busier than I was when I was fifteen, now working two jobs and going to college full time, but I try and find time to write. I digress, most of you don't care. Anyways, enjoy the story! Requests are open, but again, I don't post on here very much, so unless it's something I really want to write, I probably will not get to it.

Words- 1,734

Warnings- General Violence

"Sit. Down!" The demon ordered, staring at the pair. Aziraphale obeyed quickly, leaning himself against the dark dank walls of hell, smiling nervously towards Crowley. The back of his shirt had become stained with thousand-year-old dirt and grime, but he didn't care. The coat (which had stayed stain-free for over one hundred years) was the last thing on Aziraphale’s mind.

If you would have told the pair what was just about to happen to them, they would have laughed straight in your face. Much like the way a classmate would when proving they were right about a preposterous rumor.

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a split second, wishing he was back at his bookstore. There was a stale mildew scent in the air that made his nose turn up. He hoped Crowley had some type of plan to get them out of here, but with one look at the Demon, he realized Crowley was as useless as he was.

“Don’tcha think Hell has better things to worry about than little ol’ me?” Crowley spoke, feigning innocence, with large black sunglasses shading his eyes. He didn’t need them down here, but they were a type of comfort to him, knowing the Demon couldn’t see the serpent that lay beneath.

Aziraphale had learned over the thousands of years to read Crowley quite well underneath his “cool” shades. (Aziraphale thought they were quite tacky, but didn’t let him know, of course) Right now, both Aziraphale and Crowley had no idea why they were dragged into the pits of hell, on a Wednesday morning, during their time at St.James’ Park. It was a shame really, Aziraphale had really looked forward to seeing Crowley. They had both been quite busy with saving the world and all that, so it was nice to meet each other just to talk.

“Sit down Crowley,” Beelzebub said, appearing through the iron wrought door that held them. Cobblestone walls surrounded them, and a slight drip could be heard from the right wall, where a puddle of mystery liquid lay. Aziraphale didn’t dare go near it, and Crowley was too busy snarking back at Beelzebub to even notice.

“I really don’t understand it, if you would please explain o’ holy one, I would- for once- be greatly appreciative…” Crowley trailed off, still standing. Although Crowley was a bit taller than Beelzebub, the Prince of Hell was–well, the Prince of Hell. Definitely not someone Crowley wanted to be around, definitely not while in this situation. The other demon who had led them in had already left, but neither Aziraphale nor Crowley had noticed. Aziraphale had his eyes fixed on Crowley, and Crowley had his eyes fixed on Beelzebub.

“Your Angel,” Beelzebub started. Crowley couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that they had called Aziraphale his Angel. The two words floated around his head. Crowley had been pining for that Angel since the first time they met in Eden. The way the blond’s wings wafted over his head, protecting him from the first rain. The way he smiled when he was nervous. So afraid of doing the wrong thing. Crowley didn’t dream, but if he did, he was absolutely certain that they would all revolve around his Angel. Perhaps his Bentley as well… But he would never admit such a fact. Admitting he was attached to the Angel was admitting he was weak. He was not weak. Crowley was far from it. Crowley had bound up those feelings so far into his (lack of) soul, that it barely bothered him. (Of course, it bothered him more than anything in the entire world, even the end of it, but even Crowley couldn’t swallow that truth.)

“He’s got something we want…” Beelzebub continued, sneering at Crowley, seemingly disgusted by his very existence. The flies that swarmed around their head seemed to hasten, syncing with their emotions.

“I promise-” Crowley pouts, pointing at the Angel who had sat down on the floor, in the most proper way he could.

“He couldn't even hurt a fly! He has nothing you want,” Crowley knew Beelzebub wouldn’t believe him, they had no reason to. As far as Beezlebub was concerned, Crowley should have been dead over five thousand years ago, and they both were eerily aware of that fact. Crowley also knew that Aziraphale was strong, much stronger than Hell assumed. Aziraphale, if he wanted to, could be as much an angel as Sandalphon, Michael, or even Gabriel. (In a violent way, of course, he was always a perfect angel to Crowley) But Crowley didn’t want Hell to know this fact, it would be just another dart for Hell to throw at them.

“Sit down Crowley. I have nothing to say to you.” Beezelbub said yet again, forcing the Demon to sit on the ground, and began to stalk over to the Angel. Crowley knew this room had demonic sigils, preventing the prisoners from using magic to escape, but perhaps they hadn’t messed with Aziraphale’s powers. He hoped. As soon as the thought ran through Crowley’s mind, Aziraphale began to yelp in pain, and a searing sigil burned into the top of his hand, in mostly the same Enochian language that Crowley assumed was on the other side of the door. Crowley was rusty on the language- but assumed it was binding Aziraphale’s powers as well. As the burning orange flesh melted into black characters, Crowley cringed.

“Don’t you touch him!” Crowley started, forcing himself up from the ground, and starting towards the injured blond. Aziraphale looked towards Beezelbub, trying his best not to seem alarmed, or scared at the fact that he was indeed helpless. They both were.

“Crowley!” Beelzebub yelled again, pushing their palm out and magically binding Crowley’s hands and feet together. Letting him trip over himself and fall face-first onto the concrete floor. There was a large scrape left on his right temple, and blood was slowly dripping out of his nose. He brought his tied hands to his head, rubbing the scrape to try and soothe it. Aziraphale gasped in surprise, yet said nothing. He had nothing to say.

Beelzebub snapped and Crowley’s mouth was gone, filled with skin. Aziraphale furrowed his brows, trying his best to get up and make his way toward the ginger, but Beelzebub blocked the way, their stature standing tall over Aziraphale.

“You aren’t going anywhere, you pathetic excuse for an Angel. Or rather, a principality.”

Aziraphale’s face was contorted in a sort of rage only found in the nicest of angels. One where you could barely sense it was there. Aziraphale never showed his anger on his face, but it was blatantly obvious that Beelzebub’s use of rank had deeply offended him.

“What could you possibly want from me? I’m a principality after all. I just follow orders.” While both Beezlebub and Crowley knew that was a lie, Beelzebub seemed to ignore it, resting their fingers in the shaggy curls of the Angel, pulling the blond hair taut.

“You don’t understand how much power I have over you right now. Not even your little Demon could help you now. I could kill you…” Beelzebub trailed off, looking around the room, staring upwards at a flickering incandescent light, emitting a slightly annoying buzzing sound that barely went above the sound of flies buzzing around the Prince’s head. Aziraphale begged Beelzebub, unaware of what they wanted.

“I don’t know anything,” Aziraphale said, and Beelzebub tightened their grip around the tufts of hair, pulling his head uncomfortably up, exposing his throat. His Adam’s apple was bobbing uncomfortably, and Beelzebub’s free hand grabbed his chin, forcing his head to look straight at them. Both Aziraphale and Crowley were dancing on the edge of a knife, waltzing towards a terrible fate.

Instead of explaining to them what Beelzebub wanted from Aziraphale, they simply kicked the poor angel straight into his stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. (Aziraphale technically didn’t need to breathe, but it was a human formality he had grown used to.) Aziraphale grunted, the pain flourishing around his belly and through his body. Beelzebub roughly let go of the Angel. Aziraphale grimaced and held the spot where Beezlebub had kicked, shaking his head softly, trying to rid himself of the pain. Crowley tried his best to scream profanities- but was silenced by the lack of a mouth. Instead, he decided on trying his best to drag himself towards the Angel, who was still holding his stomach.

“I’ll be back, behave yourselves.” Beezlebub laughed at their own attempt at a joke and walked out the door, flies following obediently. Crowley’s mouth reappeared as they left, and he gasped at the new feeling of air filling it. At the same time, the binds had left his arms and legs, and he rubbed the places where they had been, before wiping his nose of the semi-coagulated ichor.

“Oh, Angel c’mere…” He motioned for the Angel to lean himself against him. Before he did, Aziraphale gently rubbed the dried ichor from the scrape on his temple. Aziraphale leaned his head into the crook where Crowley’s neck met his shoulders. The warmth there was enough to soothe the pain that radiated from Beelzebub's kick. Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale and gently ran his fingers through the Angel’s thick curls.

“It’s okay, it’ll be alright…” Crowley said. His words didn’t match his feelings, Crowley had no idea what Beelzebub wanted, nor how he was going to get the both of them out of there. The room felt like it was shrinking, and suddenly the puddle that was once fifteen feet away, felt like it was two feet away. Everything was seeping in on them, and neither the Demon nor the Angel had a way out. It was hopeless. Crowley continued to slowly brush the Angel’s hair, using his other hand to trace the sigil on the top of his palm. It burned the tips of Crowley’s fingers, but he didn’t care.

“I’m so sorry Crowley, I really do apologize-” Crowley put a hand up to silence Aziraphale.

“You know I would go to heaven and hell for you Angel…” Crowley quieted himself at the end and didn’t even realize what he was truly saying.

Aziraphale just nuzzled his head further into Crowley’s neck, letting the feeling of his friend envelope him in a soft glow. It was hopeless, but at least they had each other.

[chlorine-and-daisies]

the aziraphale coded-girlie's guide to writing crowley's POV

so i've been starting a new fic and i, a chronic overthinker who relates much more to aziraphale than crowley, was struggling to write in crowley's POV. i've put together some coping strategies that i've developed so far- so sit down with a nice cup of tea or cocoa and:

ask lots of questions! i think switching from the tentative "perhaps" statements you might write in pov aziraphale to direct questions ("so what?" "didn't it?" "angel?") really helps establish that this is pov crowley now. after all, he was kicked out of heaven for asking too many questions.

think about the way you use "angel!" we tend to overuse it sometimes, but it can really contribute to the flow and meaning of a sentence. i'm particularly proud of the line "Go up there and pull a dove out of a pan, angel" - using the pet name here makes it clear that it's referencing aziraphale's interest in magic and the need to avert the war with heaven with the dove symbol, and it makes the rhythm of the line better

don't be afraid to be snarky! yes, crowley is soft for aziraphale and we love that, but he needs some hilarious, biting dialogue too! he can't be Just a puppy

but on the other hand remember that crowley does love aziraphale! especially if you, like me, have been made fun of for being Too engrossed in your interests, overenthusiastic, "antisocial," "naive," stimming, etc and seeing those traits represented in aziraphale meant a lot to you- remember that crowley appreciates those parts of him! my version of crowley will always get a little weak in the knees when aziraphale flaps his hands and smiles up at him...he'll reference aziraphale's interests like books and magic...he'd never sell a book...

decide how much modern pop culture, fashion, and technology you want to incorporate into crowley's presentation! he was meant to be ever changing and trendy...in 1990. it's up to you to decide whether you want him to stick to that classic fashion or move into the modern world. personally i love the idea that crowley would embrace tiktok and mobile games and wireless earbuds, and laugh in the face of fast fashion and planned obsolescence.....(though i'm sure he misses vine)

try not to be starstruck by crowley? does this make any sense? direct callout to me and all of my aziraphale-coded brethren but Please we Have to stop being distracted by like...crowley's left elbow or whatever and actually sit down and Write. i found myself stopping myself while writing saying that the dialogue and references are not smooth and cool enough for crowley! this is COUNTERPRODUCTIVE! you can edit later!

get music recommendations/approval from the crowleys in your life! today my partner, who has way better music taste than me, approved the last dinner party ("didn't i show their new album to you") and blue-da-ba-dee ("just not the modern sampled one it's disgusting")

i'm still working on it myself, but i hope that this little guide helps anyone else who might be struggling to get into crowley's head!

[definitely-not-gremlins]

Okay, now I can finally gush: I love how the season 2 finale, particularly those last 10 minutes feel somehow preventable and yet were completely inevitable.

In terms of preventing it, there’s so many things that you can point at and go “If only …”, because so many things led to this exact sequence of events. Surely there could have been a happy ending in there somewhere. If Nina and Maggie had spoken to Aziraphale and Crowley both, if Aziraphale hadn’t insisted on speaking first, if Crowley hadn’t let Aziraphale go off with the Metatron alone, …

But changing these things wouldn’t have ultimately mattered, because this outcome isn’t the result of a few isolated factors or a couple of bad decisions. It’s the result of everything Crowley and Aziraphale have been doing or have neglected to do for thousands of years.

Because even now Crowley and Aziraphale still haven’t spoken about what really matters. And it’s not just how they feel about one another (which, yes, Crowley tried very hard to articulate). It’s about their core conflict, about Crowley’s desire to ditch all their problems and at least proverbially run away together colliding with Aziraphale’s desire to take responsibility and fix those problems, instead. And it’s about the lack of communication and lack of understanding that fuel this conflict. Crowley has never given Aziraphale the chance to fully understand him or his misgivings about the whole system they're stuck in and Aziraphale has never ventured to properly understand.

And that’s what, even without that particular Metatron-shaped intervention happening right then, would have kept them from forming anything lasting together. From forming a bond that would be stronger than any attempts to tear them apart.

Which is something they were always going to have to deal with eventually, because Heaven intervening has become inevitable, as well. Crowley and Aziraphale stopped the last attempted apocalypse, prevented each other’s executions, accidentally made an archangel-grade miracle together while actively trying not to and tried to take the matter of Gabriel out of Heaven's hands and into their own.

They were two uncontrolled variables “on their own side”. Heaven was never going to let this go on indefinitely. They were always going to try and do something about it. And since Crowley and Aziraphale were never going to get to talking about all those aforementioned things, they were always going to have a weak spot.

This was always going to happen in some way.

Those other things (Maggie and Nina, Beelzebub and Gabriel) just made everything far more emotional and allowed Crowley to make his confession. To make it at all and to make it the way he did. For better or worse. It allowed both of them to express a certain level of desperation to be together, even if they are stuck without a way to get there.

But, hey, that’s what an upheaval of the status quo is for.

[topaziraphale]

Love to imagine that there were a few close calls with Gabriel where aziraphale had to pretend to smite crowley, which involved a lot of aziraphale pinning him down and a lot of sword bearing. Crowley very quickly finds out he has one hell of a kink ;)

    “Of course I’m letting you win,” Crowley answers, banishing the dirt and wrinkles from both his and Aziraphale’s clothes with a snap of his fingers. Then, on a whim, he clears off any lingering sweat beading on his skin. He can’t do anything about the flush on his face and neck, or the way his legs are still wobbling. “Can’t have you losing in front of your own lot, can we? They might try and help you out, y’know. Might be worse for me in the long run, ‘s only selfish.”

    Aziraphale’s frown deepens at the implication. “Oh. I assume this means I’ll have to let you overtake me when your people show up, then?”

    “Er, you won’t. Have to. Do that, I mean.” Crowley stammers. Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “They won’t crawl all the way up here to talk to me,” he elaborates, “they’ve got the radio and telly for that.”

    “Oh,” Aziraphale says again, fumbling with the lowest button on his waistcoat for a moment. “Yes, quite right.” He smiles nervously. “Erm...” Crowley pretends he doesn’t notice the blush subtly rising on Aziraphale’s cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Well, knowing that, I must say that is very—”

    “—no—” Crowley groans in annoyance, knowing exactly where that sentence is going, throwing his head back and grimacing.

    “—kind of you to do, to let me win even though it’s all a ruse,” Aziraphale continues, his smile changing from nervous to irritatingly fond and knowing. “Rather considerate.”

    “Fantastic,” Crowley grumbles, his face burning brighter for a different reason now. “Really made my day with that one, you did.”

     In the short silence that follows, Crowley sniffs and looks down at his shoes, pretending to inspect them for any clumps of dirt. He realizes, belatedly, that neither of them cared to fix the messy state of the greenery and soil beneath them. It clashes with the rest of the neat, freshly mown blades of grass in this conveniently empty section of the park — a stark reminder of what just happened. The sight of it makes Crowley shiver. Suddenly his resolve to stay cool and collected vanishes into thin air. He hastily looks back up to find Aziraphale fiddling with the chain of his pocket watch, and he gulps.

    “Er,” he starts awkwardly, nearly freezing when Aziraphale makes eye contact with him. “Right, anyway, I just remembered I have something to do. It’s important. I’ll pick you up later, shall I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He spins on his heel, turning his back on Aziraphale and shoving his hands in his pockets, making his smoothest attempt at nonchalance as he starts walking away. “I’ll meet you in the front of the bookshop.”

    “What? Wait,” Aziraphale calls. “You’re leaving already?”

    Crowley stops in his tracks, shock still, his breath hitching in his chest. He couldn’t have been found out. He wasn’t that loud, was he? Aziraphale doesn’t know, can’t know. If he knew…

    “Won’t be long,” says Crowley, gritting his teeth, hoping he doesn’t have to outright lie, hoping Aziraphale doesn’t push. “An hour, at most. We won’t miss our reservation.”

   “I… er, very well,” Aziraphale eventually says, sounding confused and a little hurt. “But, before you go, I need to ask you about… just now.”

    There’s a brief moment of silence, and Crowley holds his breath, chills cold as ice sliding from the back of his neck down along the knobs of his spine as fear builds in his lower gut. When Aziraphale speaks up again, his voice is slightly deeper than normal.

     “I hurt you this time, didn’t I?”    

      Crowley blesses under his breath. It takes all he has in him not to react outwardly, to lose his carefully constructed neutrality right then and there. Instantly, his mind plays back the stunt Aziraphale pulled only minutes ago.

    It’s practically routine for them at this point, really; it’s a way for them to get out of a damning situation in a pinch. If someone from work unexpectedly shows up, they pretend to be mortal enemies, doing what mortal enemies are obliged to do should they ever cross paths: fighting to the death. (Discorporation, in these cases — and even then, they only need to make the viewer think that a discorporation has taken place, should it ever go that far.) It’ll be seen as two adversaries busy with work, and whoever it was that checked in will usually leave within a minute or two to let them get back to it.

    They were taking a leisurely walk and having a (slightly heated, in the angel’s case) conversation about some of the menu changes at the Criterion, when Aziraphale suddenly kicked Crowley’s feet out from under him, pinning him face-down into the ground with his knee pressed onto his back. He had yanked his hair, forcing his head up, and swiftly brought the edge of a sword — having manifested the weapon from thin air — onto Crowley’s exposed neck. Crowley was hard in his trousers before he even realized what was happening, before he could even guess that Gabriel or any other one of those wankers was probably nearby, watching, and that Aziraphale was faking the attack like he had done many times before to keep them both safe.

    But for a moment, Crowley didn’t know that.

     As Crowley had grabbed fistfuls of dirt and grass and writhed under the perfect weight of Aziraphale’s body, he had thought it was real, and that Aziraphale really was going to smite him this time, and that he was truly at his mercy, finally getting everything he wanted. It was too much, the ringing in his head from falling to the ground, the pain in his spine, the white-hot burn in his scalp. Crowley couldn’t move and the sword was cold and sharp on the delicate skin of his neck and Aziraphale put his lips to his ear to whisper something and it sounded harsh and commanding and he whimpered—

    “Crowley?”

    Crowley blinks back to himself, his eyes wide behind dark lenses. He hears Aziraphale’s footsteps approaching him, the soft crunching of the grass beneath two Oxfords deafening amongst the low rumble of blood rushing through his ears.

     “No,” he blurts out, his voice thin. “I’m fine, it’s fine.”

    The footsteps stop. His entire body is trembling now, every inch of skin charged as if with electricity, surely to go off at the slightest touch. He clears his throat, vaguely wondering how much of a disaster it would be if he had to look Aziraphale in the face during all of this.

    “I’m fine,” he repeats in a more natural tone. “Don’t make a fuss over it, you didn’t hurt me.” You did. “Same as always, nothing different about it this time.” Hurt me again. And again and again, until my throat is raw from screaming, until my face is wet with tears. Make me beg for it.

    “It most certainly was not the same, you had no idea I was even going to attack you,” Aziraphale comments, sounding just this side of stern. Crowley’s stomach curls with something too close to pleasure from the tone of voice. Aziraphale sighs. “Are you quite sure I did not hurt you by accident?” he asks gently, because it’s just like him to have concern for Crowley’s well-being, even at the worst possible times. He takes one step closer, the space separating their bodies no bigger than an arm’s-length. Crowley can feel his stare burning right through his soul, can almost feel the heat radiating from his body. “I only ask because, ah, when you cried out, just then, you seemed…”

    Alarms blare in Crowley’s racing mind.

     Cried out, cried out.

    Aziraphale did hear him.

    And now he’s asking about it.

    Crowley goes from half-hard to fully erect so quickly that it makes him dizzy, his dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Aziraphale only has to take a couple steps toward him and circle around to his front, and then he’ll have full view of the state Crowley is in. Then Crowley would have to explain himself, and he would be mortified, he’d be so humiliated, and the fear of it only makes his cock harder. There’s just not enough self-preservation in his current, lust-crazed state of mind to not want anything more than that.

     “— truly distressed,” Aziraphale continues, pronouncing the words with the same caution one would use when walking on a tightrope. Crowley hears the faintest of wavers in his voice only because he’s known the bastard for too long. “I was afraid I used too much force this time.”

     You could have used more. Used all of it. Put me in my place. Burned me with your light until I’m nothing, until I’m dust at your feet. Please, angel…

     Crowley holds his breath again, the muscles in his neck tightening and his jaw aching with the effort it takes to kill the moan forcing its way up into his throat. His legs feel like jelly. The temptation to fall on his knees and admit it is palpable. He might as well come clean. Even if nothing happens now, Aziraphale will bring it up again later. That’s just how he is. Better to get it over with…

    “No,” he croaks. He’s blushing so hard that the skin on his face and scalp itches furiously. “I wasn’t, I didn’t…”

    “You’re sure?”

    “Yes.”

    “Truly?”

    “For Heaven’s sake, Aziraphale, I told you I’m alright,” Crowley snaps. More than alright. Crowley knows he’s going to revel in the ache for days, but he also knows, acutely, that he’s only jeopardizing himself more the longer he stays in this blasted park. He’s sure he wouldn’t be able to survive another round of questions; he can already feel his admittedly weak resolve slipping in the face of those warm, seaglass eyes, beckoning him to spill his guts and spew the awful, contemptible fantasies of being taken right there in the dirt, like he deserves, with a sword trained on his back and the angel’s name in his mouth. The only thing keeping him from doing it is his knowing how said angel would react — with an upturned nose and a look of disgust only reserved for the lowest of scum. He can’t do that to him, can’t be that to him.

“Oh, right then, that’s good,” Aziraphale’s voice suddenly pulls him out of his reverie, sounding disappointed, “that’s a relief.”

Crowley then hears the telltale rustle of clothes as Aziraphale fidgets, probably adjusting his waistcoat, before he calls out, “Well then, don’t let me keep you, dear fellow. Do mind how you go.”

    “Same to you,” he says back, feeling moderately guilty.

     He snaps his fingers, bringing himself to his flat. He lands on his back on his luxurious bed. The cool satin sheets do nothing to calm his rapid pulse or the lick of shame that follows as he claws at his belt, the zip’s teeth not daring to catch as he shoves his trousers down and takes himself in hand. The guilt instantly melts away, but the shame stays, however it only proves to spur him on even more.

    Aziraphale will forgive him by the time they meet back up for dinner.

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

((I originally meant to use a couple lines of dialogue as an answer to this ask but then it turned into a small little fic, thingy, yeah. Huge thanks to @divinehedonism for beta reading this for me!!))

[suzukiblu]

Fic Writer Meme

Tagged by my dear @dancinbutterfly, and like, obviously I will take any excuse to talk about writing.

.

1) how many works do you have on ao3?

168, although a few of those are podfics that the podficcer credited me as a co-author on. Actually less than I would’ve expected, tbh.

2) what is your total ao3 word count?

1,431,989. Honestly also kinda less than I would’ve expected at this point. I will blame all those old fics I never brought over from LJ and ff.net for this expectation.

3) how many fandoms have you written for, and what are they?

I literally cannot tell you, the ancient ways have been lost to me. I can give you my Ao3 fandoms, though!

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Avatar: The Last Airbender

Overwatch

The Witcher (Netflix)

Young Justice (Cartoon)

Animorphs

Star Wars

Good Omens

Venom

Fantastic Four

Leverage

League of Legends

Daredevil

Supernatural

Care Bears

World of Warcraft

Spider-Man

X-Men

Slender Man Mythos

Additionally, long ago: Naruto, Gundam Wing, Digimon, Ranma ½, Bleach, Inu-Yasha, and many scattered other fandoms of my youth. So, so many others. So I’ve written for 25+ fandoms, at least.

4) what are your top 5 fics by Kudos.

a mark, a mission, a brand, a scar (13004)

I once started out to walk around the world but ended up in Brooklyn (8450)

it’s a long way forward (so trust in me) (6965)

oh don’t you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me (6818)

if the bad times are coming let ‘em come (5362)

5) do you respond to comments?

Not really these days, though I hoard and treasure them like a freaking DRAGON. I used to respond to all of them but sometimes I’m just not around and then it becomes awkwardly late to reply and also they kinda . . . pile up a bit. I do try to answer all the comments with questions in them, at least, as long as the questions aren’t literally spoilers or anything like that.

6) what’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I don’t usually write super-angsty endings, I think? I don’t FEEL like I usually write super-angsty endings, anyway, at least not these days. I think I did it more often when I was more into, like, drabbles and shortfic. Now I just spend way too long on stuff to give it a downer ending.

The most recent angsty ending I can think of is wanna hold him, maybe I’ll just sing about it, though eventually I did write a sequel to that to soften the blow a bit. And also torment people a bit. Both, technically. Technically both.

7) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

blondes really do have more fun, definitely. It’s very . . . giddy, I guess? What with the gender euphoria and all. There’s angst and heavy emotions in the actual plot but the highs of the happy parts/ending are probably the highest/happiest ones I’ve written, and Supergirl gets everything she wants without having to compromise or give up anything else.

8) do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve ever written?

I write fusion fic more than crossovers, really, but I have written a LOT of fusion fic. Some of it has been weirder than others, tbh, but probably the Avatar: The Last Airbender/Animorphs fusion that I have been lovingly slaving over deserves to be this answer if only for how much extremely sincere effort I have put into it over the years.

9) have you ever received hate on a fic?

Mild hate, but occasionally. I don’t really tend to remember negative comments, tbh, though it does sometimes make me not want to reread the comment section I know they’re in. But a lot of the hate I’ve gotten in the end just seemed like socially-awkward people being unnecessarily blunt instead of just hitting the back button, so I try not to take it personally. Can’t please everyone. Don’t WANT to please everyone, frankly.

10) Do you write smut? What kind?

Yes, and the kind is “a lot”. Sometimes I don’t really feel like it but definitely I have done a lot of it. I try for Feelings and also to be safe, sane, and consensual as much as I can.

11) have you ever had a fic stolen?

I . . . am not sure? Though probably, after being at this for all this time. Someone once told me that someone picked up a fic I’d (at the time) abandoned and just started writing/posting more of it without asking or telling me about it, but I never actually found said fic and I don’t know if that technically counts as “stealing” anyway.

12) have you ever had a fic translated?

A few times, yup, it’s pretty gratifying! I also like to run them back through Google Translate and see what they say, haha.

13) have you ever co-written a fic before?

yoooo @dancinbutterfly, @rainnecassidy! Also done it with a few other people long, LONG ago, but that was back in the LJ era. Don’t think I’ve technically collabed with anyone else lately, although sometimes people will give me ideas for stuff I’m writing or offer suggestions when I’m stuck on a thing, which is very helpful.

14) what’s your favourite ship?

Like . . . per fandom? ‘Cuz we could be here a while. Most recently it’s Jaskier/Geralt, for a while it was Aziraphale/Crowley, DEFINITELY for a while it was Steve/Bucky . . .

You know, I guess technically my all-time favorite ship is actually Naruto/Sasuke, because I made a LOT of friends in Naruto fandom and it actually hugely influenced the end of my teenage years and beginning of my adult life and so, SO much of my writing. So like, if nothing else it wins on influentialness.

15) what’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Let ‘Em Come. @rainnecassidy and I wrote that AU a long-ass time ago now and I never did my half of the sequel fic because I got too distracted with another longfic I was working on at the time and then took a real long fandom break. I always felt kind of bad about it because people seemed to bother her for said sequel more than they bothered ME for it, since her fic was the last posted part. Unfortunately I just don’t have the spoons or the MCU-focus for the research and effort it’d take anymore. Also, like . . . it’d probably be pretty long, so unless I was REAL obsessive about it it’d take a good long while.

Basically I think its time has just passed at this point, alas.

16) what are your writing strengths?

Sex, action, snark, and weird fusion fics. Also making people love things they usually hate, that’s one I get told a lot.

17) what are your writing weaknesses?

Fitting physical descriptions of . . . literally ANYTHING into the story. Just, anything. Physical descriptions are hard.

18) what are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in fic?

I try not to do it, personally, because I know soooooo very little about other languages. Sometimes I’ll sprinkle in a little bit of it, but usually I feel like it’s better to avoid it, personally.

19) what was the first fandom you wrote for?

I literally could not even tell you. The first fandom I REMEMBER writing proper “fic” for was . . . Ranma ½, I think. I thiiiiink. But that was a long-ass time ago and I never even posted it anywhere because those were the days when I despised typing things up beyond all measure, hah. And before that I remember writing Animorphs . . . comics? Storyboards? Something like that. Kind of a cross between the two.

20) what’s your favourite fic you’ve ever written?

I do not know! There’s really just too many, tbh. Some top options are you found me when no one else was looking, best friends means you get what you deserve, clay kids, Avamorphs, handmaiden!Anakin, oh don’t you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me, and . . . and I could go on for a dang MINUTE, honestly, haha, I’m just gonna stop myself here before I get too carried away.

.

I tag whoever happens to be reading this that wants to be tagged; have fun with it!

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Human Affection - Good Omens Fic

One more fic for the @bingokisses prompts - this one from last week - Behind the Knee kisses! Which I found a little odd, so I decided to go silly on this. Should be a good counter for the angst I put out. This will be going on AO3 after some edits, so let me know if you spot anything off.

CW: Silly drunken banter.

“Crowley, that is absolutely absurd. Stop making things up.”

“I’m not!” The demon reached for a bottle of wine, shook it, found it empty, and went hunting for the next. “I know these things. I know humans. Better’n anyone.” He finally found one with at a little red still at the bottom, shrugged, and drank it straight from the bottle.

“Not better than me,” Aziraphale protested, scowling a little as he lifted another nearly-full bottle.

“Much better’n you.” Crowley wasn’t quite drunk enough for this sort of argument, but now his pride was at stake. “Y’don’t even like talkin’ to them!”

“No,” he admitted as he poured another glass, “but I read. A’stensivly.”

“Obstentily?”

“Egstenilly.”

“Abstentally?”

“Exten…I read a great deal!”

“Ha!” Crowley jabbed a finger at Aziraphale, then realized he should make a point. “You don’…don’ read the right sor’ of books. Gotta read th’ naughty ones. Th’ones Heaven don’ like.”

“I read plenty that Heaven disproved of,” Aziraphale objected, taking a long drink of wine and licking his lips happily.

“Ooooh, did you? Do you?” Crowley tried to saunter from the sofa to Aziraphale’s chair, but the table unexpectedly got in the way and he wound up sprawled on the floor instead. “Angel reads some…some…scantilating books?”

“I haven’t the first idea wha’ you mean,” Aziraphale said primly. “But I happen to know that humans do not, in fact, just kiss all over everywhere as you so crudely put it.”

“Do, too. Everywhere. Name a part, lips go there.”

“No, no, no.” Aziraphale waved his hand, sloshing wine that took one look at his perfectly white sleeve and quickly crawled shamefully back into the glass. “They have – certain areas. Erroneous zones.”

“Don’ think that’s right.” Crowley managed to crawl close enough to grab the chair, pulling himself up to rest arms and chin near where Aziraphale’s elbow rested. “Ergonomic zones?”

“Erogenous!” Aziraphale beamed, then turned pink. “Oh. Yes. But they kiss there and it feels, er, stimulating. Everywhere else is…not.”

“S’that so?” With a grin, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and kissed it – or rather, the lowest knuckle of his thumb, since his aim seemed slightly off.

“Crowley!” The angel jerked his hand away. “What’s that s’posed to prove?”

“You din’ like it?”

Aziraphale squinted at his thumb. “I don’ think there’s meant to be nearly this much s’liva, my dear fellow.” He wiped his hand on his trousers. “Really!”

“Oh, you thin’ you’re so clever. Clever Angel. Why don’ you try it?”

“I will!” Aziraphale set his glass down and took Crowley’s hand, studying it like an ancient tome. Finally, he turned it over, spreading Crowley’s palm like a map, and lowered his lips until warm breath filled his hand. Then he pulled back. “There.”

“Wha’? Tha’s not – y’didn’ touch me!”

“Did so!”

“Your nose maybe. Gotta be the lips, or s’not a kiss.”

“Snot kiss? Really Crowley—”

“No – no – is not a kiss.” Crowley made a half-hearted attempt to pull his hand back. “Wha’ they teach you in those books?”

“Perfectly acceptable. Kisses on the palm, light as a breath—”

“Light as a breath. Not a breath. It’s a wossname. Same-ilie.”

“Simile?”

“S’what I said. You gotta actually use the lips or it don’ count.”

“Are you certain? I could just…” Again, he bent forward, lips hovering a hairsbreadth above Crowley’s palm, breath caressing the lines of his hand, warm and strangely tingling.

So Crowley pressed his hand into Aziraphale’s face, mashing his lips. “Mwah-mwah. Now it’s kissing!”

Aziraphale batted at his hand, pulling away. “Stop that! You ridiculous serpent!”

“No! Kiss me again!” Crowley tried to push his hand against Aziraphale’s mouth again, but wound up sliding it across his cheek instead.

“Ah!” Aziraphale caught his hand, pressing it there. “See? That – tha’s good. This feels…pleasant.”

“Does?” For some reason, a different sort of smile began to spread across Crowley’s face. He liked how his hand fit perfectly around the curve of that cheek, how he could feel it bend and pull as Aziraphale smiled. He’d need to try this again some time.

“Oh, yes. Because of, er, nerve endings I think. When…when you touch them…”

“Shooosh.” Crowley cupped both Aziraphale’s cheeks in his hands and pressed until the angel couldn’t talk. “Too many words!”

“We are arguing,” Aziraphale pointed out in a muffled voice, though he didn’t try to push Crowely’s hand away this time.

“Fine. ‘Nuff arguin’. Less try an eggsper…exteri…try science.”

“Crowley, if you just slobber on me…”

“Nah, s’fine. Look. Whazz – what’s one of th’places you’re s’posed to kiss? The error zones.”

“Oh. Ah.” Aziraphale looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Let’s…let’s say mouth. Er. Neck. Wrist.”

“Wrist!” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and tugged it towards him, pulling the sleeve back a little to reveal the veins of his wrist. “How’s this feel?”

Pausing to make sure his lips were dry this time, Crowley leaned down and pressed them to that last inch of exposed flesh. It was soft, a little salty, and he swore he could feel Aziraphale’s pulse flutter. He tried again, gently exploring the angel’s wrist, feeling the way his fingers flexed and curled in response.

When he was finished, he tilted his head to look up at Aziraphale, whose face was quite pink. “Good?”

“Er. Yes.” Aziraphale pulled his hand back and slid his sleeve into place. “Obviously. It’s – it’s meant to feel good. But it was. Er. Yes.”

“Ha! An’ you said I can’t kiss!”

“Never said that,” he objected.

“Oh.” Crowley scratched his head. “Wha’ were we arguing about?”

“You – you said humans like being kissed anywhere, and that simply isn’t true. Some areas are – are sensitive to that sort of – of touch an’ others…er…look, no human enjoys, ah, being kissed behind the knee, for ‘zample.”

“Don’ they?” Crowley leaned further over the arm of the chair, grinning up at Aziraphale. “You sure ‘bout that?”

“I would think they’d have mentioned it.”

“Maybe they have. Maybe they talk abou’ it all the time an’ you jus’ don’ know.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “But they tell you?”

“I mean…” Crowley waved his hand, trying not to look like someone who knew less about kissing than he did marine biology. “S’in the music, innit? Always talkin’ ‘bout kissin’ everywhere. Or – or movies.” He nodded, certain James Bond had once shown something along those lines, and really, he would know, wouldn’t he?

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale surged to his feet, then tottered, nearly losing his balance. “I think you’re lying.”

“Naaaaah, I don’ lie…”

“Oh-ho! Oh-hoho!” He paused, apparently trying to catch his train of thought again. “Ah. Right.” With a wave of his hand, the angel was suddenly wearing a much shorter pair of trousers, in a style that hadn’t been in fashion for over two centuries. “Yes. Now. We shall see.”

“See what?” Crowley was busy mentally reconstructing the rest of the outfit that had nearly gotten Aziraphale executed in 1793. He really hadn’t had time to appreciate it in that dungeon. Maybe he could say something to convince Aziraphale to miracle up those shiny shoes.

“See if kissing back of the knee feels as good as the wrist. For science.”

Crowley nodded, then the words finally clicked in his mind and his head jerked up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Wai’ – wai’ – wai’ jus’ a minnnnit. You wan’ me to kiss…yer leg?”

“I can’t very well kiss it mysel’, see?” Aziraphale stood awkwardly on one leg, bending the other knee as high as he could before losing his balance and falling back in the chair. “S’no good. You have to do it.”

“Nnnnnh.” Crowley squirmed around to sit in front of Aziraphale and lifted his leg as if about to help him into new shoes. “Where…here?” His fingers traced uncertainly along the bare calf.

“No – no, higher. Back of the knee.” But Crowley could feel the way Aziraphale tried not to wiggle as his long fingers ran up the soft curve of flesh.

“Angel…are you…ticklish?”

“Don’ know what you – stop! Stop!” His leg kicked out and Aziraphale slumped further in his chair, struggling to escape Crowley’s fingers. “You – you monster!” But even as he squirmed, he laughed.

“Jus’ admit I’m right an’ I’ll stop.”

“Never!” And with that, Aziraphale launched himself from the chair, pushing Crowley to the ground. “Never surrender, Foul Field! Er, Fiend!” Before Crowley could try and fight back, he tugged up the side of the demon’s black shirt and started running fingers up and down his ribs.

“No!” Crowley laughed, struggling to push him off. “You – you bastard!”

“I know all your weaknesses!” A second hand joined the first and nearly discorporated Crowley on the spot. “Give up!”

“Aaah,” Crowley managed – a rather ineffective battle cry, and completely drowned in their combined laughter – and twisted, pushing at the angel’s shoulders and arms, squirming to get free. He managed to escape and belly-crawled across the floor, ducking behind a shelf.

“Get back here!” Aziraphale shuffled after him as fast as he could.

But though Aziraphale might be strong, Crowley was far more maneuverable. He darted out and grabbed the angel’s leg. A few quick tickles to make sure he was completely off his guard, then Crowley leaned down and pressed his lips to the inside bend of Azirapahle’s knee.

“There! How you like that?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sat up, blinking eyes watery from tears. “Ah. Yes. I can see that…tha’s not unpleasant after all.”

“It isn’t?”

“No…it was…well, quite intrik…entreeg…int’resting.” He frowned at his leg as if it had betrayed him. “Though why a spot like that there of all places…”

“Human bodies are weird,” Crowley reminded him.

Aziraphale nodded sagely, then let himself fall to the floor. “Yes. S’pose you’re right. I don’t understand humans at all.”

“No one does. They don’ make sense.” Crowley crawled closer, lower body twisting into a snake tail that wrapped around Aziraphale’s legs while his still-humanoid head and arms rested on the angel’s chest. “I mean, why kissss at all? It’ss fun, but isss weird.”

“Very strange,” Aziraphale agreed, shaking out his wings to drape over them both, enveloping Crowley in warm white feathers. “This is much better, you know.”

“Mmmmh,” Crowley nodded as he started to drift off to sleep, lower body constricting tighter. “Sstill, we could try kissssing again. Or tickling. Tha’ssss fun, too.”

“Of course, dear. Anything you like.”

[aughtpunk]

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.

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.

[mortuarybees]

mr. Bees i sprained my ankle and am bedridden until further notice, please rec me ur fav fics under 8k (that adhd attention span is fun)

I’m so sorry to hear about your ankle!! I’d be happy to rec some fics. i’m only tagging authors if they have their urls listed with the fic! if you want me to add your url, just lmk :). also if my mutuals have posted fics feel free to put them in the replies bc yall have Taste:

salinity and other measurements of brackish water by drawlight / @drawlight - 3.5k - if you haven’t read salinity yet, drop absolutely everything and do it right now because it’s phenomenal and atmospheric and it absolutely aches!!! “It's an odd thing, getting on after the End of the World. Crowley takes to sea-watching.”

quiet light and ad astra (explicit) by drawlight @drawlight - the first clocks in at around 2k and the second at 8k. it’s the shortest and most effective slowburn i have ever read. quiet light is unconfessed love; ad astra is a love confession and first time and they’re beautiful

everything just stops by witching - 4.5k - idk how long you’ve been following me but when i first read it i FULLY had a meltdown and took all of you with me. it’s that “i love you deep, angel” shit “I love your silly aziraphale things” shit! they have the tenderest fucking conversation in literary history while crowley is drunk in a bath it’s wonderful

a culmination of miracles by prettydizzeed / @genderqueercrowley - 1.3k - an absolutely beautifully written fic about crowley having chronic pain and informing aziraphale about it six thousand years later

i keep a window for you (it’s always open) by prettydizzeed / @genderqueercrowley - 2.4k - a complete fkcing war crime of a fic of crowley getting emotional about romeo and juliet and continuing to be emotional about it for centuries and then, even worse, quoting r+j in a love confession.

such surpassing brightness by handful_of_silence - 7.7k - one of my favorite fics of all time! aziraphale is the patron of queer people and has been for thousands of years! fuck!

it’s the light (it’s the obstacle that casts it) by handful_of_silence - 5.7k - “The Patron Saint of London's LGBT Community is real, and he lives in Soho.” aziraphale and crowley speak polari. literally so up my alley i melted when i saw it

your hair was long when we first met by aziraphvle / @aziraphvle - 1.4k - crowley asks aziraphale to cut his hair and we are taken on a thousand-word journey about how aziraphale loves his hair and loves him and it’s. a whole lot. bringing samson by regina spektor into it was entirely uncalled for. again i am Weak for aziraphale loving and caring for crowley.

and then i will kneel down (explicit) - 5.4k - f. fleabag omens. it’s the confession scene but it’s aziraphale and crowley. it is More than you could ever possibly imagine

hard feelings/loveless by witching - 2.3k - "Aziraphale said it was like the opposite of the feeling you’re having when you say things like “this feels spooky.” Crowley didn’t know what to make of that, but he expected it was something like the opposite of the feeling you get when the only person who truly knows you makes a cryptic remark suggesting that you can’t understand love. Crowley understood love all too well.”

the saddest part of my day by witching - 3k - "crowley is preparing to leave on a demonic assignment, and he's very nervous about leaving aziraphale in charge in his absence.” they have a very open and honest and loving and very adult conversation about their feelings and tbh? That’s My Kink

summer and his pleasures by witching (explicit) - 7.2k - “absence makes the heart grow fonder, and crowley and aziraphale’s hearts were plenty fond to begin with. a story told through phone calls while they are separated for work-related reasons.”

penance by blissymbolics / @blissymbolics (explicit) - 5.9k - praise kink/crowley finally gets off after six thousand years of trying

like a prayer for which no words exist by lipsstainedbloodred - 8.1k - “In which Crowley and Aziraphale do not dine at the Ritz after that nasty business with Heaven and Hell, and Crowley has an existential crisis instead.”

men have gone to heaven for smaller things than that by mercuryhatter - 713 words - Robbie Ross’ funeral. “Aziraphale finds an age slipping away from him.”

where you stay i will stay by mercuryhatter - 866 words - men at the Hundred Guineas Club went by women’s names. aziraphale chose naomi and paid to keep the name ruth available in case crowley woke up. aaaaa

the hour/the spot/the look/the words by planethunter - 2.5k - “Crowley watches Pride and Prejudice (2005) and it spurs a realisation.” you can imagine what a trial it is to read p+p 2005 being brought into good omens but life is nothing but suffering apparently, i’ve learned that this summer through this fandom

and the punchline to the joke is asking SOMEONE SAVE US by princex_N / @princex-n - 5.8k - “The fact of the matter is that Crowley was the first bitter cripple to limp across the face of this planet. It's been 6000 years and things don't seem to have gotten much better.”

birds of a feather by idiopathicsmile - 3.6k - idiopathicsmile of world ain’t ready fame. if your life can be divided into Before Les Mis and After Les Mis, you understand. “Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals.”

covet by mirawonderfulstar / @mirawonderfulstar - 2.4k - “Aziraphale, little good though it did him, wanted desperately. He wanted with an urgency that scared him. He wanted wine, and cocoa, and the occasional tea. He wanted gravlax with dill sauce, and Pappardelle Bolognese, and those awful little iced biscuits they had at Tesco at Christmastime. He wanted dinners at the Ritz and long walks in the park and late nights in the back room of his shop. He wanted Crowley. Fervently, achingly, he wanted Crowley.”

indellible by greased_lightning_rod / @aziraphallist (explicit) - “It turns out glitter is miracle-proof and, also, that it itches. Crowley needs some help preening. He gets a bit more than he bargained for.” Wing kink. yall know i’m weak for aziraphale taking care of crowley sue me

get religion quick (cause you’re looking divine) by brinnanza - 4.2k - “So it was fine. Even if Crowley couldn’t love him, he clearly liked him well enough, and that was almost the same thing. It no doubt would have continued to be fine, or at least fine-adjacent, were it not for a narrowly averted apocalypse and several bottles of a really quite nice Riesling Aziraphale had found in the back room of his newly restored bookshop.”

the nuances of “together” by mirawonderfulstar @mirawonderfulstar  2.8k - “Everybody in the whole world can tell Aziraphale and Crowley are a couple. Everyone except, apparently, Crowley.”

listen (he’s already told you five times) by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons - 1.8k - “Not everything Crowley says is said out loud. Aziraphale doesn't always hear him at first, but he's learning to stop being surprised.” Love!!! Languages!

sudden and surprising moments of overwhelming affection by darcylindbergh @forineffablereasons - 2.7k - “Aziraphale has not shut up in thirty-four minutes. Crowley’s been counting.” O More I Love Your Silly Aziraphale Things Shit. if you’re a neurotic talkative gay and insecure about it that particular genre of good omens fic is ruinous.

things truly terrible by darcylindbergh / @forineffablereasons - 1.2k - “Crowley has said some truly terrible things over the years, but this was the worst.” tooth-rotting-sweet love song-fueled confession.

tell me all the ways by tinsnip - 1.6k - “Crowley was out in the garden. Aziraphale was in his study, most definitely not looking out the window. Really. Really. One little speck of sentiment: was it so much to ask?” More! Love! Languages!

a name for earth by regencysnuffboxes - 1.1k - “Demons can’t say holy names, and Aziraphael accommodates his new friend accordingly.”

a home at the beginning of the world by stereobone / @stereobone - 5.8k - crowley just kind of. moves in with aziraphale. Meaningful Interior Decorating! Couch Metaphor! yall know what i’m weak for

[childrenofthesunny]

Seek Him Who My Soul Loveth (2/2)

Part 1: link

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

Crowley somehow managed to keep his feet coordinated enough to carry him up the stairs without incident, eyes locked on the broad expanse of Aziraphale's back. Aziraphale glanced back over his shoulder as they reached the landing, as if making sure Crowley was still following.

 With a smile, Aziraphale opened the door to his bedroom, gesturing for Crowley to go in ahead of him. Crowley had never been inside Aziraphale's bedroom before, but was entirely unsurprised to find the contents of the bookshelf overflowing, spilling out onto every stable flat surface in the room. Aziraphale kept the main light off and dimmed the reading light to the lowest setting possible, in deference to the sensitivity of Crowley's eyes.

 The bed was the same as Crowley's, albeit with far paler sheets. Somehow, it looked so much more inviting than his own.

 He should have taken the floor downstairs. He was going to get all sorts of ideas being laid out in Aziraphale's bed, and he wouldn't be able to act on any of them.

"So, we'll start with your neck and work our way down, how does that sound?"

 "Nyeah, sounds good," Crowley said vaguely, trying very hard not to feel let down by the perfunctory, business-like clip of Aziraphale's words. The other man was doing him a kindness, he shouldn't be so ungrateful. It wasn't Aziraphale's fault that he didn't understand what having Aziraphale's hands touching him was going to do to Crowley.

 "Excellent," Aziraphale replied, clapping his hands together briefly before gesturing towards the bed. "Please, won't you lie down?"

 "Shouldn't I take off my shirt first? Make it easier for you?" Crowley asked, feeling both bold and stupid. It was a risky suggestion, he knew. In many ways, it would make things harder for him, place him further along the path of temptation. And perhaps that was why he'd done it to begin with – to give Aziraphale a chance to realise that it would be impossible for Crowley to experience something like this innocently. To give him the opportunity to firmly remind Crowley that he shouldn't be reading into things, or to retract his offer of assistance entirely, and tell Crowley to leave his room.

 Wouldn't it be better, in the long run, for Aziraphale to reject him now? To leave Crowley to suffer this pain as a form of penance, without the guilt of having forced Aziraphale into doing things that he might only realise the significance of after the fact?

 Aziraphale's breath hitched and he paused, staring wide-eyed, finally seeming to realise. Silence descended between them, heavy like a shroud, and for a moment, Crowley felt the first threads of panic beginning to curl around his heart, his lungs, threatening to tighten like a vice. Much as he knew it would be for the best, the prospect of putting Aziraphale in the position of having to let him down gently made Crowley want to bury himself alive.

 "No," Aziraphale said, and the threads turned needle-sharp, piercing Crowley's organs and leaving him feeling like he was drowning. Then Aziraphale continued, shakily, the formal tone completely gone, "Please, allow me. I wouldn't want you to put any more strain on your back than you have already."

 The words were hesitant, like Aziraphale couldn't quite admit, even to himself, that the two of them touching skin to skin might not feel entirely platonic.

 He had to know. Surely, he knew, deep down, he wouldn't be behaving with such uncertainty if he didn't.

 It was still a flimsy excuse, but Crowley was far too weak to resist. He stopped breathing entirely as Aziraphale reached for him with trembling fingers. He didn't dare move an inch as the other man approached him, terrified of frightening him off after all.

 Aziraphale's fingers grazed the underside of Crowley's chin as they curled around his clerical tab, working it loose and setting it down gently on the bedside table – or, more accurately, setting it down atop the precarious pile of books stacked onto the bedside table. Crowley swallowed desperately, trying in vain to calm the goosebumps that had erupted over his skin all the way down to his wrists. The glancing path Aziraphale's fingers had travelled blazed with heat, like he'd been branded. Like anyone who looked at him, now, would instantly be able to see all the lustful thoughts that had immediately jumped to the fore of Crowley's mind. How he imagined those soft, steady fingers cupping his jaw and drawing him in close, solid arms curling around him in a protective embrace, pink lips pressing gently against his own–

 Aziraphale turned back around and reached for the top button of Crowley's shirt, then paused, the heat of his palms bleeding through the thin black cotton as his hands hovered less than an inch from Crowley's chest. "All right?" he asked.

 "Yup," Crowley replied, slowly dying.

 Aziraphale worked the buttons of Crowley's shirt open a fraction slower than propriety demanded, forcing Crowley to finally gasp in a fresh breath of air or risk passing out. The shuddering of his chest made Aziraphale's fingers graze against him again, and Crowley all but keened at the sensation, knees close to buckling.

 As a rule, Crowley avoided touch. He'd always felt that it was the better option, that any deviation would invariably set off a slow descent into sin. That by denying himself entirely, it would be easier to suppress his urges, as he wouldn't truly know what he was missing out on. He wondered, now, whether that had been a mistake – that by refusing to allow himself to receive a kind touch for all these years, he had only made himself that much more susceptible to the effects of a gentle hand against his bare skin. If this was how he was already reacting to an accidental touch, how was he going to survive Aziraphale's hands pressed against him with intention?

 The bottom button of his shirt finally popped free, almost making Crowley sway into the motion as Aziraphale's hands began to pull away. Horrified, Crowley hastily forestalled the movement of his hips, very carefully keeping his eyes glued to the floor. Still, he saw Aziraphale's hands drift upwards to the parted front of Crowley's shirt. Instead of taking hold of the fabric to ease it off over Crowley's arms, however, Aziraphale's hands slipped beneath, warm palms brushing along Crowley's shoulders as he pushed the shirt down over his arms.

 Crowley made a broken little sound and kept his face resolutely turned away, knowing that if he met Aziraphale's gaze now, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from kissing him, and ruining everything.

 "Sorry," Aziraphale murmured.

 It took Crowley a second or two to parse the fact that Aziraphale was giving him the excuse of his sore back for the sound he'd just made. "'S OK," he managed. "My own fault, anyway."

 He dared to pray that Aziraphale wouldn't notice, or at the very least wouldn't comment on, the fact that his nipples were stiffly standing at attention.

 Aziraphale caught the shirt before it could fall and stepped away, also avoiding eye contact as he rebuttoned the shirt. Crowley couldn't help but think of how it would still be warm from sitting against his skin, that Aziraphale would still be able to feel some of Crowley's heat beneath his fingertips.

 "You can go lie down, now," Aziraphale said over his shoulder, voice only a little unsteady as he carefully folded the shirt and laid it out on top of a stack of books, next to the one beneath Crowley's collar. Crowley nodded jerkily, all but rushing for the bed, grateful for the opportunity to hide the shameful reaction his body was already having to Aziraphale's proximity.

 He laid himself face-down on the bed, arms tucking in around Aziraphale's pillow. He settled in, breathing in Aziraphale's scent from the pillow as subtly as he could.

 The mattress dipped beside him, presumably Aziraphale taking a seat. Only, Aziraphale then shifted further. Crowley realised he hadn't sat down at all, just put one knee up on the bed so that he could swing his other leg over the back of Crowley's thighs, all but straddling him.

 "Wh– Aziraphale–"

 "Is this all right?" Aziraphale asked, hands resting atop his own thighs. "I just wanted to be sure I had the best angle, but I can do it differently if you aren't comfortable."

 "'S fine," Crowley managed, swallowing the quiet sound he wanted to make when Aziraphale took that as a cue to settle more firmly against his thighs. Crowley was still twisted part of the way around to look at him, and he was finding it difficult to not let his eyes linger on the thick barrel of Aziraphale's chest towering over him.

 "Neck first, yes?"

 "Mm," Crowley agreed, unable to summon words when he was trying so hard to distract himself from the coil of heat unfurling low in his abdomen.

 "Face down, please."

 Crowley shuffled the pillow down a bit, tucking it under his chin, so that he could press his forehead against the mattress and still breathe. Not that he seemed to be doing a particularly good job of that, air catching in his throat in near-inaudible little gasps.

 One thick, warm hand curved gently around Crowley's shoulder, fingertips brushing along the inked lines of the snake coiled around his arm. It was the first time anyone had touched his arm since he'd had the tattoo done. He wanted so desperately for Aziraphale to trace along every curve and scale, to openly admire the artwork and the canvas beneath it.

 He didn't, of course, hand instead pressing Crowley down onto the bed and keeping him still. The other curled around the juncture of Crowley's other shoulder and his neck, thumb digging into the tension that had built at the base of his skull.

 "Mrghhh," Crowley groaned, unable to help but react to the touch. Just a slight change of motion, and Aziraphale could be running his fingers through Crowley's hair, tugging gently on it to make him gasp, slowly petting it and telling him how lovely it looked–

 No. He had to stop thinking like that. Their duty was to the Church first and foremost, that sort of personal intimacy wasn't something either of them were destined for. This was the closest they were going to get to anything like that, and that was fine.

 It would be fine.

 The firm press of Aziraphale's fingers made their way to the nape of Crowley's neck, sending a shudder all the way down his spine.

 Crowley bit down on the blasphemy that surged to the tip of his tongue. But would it even be taking the Lord's name in vain, when Aziraphale's hands on him made him feel closer to Heaven than any prayer that had ever crossed his lips?

 Still. Better to not risk it.

 Aziraphale's hands skimmed over his shoulder blades in a way that Crowley allowed himself to think felt almost reverential, and then his thumbs pressed into a particularly knotted muscle to the right of Crowley's spine.

 "Hgnhhhk," Crowley garbled, back arching involuntarily away from the pressure of Aziraphale's touch, even as he quite literally ached for more. Dizzily, he wondered whether this was what divine ecstasy felt like, an overwhelming sweet agony that left his eyes watering and his lungs breathless.

 "There's the culprit," Aziraphale said happily, thumb rolling in firm circles as he eased the muscle loose.

 "Nghhhhn," Crowley grunted, turning his face to press it against the pillow, hiding his tears. Aziraphale's scent filled his nose and he trembled, the tension in his shoulders slowly giving way under the steady, sure pressure of Aziraphale's hands.

 "How does that feel?" Aziraphale asked softly, fingers digging into flesh. "Not too hard?"

 Crowley was, in fact, very hard at this point, but somehow he doubted that was what Aziraphale was asking. "No, no, 's perfect, more'n perfect," Crowley babbled, words slurring together in his haste. "So good, you feel so good, I–" Crowley promptly shut his mouth with an audible clacking of teeth, knowing that he was straying far too close to unacceptable territory. Instead, he let his words shift into a formless groan as Aziraphale found a new knot to press his thumbs into.

 Aziraphale tsked at him. "Just look how knotted up you've gotten, you really must take better care of yourself."

 Screw that. Crowley was going to toil in the gardens from dawn to dusk every day, if his reward would be the firm pressure of Aziraphale's hands against him.

 Aziraphale moved down along Crowley's shoulders in inches, seemingly able to home in on every tight muscle with unerring accuracy. His hands didn't seem to tire at all, and Crowley bit his lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to distract himself from the desire to turn around and watch the flex of Aziraphale's arms as he worked.

 It was hard to remember just why he wouldn't be able to get away with that. The soft glow of the reading light lent the whole scene a dream-like quality, almost made him believe that if he turned around and reached out, that Aziraphale would reach back, draw him in and hold him close.

 Crowley gripped the pillow beneath him tighter, and didn't turn.

 Aziraphale's thumbs nestled into the valley of Crowley's spine, hands spread like wings as they pushed up along Crowley's back, forming perfectly to the contours of his shoulder blades. They slowly swept back down and fluttered over the divots of Crowley's ribs, making the breath he drew beneath them shudder in kind. His waist was slender enough that when Aziraphale's hands eventually travelled that low, his fingertips curled partway around Crowley's sides.

 At this point, it seemed like it would actually be better for Crowley if he were to come to fruition, as it were. He knew how to keep himself quiet – teenage years spent living with paper-thin walls would do that to you – and at this point, it would take him so long to calm down after the massage was done that even Aziraphale would have no choice but to grow suspicious.

 "That's the spot," Crowley croaked, hips jerking in a way that he hoped looked like an involuntary response to the pressure being placed against the base of his spine. Aziraphale obligingly shifted forward, driving down more force through his thumbs. Crowley felt something loosen and shift, and groaned in relief, hips rolling against the mattress in a slow, subtle grind.

 When Aziraphale settled back down on the backs of Crowley's thighs, Crowley felt something hard pressing against the bottom curve of his arse.

 They both froze.

 Is that a Bible in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? Crowley's brain supplied, a little hysterically, and Crowley had to tamp down on the mad urge to start giggling.

 Aziraphale's hands had gone rigid against Crowley's skin, like he wanted to pull away, but couldn't remember how. When he spoke, his voice was thick and strained. "Crowley," he rasped, sounding both shocked and horrified, like he hadn't noticed his own physical state until it had been pressed up against Crowley's rear. "I'm so sor–"

 Crowley, struck by a flash of boldness that he couldn't quite place the origin of, shifted under Aziraphale's hands and pushed himself more firmly back against the other man's lap. Aziraphale let out an agonised sound, like he'd just been shot.

 "Crowley," he said again, this time even more shakily. "This isn't, I don't– we can't. We can't."

 "Can't what?" Crowley replied, only a touch sullen.

 Aziraphale made an exasperated noise at him, voice sliding up the octave in his panic. "You know very well what!"

 "You're just helping ease the pain of your fellow clergy member, that's all," Crowley told him. "We're both still dressed – well, mostly, in my case, but that's only to make it easier for you to ease my pain. Nothing untoward about that."

 They could do that, couldn't they? Just pretend, both of them operating under a veneer of plausible deniability, and then…

 And then, after, Crowley would leave the soft golden glow of Aziraphale's room behind like it was just a dream, and they would both keep pretending that's all it was.

 "Crowley…" Aziraphale sighed once more, with an inflection that Crowley recognised from the theological debates they'd had where they took diametrically opposed positions on a topic.

 His heart sank. So, they wouldn't even have that, then. Aziraphale could be so stubborn when he made up his mind on something. And there was true pain in his tone, a bone-deep regret that made Crowley's very marrow ache in sympathy. Would Aziraphale even be able to bear looking at him come morning? Would he have a quiet word to Gabriel whenever he next visited, tell him that Crowley wasn't a good fit for Tadfield after all, giving the bishop the excuse he needed to have Crowley shuffled off to another parish? One with more oversight, one with clergy members that would take a far dimmer view on his past, one that would make him repent more fervently for his sins–

 "You were right, you know," Crowley said softly, letting all his desperation pour out of him. It wasn't as if he had anything else left to lose. "I've been pushing myself too hard, with the garden. It's just, I… I can see the potential that it has, the beauty it could hold if it's treated with the care it deserves. I want to nurture it, see it properly bloom and grow, if…" His breath hitched a little. "If only it will let me."

 Crowley didn't push back against Aziraphale again, not wanting to force anything that wouldn't be welcome, knowing just how fragile this moment was. Tellingly, however, Aziraphale hadn't moved away at all, either, and Crowley dared to let his heart rise up in his chest once more.

 Finally, Aziraphale murmured, "How is your back feeling now?"

 Crowley swallowed hard, fingertips digging further into the mattress. "Not quite there yet." He took as deep a breath as he dared. "Would it be all right if you kept going, for a little bit longer?"

 There was another long stretch of silence, then: "What kind of man would I be, if I left you when you were still in pain?" Aziraphale answered, quiet and trembling. "Where does it hurt most?"

 His instinctive reaction was to sit up and take hold of Aziraphale's hand, then press it against the flesh and bone covering his heart. But there were any number of reasons why he couldn't do that, least of all because Aziraphale was still straddling him and pinning him down by the waist. Instead, Crowley reached back and traced a thumb alongside the dip of his spine. They both stifled a gasp when Crowley's fingers inadvertently grazed along the inside of Aziraphale's wrist as he pulled away. "Both sides," he croaked, returning his grip to the sheets next to his head to keep himself from reaching back and caressing Aziraphale's thigh.

 Fingers dug into the muscle of his lower back once more, but what really made Crowley moan this time was the feeling of Aziraphale hesitantly, deliberately pressing himself against the cleft of Crowley's arse, only a few layers of cotton separating skin from skin. He whimpered at the thought of that final barrier being removed, even though he knew it wouldn't happen – he still couldn't quite believe what was already happening – and moved back slightly to meet the motion of Aziraphale's hips.

 Did Aziraphale realise that this was Crowley's first time doing anything remotely like this? He knew the general shape of Crowley's past, would Aziraphale simply have assumed that he had at least some worldly experience?

 Come to think of it, did Aziraphale have any experience himself? He was certainly hedonistic enough when he chose to be, with all his creature comforts, but that didn't necessarily mean he'd done anything like this before, either. The roll of his hips against Crowley's rear was certainly uncoordinated enough to suggest that he hadn't. Crowley tried very hard to not let that make him feel special, but it was hard not to when the belief system he'd been brought up under told him it was.

 Aziraphale's scent filled his nose, weight heavy on his legs, hands steady against his back, surrounding Crowley completely, encapsulating him in his entirety–

 Crowley groaned and buried his face in the pillow, breathing in deep as he shook himself apart. Dimly, he heard Aziraphale groan in kind behind him, hands tight around Crowley's waist as he pressed himself hard against Crowley's backside.

 Stars danced in Crowley's vision, his entire body lax and warm. The frantic whirring of his mind was momentarily stilled, and he couldn't help but let his lips part in a smile, a soft sigh escaping them. He felt safe, and satisfied, and calm in a way that he hadn't expected. He had expected guilt, and for his stomach to curdle with horror, and his throat to close over in fear, as always happened after he took himself in hand to thoughts of Aziraphale.

 Instead, he simply felt content.

 They both stayed as they were, panting breath slowly steadying into regular rhythms. Aziraphale was the first to pull away – not that there was really an option for Crowley to be first, pinned as he was – and awkwardly clambered off of Crowley's thighs, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. He'd left ample space for Crowley to sit upright, so he did, swinging his legs out and grimacing slightly at the shift of the damp patch at the front of his pants.

 At least the rectory had its own washing machine, and they didn't need to risk anyone else seeing their stained clothing.

 "You feel better, I hope?" Aziraphale asked quietly.

 "I… yeah, I do. Thank you." Crowley swallowed, trying for a little bit of laughter as he added, "Reckon I'll need another shower, now, though."

 But Aziraphale didn't look at him, instead staring down at his own fingers as they twisted tightly together in his lap. Crowley could scarcely believe they'd been pressed so firmly against his own skin only mere moments prior.

 "You should probably go do that," Aziraphale said, still staring at his tangled fingers.

 A lump formed instantly in Crowley's throat, all the guilt he'd expected earlier suddenly slamming into him full force. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but the rising tide of shame within him drowned any words he might have spoken.

 Aziraphale regretted it. He'd regretted what they'd done together.

 Of course he did. What was Crowley, but a temptation? Aziraphale's life could only have become more complicated by Crowley's presence, bringing up questions he was far too frightened to find the answers to. All Crowley had done was push, and push, and now this.

 He had no one but himself to blame. He had known already that this was how Aziraphale would react, deep down, but had allowed his own stupid naivety to convince him otherwise. What right did he have, to force his own feelings and doubts onto Aziraphale? Was Crowley so weak, that the moment someone showed him the barest kindness, all of his own faults came surging to the fore like a flood, drowning them both? How was it fair that Crowley had clung to Aziraphale like flotsam in a storm, only to drag them both under?

 "I did mean now," Aziraphale whispered, like the words had pained him. His knuckles had gone white from how tightly he was clenching them.

 Crowley shot up from the bed as if he'd suffered an electric shock. He wanted to say something, anything, but what words that he could offer would possibly have an effect on the turmoil Aziraphale was surely feeling? What comfort could he give, what apology could he make, for the violation of an oath that they'd both sworn to uphold?

 Instead, Crowley fled the room like the coward he was, with the sinking certainty that he'd been right, earlier.

 Come morning, Aziraphale was going to pretend that nothing had happened at all.

[sushiandstarlight]

Kintsugi

Read this story on AO3

Inspired by the Japanese art of Kintsugi: " repairing broken pottery by mending the areas of breakage with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique.As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.” and the fact that Aziraphale seems to limp when he's temporarily discorporated and sent back to heaven.

Crowley had written it off as a figment of his imagination the few times he thought he had noticed it: the slight limp in Aziraphale’s walk.  Angels didn’t really get hurt and, if they did, they could heal themselves.  If it was bad enough, they could go to one another for healing.  No, there was no reason for Aziraphale to have a limp.  And, every time Crowley thought he saw it in the next blink it would be gone.

In the days leading up to (what was to be) the failed end of the world, he thought he saw the limp with increasing frequency.  Maybe it was stress on his own part: the ever-present worry that they wouldn’t be able to save the world, that they would be parted, that one of them (maybe both of them) would be destroyed... Really, there were a lot of stressors.  Maybe he wanted to see something he could actually put his hands on as a problem.  Or... maybe the strain was living in Aziraphale and he was having more difficulty hiding his physical ailment.  Crowley couldn’t decide because, again, as soon as he would be sure there was something amiss he would take a breath to address it and then the evidence would be gone.  They would be off chasing the doomed apocalypse or arguing over the merits of running away from it.

As they walked back to his flat after dining at the Ritz he noticed the limp again.  Aziraphale was a couple steps ahead of him, talking about his favorite part of the meal and there it was: a slight lopsidedness to his gait.  Crowley could kick himself.  He was inside that corporation just hours ago.  He could have checked for himself.  But, he had been too busy trying to save Aziraphale’s whole self.  It hadn’t occurred to him to give the angel a physical once-over.  And, really, wouldn’t that be an invasion of privacy?

He caught up quickly enough, taking in the angel’s face and finding no distress there.  He couldn’t just ask, could he?  “Hey I’ve known you 6,000 years and I’m just now noticing that you limp on one leg... what’s that about, eh?”  There was no decent way to ask.  It might be something that Aziraphale didn’t want to discuss.

Only now they were at his door and he hadn’t heard much of anything Aziraphale had said the whole way here.  He hardly remembered putting one foot in front of the other.  He had just followed Aziraphale like a puppy, worrying and fretting and trying desperately to figure out how to bring this up.  He wanted to know that Aziraphale was okay, that was all.

Yet, somehow, his mouth was running.  Which, wasn’t really a good thing, since he wasn’t in complete control of it.  It was meandering on about something.  Ducks, it seemed, and methods to make them less buoyant.  How had they gone from talking about dinner to discussing the buoyancy of water fowl?

Aziraphale was giving him the most peculiar look: head tilted and a soft smile on his face.  It was only interrupted by the occasional glance at the door beside them.  The door that was still closed.  Because Crowley couldn’t stop talking about ducks while he thought about asking him why he limped.

And then Aziraphale’s warm, soft hand was on his cheek and his lips- somehow even warmer and more soft were on his own.  Whatever Crowley had been about to add to the duck discussion (for the curious: he was about to propose the idea of finding something equally as buoyant as a duck and strapping the duck to the thing to see if the duck would spin perpetually in the pond) died on a gasp.

“Could we go inside?”  Aziraphale’s face was still close to his, the soft smile from before tugging harder at the side of his mouth.  Crowley nodded dumbly and snapped the lock open.  “There we are.”  Aziraphale had hooked his elbow in Crowley’s and was leading him inside.

Brain still stalled out completely from the kiss, Crowley stood in his own entryway while watching Aziraphale venture further into his flat.  The sounds of a kettle being put on (did he even own a kettle?) and mugs being set out on the counter drifted his way from the kitchen.

Aziraphale had kissed him.

Aziraphale had kissed him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aziraphale had kissed him while he’d been having a serious thought.  But, that thought was gone now.  All that existed in Crowley’s head was the feel of Aziraphale’s lips on his own.  The gentle breath that tripped over his chin as the angel had pulled away and smiled at him.

And Crowley hadn’t had a chance to respond to that kiss.  He wandered into his own kitchen in a daze.

“I hope you don’t mind... I miracled over my own kettle and mugs.  You really have nothing in here, Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, “I figure... well, I figure I won’t be getting any more memos about frivolous miracles from upstairs.  Not for a while, anyway.”

Crowley found himself standing directly behind Aziraphale now, close enough that he could feel the heat of him.  When the angel turned he startled.

“Crowley!” a hand went to his chest, “I’m glad I wasn’t holding the mugs... what a mess!  Really, though, if you’re going to have a kitchen you should at least make an attempt to stock it- mph!”

He hadn’t really given it a lot of thought.  Really, no fretting at all had occurred.  Aziraphale had kissed him in the hallway which meant that it was okay for Crowley to kiss him in the kitchen.  a + b = b + a

Aziraphale’s hands wasted no time finding the waistband of Crowley’s too-tight jeans and untucking his shirt.  Those hands that had been on his face mere minutes ago traced over his belly and then his sides on their way to his back where they clawed him closer with always-well-manicured, blunt nails.  Crowley pressed him harder into the counter top, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and scraping his teeth over it.  The angel made a sound deep in his chest, one of his hands dipping beneath Crowley’s waistband to grab a handful of Crowley’s ass.

Crowley broke the kiss off abruptly, leaning his forehead against Aziraphale’s and sucking in some deep breaths even as he rutted against him.

Suddenly, the kettle went off on the stove beside them, causing them to spring apart and spin wildly, looking for whatever danger had found them.  They both looked from the still-whistling kettle to one another at the same time and laughed as the tension in the air eased.  Aziraphale took the kettle off the heat and turned off the stove.

“Maybe we can have tea later.”

“Something you’d rather be doing right now, Angel?”  Crowley would argue that his voice never “purred,” but he was perfectly aware that it just had.  He took a step toward his bedroom and then looked back at Aziraphale in invitation.

“Tempting me, serpent?”  Aziraphale reached out a hand and Crowley took it.

“As I recall, you kissed me first.”  Crowley pulled him down the hall and into the bedroom, tugging him closer once they got there.

“Well, you would not stop talking and I’m afraid I p... I pani... cked.” 

Crowley had leaned into his space, trailing his nose along the angel’s jaw in an almost nuzzle as he breathed him in.

“Perfectly good way to shut me up, Aziraphale, bravo.”  And then Aziraphale was left with cold air in the space in front of him as Crowley knelt at his feet.  “May I?” Crowley paused, hands over Aziraphale’s trouser fastenings.

Aziraphale nodded and was about to say more, but now his trousers were in a pile on the floor at his feet.  Crowley suddenly remember what he had been pondering before they got to the door of his flat.

He found himself face to kneecaps with Aziraphale and got a partial answer: the knee to his right looked like any ordinary human knee.  The one to the left, however gleamed a bright gold.  The gold spread in patterns almost like spiderwebs- or sealed cracks- up into his thigh, disappearing under his pants, and down into his shin, leading to his sock. Crowley reached out a hand to touch, but thought better of it and glanced upwards for permission.  Aziraphale didn’t so much look embarrassed or upset as he looked caught out and vaguely concerned.

“You can touch.  You won’t hurt me, darling.”

Crowley looked back at the patterns before him, tracing the cool metal replacement kneecap downwards to where it mixed with warm flesh then back up again, following the same lines up Aziraphale’s thigh until his fingers stopped just under his pants.  He felt Aziraphale shiver.

“I wanted to ask.”

“You knew?”

“Angel, there’s little about you that’s escaped me in 6,000 years,”  Crowley leaned forward and kissed his golden knee, “I just wasn’t sure you’d want me to know.”

“I want you to know everything about me... but this, well...”

“Wouldn’t they heal it for you?”  Crowley was proud of himself that his voice remained level.  The idea that heaven would let Aziraphale suffer, even after what he’d seen of them when he wore Aziraphale’s body as a disguise... It made his blood boil.  He could feel the yellow expanding in his eyes as he vied for some kind of control.

Aziraphale sat heavily on the bed behind him and Crowley immediately filled the space between his knees again, stroking his fingers along the newfound lines.

“I was afraid to ask them to.  Afraid they would think less of me or cast me out for my weakness.  It was all about casting out then, you know.”

“Yeah, I know... So you healed it yourself.”

“As best I could.”

“But it still hurts.”

“Aches sometimes.  If I’ve been on my feet too long or if I’ve been back to Heaven.  It’s so very cold there.  It seeps in and lingers.”  Seemingly without thought, Aziraphale flexed his leg under Crowley’s hands.  “Not to mention they don’t seem to believe in chairs.  What marvelous inventions, chairs.”

“You hid it from me.  Why?”

“My dear serpent,” Aziraphale reached down and caressed the side of Crowley’s face, tilting it upwards so he could meet his eyes, “I didn’t want you to worry.  You worry enough.  There was nothing you could do.”

Crowley gazed up at him, rubbing his hand up and down Aziraphale’s shin and knee.

“I suppose not.”

“And I don’t want you worrying yourself about it now, either.”

“Okay.”

“No, I mean it.  I’m not made of glass.  You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I hear you.”  Crowley walked his fingers around the back of his knee and found flesh there, making Aziraphale jerk and laugh. “Hmm, been hiding a ticklish spot, too, I see?”  Crowley tickled the spot again and Aziraphale tried to pull away, but the demon had his ankle in a strong grip.  He sprawled backwards, pulling at the bedspread trying to get away from the merciless fingers.

“Foul fiend!”

Crowley took the moment of distraction to divest him of his socks and shoes and finally completely remove his trousers.  Then he released the angel’s ankle and climbed up the bed to face him.  Aziraphale was doing the best he could between deep breaths to look put out, but the crinkles around his eyes gave away the smile he was hiding.

“I suppose I only have one more question, then,” Crowley drawled as he traced the edge of Aziraphale’s pants with his fingers, watching in satisfaction as shivers raced up the angel’s body.

“Only one?  You?  Surely not.”

Crowley traced him through his pants, just a barely-there touch.

“You got anything else that’s gilded?”

“I’ll gild you in a second if you don’t touch me properly!”

[casebasket]

Since I absolutely cannot stop thinking about Good Omens, the blessed show, I’m just going to list my favourite things that endlessly swirl inside my mind:

Crowley spends 6000 years tracking Aziraphale so he can swoop in and save his angelic dumbass every time he gets himself into trouble for some crepes and books or when he’s mildly - (mildly!) - inconvenienced or distressed

Aziraphale almost dies for crepes and wow what a mood, what a relatable god damn dumbass, and all Crowley can do is smile 

clearly, Crowley’s considered Aziraphale his friend, his best friend, over the span of six millennia, even when time and time again Aziraphale denies it because he’s fallen so hard in self denial, which speaks to the immense patience Crowley must have, specifically for his angel. Crowley knows Aziraphale likes him, possibly even loves him, even when Aziraphale won’t admit it to himself. Even so, he’s still particularly pleased whenever Aziraphale is happy being with him, to see proof of their companionship 

Crowley keeps urging Aziraphale to run off together and he just says it outright, all the time, they’re on their own side, it’s the two of them, they’re basically a couple, we’RE BEST FRIENDS, and he never runs off by himself 

every time Crowley says any of those things, Aziraphale is shocked by his affection and starts to smile before Angelic Purpose and Ineffable Plans or whatever kicks in and he’s all I DON’T EVEN LIKE YOU but he does and he has for 6000 years, dumbass

the gigantic heart eyes Aziraphale throws at Crowley, constantly, whether it’s saving his dumbass, his dumbass books, his dumbass jacket, his dumbass shakespeare, etc., that he thinks are subtle but he’s clearly gazing longingly. he looks so pleased!! 

Crowley saves Aziraphale’s books and while he’s holding them and looking at Crowley longingly a romantic string quartet plays in the background???

the absolute happiness on Aziraphale’s face when he sensed Crowley behind him while he was imprisoned for crepes

“you go too fast for me, Crowley” woah, dumbass hits home, hurts everyone’s souls, turns table on sunglasses dumbass,

the sadness, almost grief, when he says those words - Crowley has probably always known he loved Aziraphale (and hates that fact but begrudgingly accepts) but Aziraphale has never been ready to accept it, and even when he begins to their diametrically opposed circumstance prohibits him from accepting it, regardless of how many times Crowley’s shown his affection, how steadfast he is in their friendship. In some ways, Crowley will always be miles ahead of Aziraphale, who tends to stay put and delight in his old books, old clothes, hide in old virtues. 

and wow Crowley’s super soft when Aziraphale gives him the holy water, and he doesn’t know how to react at all when Aziraphale sadly, softly mutters  those words

I can’t BELIEVE his threat to Crowley is that he’ll never talk to him again while holding a god damn flaming smiting sword, and Crowley regards that as more threatening than the god damn flaming smiting sword, and stops time itself just so Aziraphale will still pay attention to him, like how flippin whipped can you get 

alternatively, Aziraphale saw the slight flinch when he raised his sword at Crowley and immediately put it back down and threatened him with something equally if not more effective

Crowley literally crying to Aziraphale because he lost him, and all Aziraphale says is a slightly uncomfortable “I’m sorry to hear that”, as if he doesn’t quite believe he’s the source of Crowley’s grief because how could he be? but also he 100% knows its about him, Crowley grieves for him, and in the moment he couldn’t take it, resorts to platitudes, clamming up and not thinking about how much Crowley loves him, how much he loves him back. demon, angel, dumbass denial.

Crowley walks out of the flaming bookshop, thinking his best friend has died, and “Somebody to Love” plays in the background LMAO

Aziraphale experiencing his own frantic sense of loss when he witnesses the angels dragging Crowley away

Aziraphale happily dancing the gavotte. what a dork. gay

Crowley basically pole dancing with a gigantic pin. also gay

Aziraphale so angry and scared about Crowley and holy water, about Crowley possibly dying forever, that they don’t meet for another century, and they only see each other again because Aziraphale is getting killed by nazis and Crowley can’t let that happen. And then Crowley saves him and his dumb books and after that Aziraphale gives him holy water next time so Crowley wouldn’t get hurt when he tries getting it himself 

their respective human ‘agent’ is the same idiot. dumbasses

they had absolutely no hand in raising Adam, who turned out fine. the one they did raise, on the other hand, is kind of an asshole. lol they’re so dumb

Aziraphale’s puppy face when he tries to implore Crowley to do something. it’s disgusting how effective it is. Crowley is weak.

Crowley claims to hate Aziraphale’s human magic shows but he’s also exasperatedly fond when he watches it. WEAK

Aziraphale is a DORK and Crowley LOVES IT. WEAK!!

Aziraphale did a stupid thing giving away the fire sword and shaded him from rain and Crowley’s dumbass has loved him since

“you’re so clever! how can anyone as clever as you be so stupid?” Crowley calling Aziraphale out on his denying dumbass

‘angel’ is a pet name

people rightfully mistaken them as dumb husbands

Crowley basically breaks up with him and Aziraphale stands there on the side walk, devastated 

they don’t say thank you, they just take each other out to meals

laughing together

Crowley worries over what Azirapahle thinks of his name. He cares about that detail. “You don’t like it?”

Crowley says “you can stay at my place if you like” with such hope in his voice, what a soft dumbass

Crowley smiles when Aziraphale slips up and says stuff like “let me tempt you” or “i’ll be damned”. Aziraphale smiles whenever Crowley is nice.

Aziraphale has his bookstore full of the things he loves for him to indulge in, Crowley has his bentley full of Queens music for him to escape. One stands still, the other rides fast. One is sentiment for human things heaven cares not for, the other is a sort of freedom from hell. Both feels safe, are shared with only the other, and when set on fire, are mourned. 

they go on lunch dates like all the time and gaze at each other, softly.

“i know what YOU smell like!” he knows what he smells like

Crowley calls him a bastard and Aziraphale just gives him a shyly pleased look. He’s so pleased, the soft dumbass

so i guess like, the entire show

in conclusion i believe you can interpret their love in any myriad of ways, romantic, platonic, eternally entwined, transcendent of any of our human labels, all encompassing, every love imaginable, all at once. They love each other, and they’re probably in love with each other, whatever that means to them, in the sense that it will always be the two of them against whatever else. In the whole universe, they’ve got each other. They’re stupidly fond of each other, to a point beyond their understanding of the world. 

also they’re a pair of dumbasses

update when I think of more

edit update:

whenever the burned bookshop is brought up Crowley is immediately on high alert softness, ready to console and hug and picking up on aziraphale’s every reaction trying to make him feel better, SOFT

[patsdrabbles]

Down in the Underground

Title: Down in the Underground Fandom: Good Omens & Labyrinth (1986) Pairing: Crowley/Aziraphale Rating: General Audiences Word Count: 4675 Summary: Ten minutes after he had been given the basket with his charge and short but clear instructions on what to do with it, Crowley pulled his car over and panicked. There had to be another way. There had to. In which Crowley wishes the Antichrist away to a not very thrilled Goblin King. A/N: @szappan wrote an amazing fic about Crowley being a Bowie fan (please do check it out, it’s great! ❤) and it made me wonder what would happen if Crowley and Aziraphale met the Goblin King. Which I then just had to write because Good Omens and Labyrinth are two of my absolute favourite books/series/movies. Thank you so much @blue-ravens for the help with editing this fic! Please enjoy ❤

AO3 & a drawing I made for this fic

Ten minutes after he had been given the basket with his charge and short but clear instructions on what to do with it, Crowley pulled his car over and panicked.

There had to be another way.

There had to.

*

Sometimes, the ideas we have when under distress, later on prove themselves to not be among the brightest we have.

*

“This child is not from the Aboveground.”

Jareth held the baby a bit farther away from himself and looked at him with curious eyes.

“Wha– Of course he is!”

The Goblin King gave Crowley a wary look.

“He reeks of a strange kind of magic.” He pondered Crowley with narrowed eyes for a moment and Crowley felt himself shift, wanting to slither backwards under his scrutinizing gaze. “As do you, for a fact.”

“Well, ha.” Crowley shrugged. He should have known he wouldn’t be able to conceal what he was from another powerful being, shouldn’t he? “Comes hand in hand with fallin’ from the skies above, I guess.”

Jareth stared at him with an unreadable expression for a moment. Then, Crowley could practically hear the cogwheels turn in his mind and his gaze darkened.

“So this is–” Jareth paused and held up the baby a bit, so that he could look into his eyes. “This is him then, isn’t it? Remarkable... If he didn’t smell just like his people, I wouldn’t even have noticed that he was different.”

He turned back to Crowley.

“I cannot give him back as the Labyrinth’s rules forbid me from doing so, but I do not wish to take him in permanently. I’m sure you understand that I don’t want my kingdom to be destroyed by his powers or... for it to eventually be overrun by folks from Heaven and Hell, when it comes to it.” He sighed. “Do traverse the Labyrinth and take him back, demon. Otherwise, we might be faced with a far greater measure of destruction than is already likely to follow him Aboveground.”

Crowley, who had found the grass at the tips of his shoes especially fascinating the last minute or so looked up sharply when the Goblin King sighed loudly.

“Think about it, demon. You still have thirteen hours from now to come and claim him back. Trust me that I will make your life living hell in new, creative ways if you don’t.”

Crowley hadn’t been listening to everything Jareth had said, too busy still panicking about the impending end of the world while wondering several times why the Goblin King looked so familiar, but he had heard the last part.

He gulped and forced himself to smile.

“Sure. I guess I’ll think about it. Uh... See ya!”

He gave a wave of his hand as he turned and sauntered with dangerously shaky steps back to his car.

He’d have to call Aziraphale. Aziraphale would know what to do.

In hindsight, maybe he should have called Aziraphale before wishing the boy away.

Oh well, it was too late for that line of thought now.

As Crowley drove away (in search for the nearest phone booth), Jareth kept holding onto the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness and scowled.

He had planned to relax today, maybe enact only two boggings (the goblins in question had taken the chicken tossing too far and had hit him square in the face the other day. They had escaped but Jareth had found out their names, which would be enough). He had planned to have a Good Day.

This however? This didn’t look like it was going to be one.

*

The world wasn’t, as most people would have you believe, influenced by two great powers.

The lack of knowledge about the third wasn’t all that surprising, given that it had itself wished to not be involved in Heaven’s and Hell’s meddling with humanity or get tangled in their “weird kind of codependency”.

The third of the powers that be was neither good nor evil – much rather, it was a wild sort of chaos that was able to be precisely just what you imagined it to be.

And when you knew the right words, you might just be lucky enough to call on it.

*

“You did what?”

To say that Aziraphale sounded flabbergasted was an understatement like calling the melting polar caps a minor problem of Earth.

Crowley ran a slightly trembling hand through his hair, not noticing that he ruffled it up.

“I wished away the Antichrist. Sent him to the Goblin Kingdom.”

The voice on the other end of the phone call remained silent for a long moment.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale’s voice now was much more quiet and had an almost desperate edge to it. “You can’t just– wish away the Antichrist!”

“But I could, couldn’t I? I did, in fact, and now he’s being babysat by the Goblin King himself until the time’s up.”

“Crowley! You don’t even know what might happen after– even during those thirteen hours! We have no idea how his powers might react to wild fae magic! It might just bring about the end of the world faster than originally planned for all we know!"

Aziraphale was starting to sound frantic and Crowley’s hand was, by now, shaking noticeably as well.

“Alright, so what do we do now?”

“Go get back the Antichrist, I suppose.”

*

“You realize I can’t change the rules even for... people like you, do you?”

“I guess I can see why, yes.”

Aziraphale nodded and nudged Crowley’s arm when the demon didn’t respond to the Goblin King’s question.

Crowley, however, had been deep in thought, resulting in him asking the one question that had been on the tip of his tongue since he had first seen the Goblin King about an hour ago.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot like David Bowie?”

The Goblin King didn’t reply, just gave him a terrifyingly wide smile in response as he held the Antichrist in his arms.

“Alright, the child. The Antichrist.” Aziraphale tried to get their attention back to the urgent matter at hand. “I’m aware that the rules give us thirteen hours to–”

“Twelve hours and ten minutes by now.”

“—solve the Labyrinth and get back the child you have taken. Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat as the Goblin King continued staring him down.

“Uhm.”

“Usually, only the one making the wish gets to run the Labyrinth, but as the rules aren’t very clear on this, I can twist them somewhat. You may run together. Let’s hope for all of us that it’ll help.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who had remained silent after asking his strange and out of nowhere question.

“I don’t want Hell’s Antichrist here any more than you do,” Jareth continued, sounding vaguely annoyed despite continuing to calmingly rock the baby in his arms.

“So you better make an effort – a successful one – and take him back.” He looked at them both, individually, before adding: “I’ll be waiting in my castle in the center of the Labyrinth.”

With that, he disappeared.

“Well, that didn’t sound too difficult.” Aziraphale smiled nervously at Crowley. “We can do this, we’re an angel and a demon, after all! What is a magical labyrinth to us, right?”

“...”

Crowley didn’t meet his gaze, instead looking out over the vast expanse of the Labyrinth in front of them. Inwardly, he cursed himself for his own stupidity.

Wishing the Antichrist away like a nervous teenager unwilling to babysit their baby brother.

In the oddest sense of the word, he supposed, that was exactly what it was.

He was only pulled out of his thoughts when a warm hand grabbed his and Aziraphale smiled at him reassuringly.

“Come on, Crowley, let’s get the boy back.”

Crowley managed a weak nod and followed Aziraphale, who clearly was doing better at trying to convince himself of the upsides of their current situation.

“Come on, feet!”

Crowley sighed but couldn’t resist a tiny smile at the comment.

Together, they made their way downhill.

*

Glitter.

The damn glitter was everywhere. On his jacket, his shoes, his glasses...

Aziraphale either didn’t notice or didn’t mind the light silvery glitter making him shimmer in the light as they walked down the seemingly endless corridor.

Crowley sighed but refrained from commenting on the obvious.

*

“’ello!���

“Oh, hello there, my friend!”

Aziraphale crouched down to be on eye level with what appeared to be a little blue worm.

“We’re trying to cross this labyrinth, but we can’t seem to find our way out of this corridor.” Aziraphale smiled at the tiny worm, who looked at him with big blinking eyes.

“Oh, you should come inside an’ meet the missus. The tea should just be ready.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, somewhat at a loss. “We’re a bit in a hurry right now, I’m afraid ...but maybe on our way back?”

Crowley nodded, although there were more important things than tea dates with magical worms on his mind right now. Such as finding the Antichrist in order to ensure his own continued existence, for one.

“Lovely!” the worm exclaimed. “You two are the first who didn’t outright decline the offer, the missus an’ I do appreciate that, really!”

Crowley nodded again and gestured for Aziraphale to get on with it, becoming impatient.

“Uhm, the exit to this corridor, kind sir?”

“Ah yes, the exit! You aren’t looking for a door an’ you will have to look from the right angle to find it!”

Crowley nodded and, without another word, turned into his old form.

“Oh, fancy that skill!” The worm commented and nodded in approval.

Crowley slithered along the wall, turning his head this way and that way, until the wall seemed to give way beneath him. Or rather, disappear.

“There’sss another pathway right here, angel.”

He turned back into his human form and went to take Aziraphale’s hand in his to pull him along when he didn’t move.

But Aziraphale didn’t budge even so.

“We don’t even know what direction to take yet, Crowley!”

Crowley sighed heavily.

“Alright, Mister Worm, what direction should we take?”

“Take a turn to the right, this should fit your purpose. The path to the left is filled with grave dangers!”

His eyes widened comically and Crowley grinned at him.

“What dangers might those be?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale’s hand twitch in his own and became aware of the heat rising in his cheeks when he realized that he was still holding the angel’s hand.

“The path to the left ...it leads straight to the center of the Labyrinth!”

Aziraphale turned sharply toward Crowley.

“Then the path to the left is the one we need to take!”

“But–”

“Thank you again, kind sir. I will keep your offer for tea in mind.”

Crowley turned toward the new path and felt, just as he was trying to let go of Aziraphale’s hand unnoticed, that the angel held on tighter to his own. Unsure what to say – or if he should say anything in the first place – he continued on, Aziraphale by his side.

The worm looked torn as they left, unhappy to see them choosing the more dangerous of the two options. But they had asked the right question and gotten their answer.

In the castle, the Goblin King nodded at a crystal sphere in satisfaction while rocking the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness. They might very well make it in good time.

*

“Crowley, I’m starving!” Aziraphale was wailing and Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You can’t starve, you’re an angel.”

“But still, I very much feel like I am.”

Crowley got distracted by something to his right rustling in some sparkling bushes, so he didn’t notice Aziraphale moving on ahead and looking around the corner of the pathway.

He didn’t see Aziraphale’s delighted facial expression at the sight of an apricot tree that was yielding a lot of beautiful, ripe fruit.

He also didn’t see Aziraphale’s plucking an apricot from the tree or how he pulled out a handkerchief to quickly clean it.

And he didn’t see Aziraphale take a bite of the apricot or the moment of realization he had, mirrored in his widened eyes.

He did hear Aziraphale’s physical form hitting the grassy ground beneath his feet and was running toward him before he could even see what had happened.

He felt the panic rise in his chest.

“Aziraphale! Aziraphale, what happened?”

When Crowley reached him he still hadn’t gotten a reply or any other reaction, so he let himself fall to his knees to take a better look at the angel.

He was still breathing, which... Wasn’t a requirement for a heavenly being, but at least seemed to indicate that, albeit unconscious, Aziraphale hadn’t been discorporated... or worse.

Crowley frantically looked around, trying to figure out what had happened.

Then he saw it and froze.

Lying on the ground not far from Aziraphale’s outstretched arm and clearly bitten into – a peach.

Crowley growled in frustration.

They should’ve brought sandwiches.

A clearly magical sphere floated by him and Crowley managed to get a glimpse at the translucent image it showed.

It was Aziraphale, looking confused and kind of lost, in a ballroom, surrounded by ballgoers whose faces were covered with masks.

The people were staring at him, making it hard for him to pass through the mass. Then, music must have started playing, because several people started dancing and Aziraphale’s eyes lit up in delight.

“Damn it, angel,” Crowley hissed to himself.

A second glance into the sphere showed him Aziraphale dancing among the crowd and... a very annoyed looking person who could only be the Goblin King himself, albeit disguised with a mask. When said Goblin King turned to stare up at him through the magical sphere, Crowley cursed again and took a step toward the apricot tree.

They were all round and ripe, the perfect apricots. Since they would all hopefully lead to the same thing, however, he plucked one at random. 

He hissed in his best snakely manner at the fruit he held with his fingertips and reminded himself that he was doing this for Aziraphale. So that after that, they could continue searching for the Antichrist.

Damn hell.

He took a bite and felt himself falling.

Damn all fruit trees.

*

When he came to, the first thing he noticed was that the world seemed brighter than before. Looking around, he decided that hundreds of candles seemed to be to blame for that. Second, things seemed rather... peachy. But not in the all-is-well kind of way, but in the way that the taste of the godforsaken peach he had eaten was still lingering on his tongue, coating his mouth and, quite oddly, also affecting his other senses, almost... clouding them.

He didn’t like that one bit.

He continued down an already quite crowded hallway and reached a big double door that presumably led to the ballroom he had seen. He pushed it open and shuddered momentarily at the sight in front of him. There were way too many people attending this ball for what he considered to be his comfort zone, if one were to ask him. But since nobody was asking him, he went on inside, hoping to find Aziraphale as fast as possible.

People were laughing and giggling almost manically as he made his way through the crowd, having to push more than a few of the ballgoers aside when they seemed to intentionally block his path or hold onto his sleeves.

He was getting rather annoyed by the time he spotted Aziraphale, standing rather lost in the middle of the ballroom. The spark Crowley had momentarily seen in his eyes in the crystal was gone and he looked rather worried as he unconsciously fussed with the hem of his coat sleeves. When his eyes met Crowley’s, however, they seemed to light up again and he started to make his way toward the demon.

Crowley felt relief wash over him when he came to stand in front of Aziraphale and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“Don’t. Don’t ever just do something so stupid ever again! I thought you had died or something for a moment!“

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened and he looked so sorry and–

“Aargh, stop it, angel! I know you’re sorry, let’s just. Find a way out of here.”

Crowley turned around and started looking for the ballroom door, just to find it was ...gone.

“What in all seven –”

He turned back to Aziraphale when he felt the angel’s hand gently on his shoulder.

“It’s gone, Crowley.”

“What do you mean, it’s gone? It was right over there mere minutes ago!”

Aziraphale shook his head.

“I checked after I appeared here, as well, but the door was gone again moments after my arrival.”

“So what do we do now?”

Crowley was starting to feel antsy. Things were not developing in their favor.

Suddenly, music began to play. There were no musicians to be seen, except for–

“I’ll eat a damn hat if that isn’t the Goblin King himself.”

Aziraphale followed his gaze to the other side of the room where Jareth the Goblin King was standing in an inexplicable beam of light and, by all appearance, was about to start to sing.

The two of them were so surprised by his appearance, however, that they noticed only too late that the crowd had started to close in on them, pressing in from all sizes and leaving them surrounded by a slowly moving circle.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. If not for me, we weren’t stuck in this mess of a situation.”

Crowley took a sharp breath when Aziraphale reached out and held his hand.

He obviously didn’t mind holding the angel’s hand, but he also feared the treacherous color that rose to his cheeks the last few times it had happened.

Aziraphale must have noticed his intake of breath, because he let go of Crowley’s hand all of a sudden, a quiet sadness overtaking his eyes.

“There’s such a sad love,

deep in your eyes...”

Jareth was, in fact, singing now, and Crowley felt awful. They were running out to time to fix the mistake he had made and now they both were stuck in this place with Aziraphale looking like Crowley had kicked him.

Crowley remained quiet for a moment, lowering his gaze to the ground when he noticed Aziraphale turning away his gaze.

The Labyrinth was a place full of riddles, going by what Jareth had told them at the beginning. So maybe being stuck in a ballroom meant...

He looked up with an apologetic smile and held out his hand to Aziraphale.

“There’s such a fooled heart,

beating so fast in search of new dreams,

a love that will last...”

“Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale was looking at him and then at Crowley’s extended hand. He looked back at Crowley and, after a moment of hesitation, took his hand and let himself slowly be pulled in.

“Maybe this is gonna fix things.”

Aziraphale frowned slightly and Crowley let out a small nervous laugh, his breath brushing over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“...maybe it’s not, but it seems worth a try, right?”

Aziraphale met his gaze and nodded.

He looked back at the ballgoers surrounding them, a sort of dancing carrousel by this point, and frowned in thought.

“Perhaps we’ll manage to get closer to the Goblin King, that way. We should try to ask him what to do.”

Crowley nodded and felt warmth rise in his cheeks when Aziraphale squeezed his hand and took a step closer.

“I’ll paint you mornings of gold...”

“Let’s dance, my dear.”

“I’ll spin you Valentine evenings...”

Crowley nodded and took the first step.

And they danced.

*

While they were slowly swaying to the rhythm of the music, the ballgoers around them were still talking and pointing and moving around them.

Crowley tried to focus on the warmth that Aziraphale was giving off and not on ...everything else. He hoped that this would work. Things had obviously gone too well previously and...

“But I'll be there for you... as the world falls down.”

...Aziraphale was holding him, not letting go.

They made their way across the room in a slow pace, the crowd around them letting them move as long as they continued dancing.

“Falling... Falling...”

“It’s working,” Aziraphale breathed out in astonishment when he realized what was happening.

“Falling...”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed quietly and held on for dear life.

“Falling in love...”

*

By the time the song ended, they had also reached the Goblin King, who was giving them a long, contemplative look. In one hand he was holding a ball mask, which he made disappear in exchange for another crystal. He let it run up and down his hand as he looked at them a moment longer, before this gaze fell to their still joined hands again.

“You’ve made it all the way here. What do you want?”

The astonished look must have been similar on both their faces.

“We want out, obviously,” Aziraphale stated.

“Are you certain of that?” Jareth asked. “Even if out of here and out there might mean a less pleasant life for both of you?”

Crowley cocked his head in inquiry.

“The whole doomsday situation. And–” Jareth nodded toward their joined hands. “–that, perhaps, even more.”

Crowley saw Aziraphale blush and look away out of the corner of his eye, but the angel didn’t withdraw his hand.

Somehow, confidence at last got a hold of Crowley and he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand as he grinned at the Goblin King.

“We’ll figure it out.”

To their surprise, the Goblin King threw the crystal up in the air.

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Jareth grinned back at them and around them, the world fell down.

*

After that, finding the castle in the center of the Labyrinth was a piece of cake.

They ran into a bunch of goblins and other fae folk, but for the most part, the direction they had to take was clear and their path free of dangers.

They had talked some and both realized that they were “absolute morons”, as Crowley had put it, smilingly. Aziraphale had returned his smile, equally radiant in its nature, and had gently squeezed his hand. They would talk about this once they had left the Labyrinth (‘this’ being their strong mutual affection that they both had previously been too nervous about to realize that it was reciprocated; ‘previously’ being the past four thousand years, give or take).

They also talked about the Antichrist and what they would do once they got him back from Jareth.

“Bring him to his new parents, of course.”

“Yes, of course, but what... what about his upbringing?”

“You aren’t suggesting...?”

Aziraphale nodded and, as they continued walking, they formed a plan.

*

They still had more than enough time to spare by the time they entered the castle together, only letting go of each other’s hands for the first time in hours to push open the big front gate.

They found the Goblin King and the baby in a big room at the center of the castle.

“At long last, here you are. And here ...you are.” Jareth grinned a toothy grin as he handed over the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness to Crowley. Then, he let himself fall back onto what appeared to be a fairly uncomfortable big chair that, on a second thought, seemed to function as a throne.

“You did it, great! And with four hours to spare, on top of that!”

As he shifted the Antichrist in his arms, Crowley heard Aziraphale exhale in relief next to him. Quite frankly, if the end of the world weren’t as immediate as it unfortunately was, he would have gladly spent the next two decades sleeping.

“So– any further... life-changing happenings or the like since you left my ballroom?”

When the two didn’t reply immediately, Jareth flashed a grin that only lasted for a moment, before being replaced by a more neutral expression.

“I have been told that it seems to be somewhat of a common experience among runners.”

Aziraphale turned a lovely shade of red and Crowley found himself rather tempted to just ...Ah, to hell with it.

He took Aziraphale’s hand in his as gently as he could while not jostling the baby on his arm and felt Jareth’s gaze on them even as he finally allowed the love he felt for Aziraphale to show when he looked at the angel.

When he looked back at Jareth, the Goblin King was smiling.

“So, there’s hope for you lot yet.”

*

With the Goblin King’s help, the three of them reappear Aboveground somewhere in the outskirts of Tadfield a short time later. The Bentley stood waiting for them a couple of meters down the road.

“Well, here we are.” Aziraphale looked down at the basket that was now, once again, holding the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness.

“Here we are...,” Crowley mumbled, when, suddenly, the thing that had been nagging him at the back of his mind for the past few hours finally surfaced.

“Oh, crap, we’re late for the birth of the other baby!”

Aziraphale paled and Crowley felt the panic rise in his veins.

“I’ll have to reorder time, though I don’t know if I can manage to turn back all thirteen hours, but I’ll have to try and–”

“Perhaps I could help with that.”

An owl sitting on a nearby tree branch turned into Jareth casually leaning against said tree’s trunk.

“Time is easily affected by my magic, Aboveground and Underground.”

A clock appeared in the air next to him, as if required for the impending demonstration.

The Goblin King snapped his fingers and for a split moment, Crowley and Aziraphale felt air and time rush past them. Then, it was night again and the clock on Crowley’s watch – just like Jareth’s flying clock – indicated that it was still 11.24 pm, mere minutes after Crowley had originally left Hastur and Ligur at the graveyard.

“Well, go then!”

Jareth made a shooing motion with his hands when the two others just continued staring at him for a moment.

“In that case... Thank you.” Aziraphale smiled and looked like he wanted to step forward and shake Jareth’s hand before coming to think better of it.

“Yeah, thank you, I guess. Spared us a lot of trouble if that had come out.” Crowley gave him what he hoped looked like an appreciative nod.

“Nevermind, I’m glad he’s not going to grow up with me. I have enough on my plate as it is.” The Goblin King sighed and shook his head.

“You still look like David Bowie, though,” Crowley couldn’t help but mention again.

Jareth just grinned at that and, within a blink of the eye, was gone.

Aziraphale sighed as they began walking toward the Bentley.

“You just had to point that out again, didn’t you?”

“Well, he does look an awful lot like David Bowie! Don’t blame me for stating the obvious!”

They continued their friendly bickering as they approached Tadfield, smiles on their faces and a plan for the upbringing of the Antichrist in the works. It was bound to go wrong, of course, before it would go right again, in the end.

A barn owl followed the Bentley down the street for a minute before disappearing in a light shower of glitter.

[mostweakhamlets]

weird request but could I ask for something domestic? it can be canon or any au. just imagining those two like haggling at a farmer's market or picking out new furniture for the south downs

Not exactly domestic, but kinda domestic. They were supposed to leave the house, but I got carried away thinking about them staying in 

vlogger au:

--

Crowley suggests they explore town their first weekend in the South Downs. Aziraphale is eager to ger his personal library set up, but Crowley insists that they get out for a breath of fresh air. It’ll be better than digging through boxes for another day. 

“You packed up all your dust with you,” Crowley says, a sneeze caught in his nose. “Let’s go, angel. Your books will be here when we get back.”

Aziraphale looks around his room. To enter his library, one would need to enter through a regular door in the hallway. It would appear to be nothing more than a closet before stepping in. Then, it would appear to be an architectural mix of the world’s greatest libraries--all of Oxford’s, Cambridge’s, a touch of Alexandria. It would be breathtaking and stretch on for ages. 

The shelves were currently mostly empty, and old cardboard boxes all over the floor ruined the aesthetic. But Aziraphale looked quite at home, sitting on the floor, surrounded by his books and he unboxed them. 

“I don’t know, dear. Isn’t it supposed to rain later?” 

“It’s always going to rain. It’s England.”

“But I wouldn’t want us to get caught in it. Not when it’s warm and dry in here.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him. Crowley was weak for that smile. It was the smile that got Aziraphale dinners at the Ritz, extra bottles of wine, and little pastries from down the street in London. It was the smile that got Crowley to sit next to him and open a new box of books. 

“This is very kind of you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Crowley knew that Aziraphale was anxious about moving for the first time in centuries. When they drove away from the bookshop, Aziraphale had kept his head turned to his window, but Crowley could see that he was blinking back tears. Crowley made sure that he bought a new CD for their trip so that Aziraphale could have comfort music. It had since turned into The Best of Queen, but Crowley had collected spares that the Bentley hadn’t seen yet. 

“We could see if there’s any nice restaurants in town,” Aziraphale continued. “Whatever you’re in the mood for. And we do have more wine, I believe. Somewhere in the mess in the kitchen.” 

“We can look for it later,” Crowley said. “I don’t know why you wanted to buy so many pots and cooking... things.”

“I’d like to start cooking, my dear. It’s been ages since I’ve done it, but I don’t think I’ve lost my touch. It might be a while before we actually see results, though.”

“It’s fine.” The kitchen, like the library, was full of boxes and only a few unpacked necessities. “We can find places in town in the meantime.”

Crowley pulled out his phone from his back pocket and began looking for nearby restaurants--something he knew Aziraphale would enjoy. Maybe sushi or a place with an extensive dessert menu. He would insist that it was what he was in the mood for, but it would truly be to see Aziraphale wiggle happily in his seat and hear him admit that he was enjoying their new home. 

After 30 minutes of reading reviews and scoping out menus, Crowley noticed Aziraphale was 50 pages into a book. 

“I thought we were unpacking.”

“We were, but I thought a break would be nice,” Aziraphale said, turning a page and then another only half a minute later. 

Crowley pulled the book away from Aziraphale’s lap and replaced it with his head. Aziraphale smiled down. He put one hand on Crowley’s chest and the other played with his hair. 

“Let’s talk then,” Crowley said, lacing his fingers over his stomach and crossing his ankles. 

“About what, dear?”

“Do you really want to be here?”

Aziraphale blinked. His hands stilled. “What do you mean? Of course, I do!”

“Then why stay inside all day?” 

“We’re still settling in.”

“But I’ve been more social than you have. That’s not good. We have neighbors who want to meet you.”

“They’ll have to wait. And I’m not that social of a person. You know I like keeping to myself.”

Crowley scoffed. “You love meeting people as long as they’re not trying to take any of your precious books.”

Aziraphale was quiet. Crowley’s stomach felt wrong. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to bring it up. Or the right way. Maybe Aziraphale knew that he was being a shut-in and just needed time to work through it himself. 

Crowley fiddled with a button on Aziraphale’s waistcoat. The fabric around it was worn down. Threads were torn and frayed. No matter what, Aziraphale refused to get it fixed or allow Crowley to miracle it back to how it once looked. He had fussed the day a button finally broke free of its last stitch until he managed to sew it back on himself. Suggesting getting a new one just made Aziraphale roll his eyes at Crowley with a comment about how he wouldn’t understand not needing to change and update his life every time there was a new human trend. 

Crowley thought of it more as a need to not change. Ever. 

“I’ll try to be better,” Aziraphale finally said. “We can start going out, and I can catch up to speed.”

Crowley shook his head. “No, that’s not what I’m saying, angel. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable. If you want, we can pack back up and be in London tonight.”

“I’d like to give this a chance. But...”

“It’s too fast?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Just a touch.” 

Crowley reached up to touch Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale leaned into it until Crowley was stroking his soft jaw. 

“Let’s stay in for tonight,” Crowley said. “And then tomorrow we can go on a walk.” 

“That sounds like a fine plan.” 

“You can finally meet the neighbors, and they can finally stop asking me about you.”

“Oh! What have you told them?”

“Just the basics.”

“Good.”

“But I did tell them all something different about you.”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s hand away from his cheek. “I don’t suppose you told them a single truth?”

Crowley smiled. “Come on, angel. What’s the fun in telling them the truth?”

[sharada-n]

Febuwhump day 4 - Impaling

Fandom: Good Omens

(because sometimes you need to write some good old Aziraphale!whump to treat yourself!)

Many times since arriving in this cold and dark country had Aziraphale thought he would have been better off staying in London.

Not because of the weather, which was dreadfully dour and worse than what he was used to, for so far as that was still possible. Not for the people, who were broody and suspicious of strangers – certainly strangers who were quirky and fair with a bounciness to their step and panache to their speech. Not even the terrible meals were what made Aziraphale regret sailing over here.

Oh no, it was his own curiosity he lamented.

Curiosity wasn't a virtue to humans, and for angels even less so. But Aziraphale was weak and wont to give in to his own whims and as he was pushed against the moist forest ground scattered with dead leaves by two men, he realized he couldn't name the little village he had been staying in, or which country this was.

They did tell him curiosity killed the cat.

The boy was barely a few years into puberty, dark hair and big green eyes that only grew wider in fear when his father pressed the wooden stake and the hammer into his hands. Hawthorne carved and sculpted and said to be perfect to extirpate the creatures of myth that were currently rumored to roam these parts. The same myths Aziraphale had traveled so far to learn more about, to record for the sake of human peculiarities.

The father spoke in rushed tones, a language Aziraphale knew as he did all others, but didn't hear often in the Queen's country. His speech was too disjointed to make out much anyway, though the underlying purpose was clear. Somehow they had become convinced that those terrible soulless creatures of the night were real.

And that Aziraphale was one of them.

With the intent of keeping their families safe and keeping themselves safe, they had decided to take the only logical course of action and kill him. Two men kept a firm grip on Aziraphale's arms, calloused hands digging into the wool of his coat and using force to push him to his knees. The third man had brought his young son, Aziraphale could not decipher why. but he could decipher perfectly what his intention was as he handed the stake over to the boy, pointing a finger and talking another few low words.

A scared glance was sent his way before the boy was shaking his head, fingers curled around the wood and he was shivering either from fear or cold as he tried to force the improvised tools back into his father's hands. For all his efforts, they were only put back into his own. Another few words and then the father shoved his son forward with a firm push to the small of his back.

The dim dusk light reflected off the tears threatening to spill from the boy's eyes. Aziraphale wanted to say something – wanted to tell the poor lad that this was all a big mistake and he shouldn't have to do this – but the words had dried on his tongue like holy water in the pits of hell. Motionless, he watched the child raise the stake with one hand, the hammer with the other, pressing it up to their own shoulders in anticipation.

Then it descended towards Aziraphale's chest.

Pain ripped through his being as the stake pierced his skin, burrowing into the flesh beneath. Aziraphale hadn't been frightened – such a silly human emotion for one who couldn't die. And while not the most gracious way to go, being staked at least was supposed to be quick and instant when done right.

Which was how he realized seconds later, it had not been done right.

The ripples of agony were radiating too low, below his ribcage and when he opened his eyes he could see blood pool out and stain his waistcoat, making dark patches against the ground. The stake had buried deep, but too low. Much too low to reach his heart.

The boy realized his mistake at the same time, letting out a high-pitched and terrified squeak. One of the men holding Aziraphale's arms let go in surprise, but he didn't manage much more than to slump forward, renewing the pain from his wound to new heights. Blinking out of his stupor, the father started loudly cursing at his son for failing what was probably perceived as a simple task, a rite of approaching adulthood for people of their craft. He snatched the hammer out of the boy's hands and then went to make a grab for the stake still protruding from Aziraphale's chest.

A smothered gasp escaped him, the wood actually being a lot more painful when exiting than when it went in. The foul taste of iron spread in Aziraphale's throat, blood coming up with unsubdued coughs to stain his lips.

On command, the other man let go too and then Aziraphale was tumbling backward, the back of his head hitting the ground with a dull thud, getting leaves tangled in his curls. He could barely see the sky through the trees and his vision was already growing hazy.

Truly, God must have been in the foulest of moods when she came up with the blessing of a drawn-out death.

The father towered over him in blurry shapes, the stake the only remaining solid objects in Aziraphale's vision and he had given up praying a long time ago – hadn't seen the use of it when he had a direct line to heaven itself – but at that moment he could only hope it would be swift and painless.

But what he was waiting for never came.

Instead, it was Crowley's hands that touched his cheeks, traveled coldly down the length of his neck and downward more to pull his coat to the side. Aziraphale tried to protest, a vague murmur with no strength behind it that was cut off by a gasp when he felt his own corporal tissue sewing itself together. The pain was indescribable and far worse than the stake had been.

Then Crowley was trying to hoist him up by his armpits to get him into a seated position. Hurt echoed through him, but not as unbearable as before and Aziraphale managed to comply, leaning against the other for support. His head fell onto Crowley's shoulder.

"You shouldn't waste a miracle on me, dear fellow." Even speaking was hard with traces of blood clogging up his throat. The wound had healed enough to not be fatal anymore, but not much more than that.

"Do piss off," was Crowley's response, ever eloquent. His head whipped from side to side as if he was looking for something but he seemed to think better of it. "C'mon then."

Aziraphale shook his head, indicating he was in no position to go gallivanting off just yet. He feared that using his legs now would only cause them to collapse underneath him. "Where are the humans, the boy-"

"I didn't kill them if that's what you're asking," Crowley said, the faint traces of displeasure on his face. He was too humanely pale with worry.

Forcing a smile that might resemble more of a grimace in the current circumstances, Aziraphale answered. "I wasn't."

Crowley looked at him, the fiery color of his eyes over the spectacles and Aziraphale always thought he looked a bit silly like that. But he never mentioned it. Knowing when to keep your tongue was not a human virtue either, but it certainly was a divine one.

"How did you find me?" he asked when he felt recovered enough to get up. Crowley supported him in the endeavor, throwing one of Aziraphale's arms over his shoulder and keeping his own curled tight around his waist.

Crowley carefully started moving, throwing continued glances at his face to make sure he wasn't in any undue pain. "You pinned a note on the door of the bookshop, angel. Said you were going to hunt vampires?"

"It was in jest."

"You don't say." Crowley kicked at the stake on the ground, stained red with Aziraphale's blood. Dropped in the men's haste to get away from a real creature of the night making its appearance. "Looks like they found you first. You really are stellar at getting into trouble, you know. Good thing I'm always there to save you."

Aziraphale tried to laugh, but his chest hurt too much to allow it. "I do hope that was also in jest."

Crowley didn't reply. And that in itself might have been answer enough.

[topaziraphale]

the same people who hc aziraphale as being weak/not being a warrior are the same people who LOVE crowley being this super suave tempter. hello, the whole POINT of good omens is that they are neither of what they are expected to be. aziraphale rejects his role as a warrior, but that does not mean he is weak. crowley's job is to be a this suave, amazing tempter, but meanwhile he's just Anxious. aziraphale is Strong and crowley is a tempter, its just not in the way their sides want them to be.

I think a big part that plays into the charm of these two main characters is exactly that - at first, you have certain ideas for how an angel and demon character might act, especially with how they’re normally depicted in pop culture and stuff, but then you quickly learn that they’re just not quite what you’re expecting. Aziraphale and Crowley both subvert the audience’s expectations of them as well as what is expected of them by the other characters - in this case, Heaven and Hell respectively. 

This actually ended up being way longer of an answer than I thought it would, so I’m putting the rest of it under a cut. For those that don’t feel like reading it all and just want a summary:

I basically talk about how Crowley puts up an element of coolness and style in what he does as a demon except for when it comes to direct temptations, and then I offer a little mini-dive into his psyche and how there’s a lot of vulnerability underneath his Cool And Definitely Not-Nice persona. Then I talk about how Aziraphale is in fact a soldier of Heaven, one who is capable of being a warrior, and how him not wanting to fight in the war is not a display of weakness, but rather one of great strength.

Also, all of the quotes I use here are from memory, so there’s a chance some of them aren’t exact.

When Crowley does his job, he does it with elements of coolness and style to it. (Note: What he perceives as cool, because some of the stuff he finds cool is actually kinda dorky. In a lovable way, of course.) But that’s for when he has his next big idea on how to generate petty low-grade evil. It’s how we end up with him cutting off a phone network by infesting a building with rats and using the guise of a technician to waltz in there and pour coffee into a cable-box-thingy, rather than him just snapping his fingers and making the networks go down that way. The ladder method is boring and not very cool. 

But you’ll notice he doesn’t approach direct temptations the same way. I can see where one might think he puts as much effort into being cool and suave when it comes to making temptations, due to the way he presents himself, but honestly, all he really does is just make you see something in a different light. He just, talks. Talks and makes really good points. 

“What about diabolical plans? You’re supposed to thwart the wiles of the wicked one at every turn, aren’t you? You can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of the Divine Plan?”

“If there was no boy, then the process would stop. There’s a boy now, but that could change. Something could happen to him. I’m saying you could kill him. One life, for everything else.”

There’s no suave element in the way he does it, not much finesse. No extra fluff. He’s just saying what needs to be said, to make sure his idea is getting across. And it’s also fun to note that these acts of temptation are for Aziraphale - in fact, I don’t think we see him tempt humans at all after Eve. He’d rather set up elaborate schemes to ruin peoples’ days over actively participate in an act that could directly damn their souls. 

Sometimes, you have to wonder why he goes through so much effort to be this way when he knows that he’ll get in trouble for not doing his job...

Crowley puts up a front that he’s confident and content with what he is and the job he has to do. He always tries to play the act of a cool, stylish, perfect demon that is mean and evil and most definitely not a nice person. But we can see that underneath it all, he never meant to fall, and he’s still upset about it. He still doesn’t understand why it happened for what he did, and he knows he never will. He doesn’t like that the answer for it all is always chalked up to: It’s part of the Great Plan. We see him project the wrath of God onto his houseplants. We see him directly call out the nature of the Plan more than once, in the show.

I’ll even argue that he’s somewhat projecting onto Adam and Eve when he talks about how God punished them in the garden, when he first speaks to Aziraphale: “Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offense, and everything.”

Aziraphale, being an angel, is clearly part of the army of Heaven and is expected in battle. We even get reminded of this by the many times people ask him where the flaming sword is, and by Gabriel telling him he’s a mean, lean, fighting-machine. And once more when the Quartermaster informs him that his platoon is waiting for him - they wouldn’t be waiting for him if he wasn’t their lieutenant. The script book even implies his strength and power. To paraphrase the line: 

“He’s not threatening him (Crowley) with it (the flaming sword), just reminding him that he can do dangerous and very out-of-character things if he needs to.” 

And in the novel itself, it’s implied that after all this time, Aziraphale still has what it takes to fight if he absolutely must, when he picks up the sword in preparation to fight off Satan himself. 

“Once you’ve learned how to do it, you never forget.”

There’s no reason to think he doesn’t easily have the ability to be a warrior. And not only a warrior, but a strong one, at that.

Here’s the thing with Aziraphale: he doesn’t want to participate in this fight. He thinks it’s wrong, but he can’t admit it to himself, he can’t just outright say it. He jumps through plenty of mental hoops to try and find reason in the fact that Heaven wants Armageddon to happen.- he thinks his people might just be misguided, their intentions are good, sure, but he wants to show them that this way is better, that there doesn’t need to be another war, that they can save everyone. The beings of Heaven are always Good, right? For him to fully admit that what he thinks they’re doing is wrong is to also admit the flaws of his own angelic nature, that he’s just as capable of wrong, and that’s a terrifying thought. Look at how desperately he wants it all to work out:

But when push came to shove, and the entire world was at stake, and Heaven was all for it to happen despite Aziraphale’s efforts to show them otherwise, he had enough. He chose to not go back to Heaven to fight in the war. He chose to try and save the world, despite his actions being perceived as going directly against the Great Plan. In the series, he literally puts his foot down, looks the Quartermaster in the eye, and tells him: “I have no intention of fighting in any war. I was in the middle of something important, I demand to be returned!” And when nobody was helping him, he went and figured out how to get back himself. He finally had the strength to choose for himself what he thought was right over what was wrong.

I get confused and, even sometimes think to myself, Did we watch the same show?, when I see people interpret Aziraphale’s reluctance to fight as a sign of weakness or passiveness. That very decision he makes, after millennia of not daring to defy his superiors like that, took a lot of courage. It’s quite literally the heart of his character arc.