#aziraphale is mildly annoyed at best

[bipolargreen]

Crowley is a Class A Drama Queen. And I f*ckin LOVE it!!

[grey-and-green]

Here lies the former shell of Beelzebub

Another Good Omens 2 Theory

(Fair warning: I am operating on the personal opinion that all theories here could be extremely on the money or extremely not and their ‘correctness’ is in no way correlated to how fun they are to read/write. So this is NOT a 500 point essay of all the evidence, just an intriguing thought I felt others might enjoy also thinking about)

Also: spoilers

Right. Ok. Yes. So:

I hadn’t really read too much into the fact that Beelzebub got a “new face” for Season 2.

I had some mildly annoyed feelings that maybe the show wanted them to be more conventionally attractive now that they’ve got their own love story, but not much beyond that.

But…whilst scanning the intro for Clues…and pondering many a theory on Aziraphale defecting back to heaven…and how Gabriel serendipitously left a vacancy….

MAYBE:

Maybe this tombstone is a Clue?

Maybe this ties in with some Meddling going on (see Magic Trick You Didn’t See from @ariaste)?

Maybe Beelzebub DIDN’T just get a new face?

Maybe that isn’t actually the same Beelzebub from last season???

(Ok and maybe this epitaph is just an homage to the actor from season 1, but it’s more fun if it’s a Clue)

Hear me out?

Gabriel’s whole on-screen bond with Beelzebub happens AFTER the new face. We get some flashbacks from his POV of the years post-Apocalypsn’t, but the chain of custody on these memories is spotty AT BEST. Last time he seemed vaguely himself, heaven was already actively trying to mess with his memory. The Metatron was there.

For one prince of Heaven to be cast out makes a good story.

But if I wanted to really do some deep psychological manipulation of Aziraphale… then maybe this new story for Gabriel (showing Aziraphale that Angels really are good at their cores and/or when not in positions of power; that the Metatron might not frown on romance as much as we thought [although this is a ruse and we do need Crowley out of the picture])…well maybe this new love story (that conveniently mirrors something our Main Characters might just relate to)(but reads like maybe it was written by someone less invested than Neil Gaiman) makes quite an appealing narrative that someone might have reason to construct.

What if the “obvious” answer - that we just had to recast an actor and thought it’d be fun to add a fan fave ship - is actually just sleight of hand distracting us from a Big Fucking Clue?

(I have other thoughts about why Aziraphale is being re-recruited, but this post is just about this one Theory)

[kingstoken]

Full card for @feedthefandomfest smut edition!

Size Difference: A Big Request by EdosianOrchids901 Good Omens, E, Aziraphale/Crowley, 2671 words Summary: Over the millennia, Aziraphale has occasionally explored the pleasures of the flesh. But he’s never felt quite like this before, so eager to enjoy every inch of someone. And Crowley has plenty of inches for him to enjoy.

Dom/Sub: poor sucker by nihilistPNG Doctor Who, E, Twelve/Missy 2458 words Summary: The Doctor is a real misery guts today, Missy thinks. Seems like he’s been someplace bad. He’s wriggly, snarling and hiding at once as if he can’t decide whether to fight or submit, and in this state, he’s chosen to come to Missy. Crawled to her. And Missy loves to see it. It makes her jaw ache.

Orgasm Denial: Bondage in the Vault by sariane Doctor Who, E, Twelve/Missy, 5999 words Summary: The Doctor and Missy navigate bondage… in bondage.

Phone Sex: An Ode to Eclairs by Mrs_Cake_Is_Here, polychrome Good Omens, E, Aziraphale/Crowley, 3012 words Summary: When Aziraphale and Crowley’s love life gets a little stale, they decide to spice things up with a sexy phone call. Turns out, communication isn’t their strong suit.

Rough Sex: The Wound and the Stone Become Lovers by Zabbers Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 11,015 words Summary: When the TARDIS lands in an ancient stone chamber, a creature formed of fear and cruelty seizes the Doctor's mind in a psychic trap. It's up to Missy to confront this monster and rescue the Doctor—at great risk to herself.

Insert Kink (Praise Kink): Reinventing Old Memories by Selkies_Writing_Corner Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 2701 words Summary: What if at the end of The Eaters of the Light, Missy didn't let the Doctor walk away from her??

Rimming: Thank Heaven for Naughty Angels by HumoringHolly and Orth Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley, E, 2675 words Summary: Things take an unexpected turn on the lovers' drive to their dinner reservation at the Ritz.

Fluff and Smut: The cat that got the cream by Anonymous Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 4182 words Summary: The Doctor was having a nice day. And then a very annoyed mildly-feral Missy complicated it. It's the return of the cheetah virus. With another solution than just "don't fight it".

Fingering: sweet kisses can only be stolen by ThoscheiTrash Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 2307 words Summary: Missy always finds a way to be in charge, except… in the mornings, when they're both just sleepy and soft. Those stolen moments are the best part of the Doctor's day.

Sex/Smut: Seeing is Believing by in_motu_proprio Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 4137 words Summary: Hope is a dangerous thing. Missy crying, hair blowing in the breeze of the Tardis’ vent system. He’s watching her and she doesn’t know it. The Doctor SEES Missy for the first time in a long time.

Come Swallowing: Cravings by siluredore Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, M, 1500 words Summary: Missy has always liked playing with her food. With time, she has discovered that food takes many forms, the best one being her best friend.

Public Sex: everything begins with an idea by ThoscheiTrash Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 1293 words Summary: Missy takes the Doctor to her Gentleman's Club. He thanks her in the way she asks him to.

Sex Toys: Surrender by Riathel Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 200 words Summary: The Vault experiment is going well. The Doctor has Missy right where he wants her.

PWP: Navy Blue by KuraiTsuky Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, E, 266 words Summary: Immortality isn’t living forever, that’s not what it feels like. Immortality is everyone else dying. Except there is one person that doesn’t die, the one person he wants more than anyone in the Universe.

Oral Sex: Test Drive by flying_toasters (Jagodzianka) Doctor Who, Twelve/Missy, M, 100 words Summary: “I don't believe you’ve been a woman before,” the Doctor says. “Unless I missed an incarnation.”

[topaziraphale]

any nsfw headcanons?

Oh I have plenty, here are a few:

Aziraphale and Crowley have a thing for wall sex.

Crowley is very flexible, so he can get really adventurous with positions he wants to try out that would be totally outlandish for a human to do.

Going off of that, the flexibility 100% applies to his spine as well, given he’s a snake that is shaped like a human. He can arch like a female comic book superhero that was drawn by a man that doesn’t understand anatomy.

Crowley can do really weird things with his tongue, yes, so he has bonus points for when he goes down on Aziraphale, but when it’s the other way around, Aziraphale really gives him a run for his money. How that can be, Crowley still can’t figure it out.

I can imagine one of their favorite positions is Aziraphale sitting comfortably on a recliner or sofa while Crowley straddles his lap and rides him, telling his angel to relax and let him do all the work. He’s very good with his hips, and likes making them useful.

Aziraphale has a very difficult time keeping himself together whenever Crowley moans or shouts his name. Crowley knows this, and will sometimes absolutely use that knowledge to his advantage and tease Aziraphale to try to make him come before things really get started. To counter this, all Aziraphale has to do is give Crowley’s hair a good yank, and bam, Crowley’s a mess, his ability to speak temporarily offline.

Aziraphale actually doesn’t curse that much when he dirty talks, he’ll use his own decades-old lingo to describe things. Crowley somehow manages to find it really sexy, if not mildly annoying at times.

They both absolutely love to cuddle afterwards. Aziraphale likes to play up the idea that he gives the best hugs, but deep down he knows Crowley bests him at that. Meanwhile, Crowley will rather be caught dead before he ever admits to being a better cuddler than an angel.

[lady-divine-writes]

The Strange Side Effects of Cohabitation (Rated PG13)

This is a small narrative about how Aziraphale and Crowley decide to spend their lives with one another ... but also about the antics of bookshop and flat. (1041 words)

When Crowley and Aziraphale decide to live as a couple, they don’t move in together.

Not conventionally.

Instead, they cohabitate.

Which sounds like it should be synonymous, but it’s not.

After talking it over and touring numerous houses and flats, they can’t decide on one that they like equally. One beautiful flat that Crowley chose, with a perfect patio for his plants, had nothing in the way of space for a decent library. And a cottage Aziraphale simply adored was far too snug for Crowley’s tastes. The one house they could both agree on aesthetically was too far from Soho to make the daily commute feasible.

Whether their criticisms are valid (seeing as they both possess magic and could change any aspect from space to distance to suit their needs) doesn’t actually matter. They’d come to the conclusion that they spend most of their time at Aziraphale’s shop anyway.

Ergo, they don’t need to search for a new home.

They both had a home all along.

So they create a portal from Aziraphale’s shop to Crowley’s flat.

If one were to walk into the large curio cabinet in Aziraphale’s back room - not the one filled with snuff boxes but the one with glass shelves lined entirely with porcelain ducks - they would end up in Crowley’s kitchen, having hopped out a pantry filled primarily with turnips and potatoes.

And vice versa.

The bookshop and the flat reject the idea at first, often times redirecting the portals to different destinations depending on their mood that day. One brisk Sunday afternoon, when Crowley wants to stop over at the bookshop for a brandy, his flat, at the end of its rope at how little time he spends there nowadays (or, more to the point, how much he prefers spending his time at the bookshop instead), re-routes Crowley to 15th Century France, where he’s spotted strolling out of the stables by three poor peasants who immediately fall to their knees before him, begging him not to drag them off to Hell, spoil their cow’s milk, or steal their unmarried daughter. (The unmarried daughter thing he feels is more of a ploy, but he chooses to overlook it.)

When he manages to find his way back to the present, he doesn’t get too annoyed with his flat. He understands that change is difficult to deal with sometimes, particularly for real estate. Plus, he got a decent goat out of the deal – Molly, he calls her - so there’s that.

One evening, when Crowley and Aziraphale are drunk and feeling amorous, they opt to slip through the curio cabinet to Crowley’s flat and end the night there. But the disgusted bookshop sends them to Madame Tracy’s, where they wind up interrupting her and Shadwell in the midst of similar minds to misbehave. That one turns out mildly uncomfortable considering everyone’s state of undress. But Aziraphale and Crowley button up, explain their predicament, and they all share a laugh. (At least, Aziraphale thinks Shadwell laughs. He more huffs and rolls his eyes a little less dramatically than usual, but Aziraphale figures that counts.) At Madame Tracy’s persuading, they open another bottle of brandy and play Pictionary until sunrise. And since she in no way objects to public displays of affection, it’s not too bad a continuation of the night the occult couple were originally enjoying.

Once bookshop and flat get more comfortable with one another, they actually begin to enjoy each other’s company - a bizarre relationship blooming between them the more Aziraphale and Crowley openly express their love for one another.

It makes sense, after all.

Mortal love isn’t a static thing. It effects everything that surrounds it, everyone who witnesses.

So imagine the effect that supernatural love must have on the world.

Their mixture of angelic blessing and demonic temptation touches everyone who walks by Aziraphale’s shop. For example, someone on a diet may, after passing his doorstep, be tempted to cheat and indulge in that slice of chocolate cake they’ve been fiending over for the past two weeks. But it will be the best slice of cake they’ve ever eaten, well worth falling off the wagon for. In the end, they won’t have gained an ounce, won’t feel guilty in the slightest, and simultaneously renew their devotion to their healthier lifestyle.

Someone with a mind to gamble, after narrowly escaping getting mowed down by an ominous black Bentley, might bet everything they have on the ponies that afternoon (inspired by their near-death experience), but not only will they win a king’s purse, they’ll decide that that was the bet to end all bets and give up gambling for good. They’ll also donate a portion of their winnings to charity, and spend their lives in the service of the less fortunate.

Likewise, bookshop and flat start melding natures. Every day, a new plant arrives in Aziraphale’s back room through the cabinet with vines growing up its sides and creeping their way across the ceiling. Crowley’s pantry is no longer full of potatoes but old books – volumes of them, the pantry itself expanding as new tomes are added.

There are other side effects of this relationship between bookshop and flat, too.

Unexpected side effects.

Opportune side effects.

One late evening, before Aziraphale has the chance to lock up, a young lady runs in – scared, weeping, her clothes torn, her face bruised. It takes only a glance for Aziraphale to understand. Without a word, he ushers her through the curio cabinet. The doors open at their approach. The vines that surround it wrap comfortingly around her and carry her off to safety seconds before a man bursts in, demanding to know where she’s gone.

On another occasion, a young demon manages to break into Crowley’s flat in search of the traitor Crowley. A small underground contingent of demons had put a price on his head – more for prestige than any actual reward since Beelzebub is happy to never hear Crowley’s name spoken aloud again.

During their search of the flat, they end up in the kitchen, the door to the pantry swinging free and creaking loudly. Sure they’ve found him, they rush inside.

After both incidents, neither the demon nor the man are heard from again.

[yourpaceangel]

in which crowley likes cats and aziraphale doesn’t

[Read on AO3]

“Um, Crowley? Could you come here a moment, dear?”

“Coming, angel,” Crowley popped into the back room, mug of hot cocoa for Aziraphale in one hand and mug of tea for himself in the other. “What seems to be the, oh.”

Aziraphale was staring at his chair in the corner of his back room, his comfy reading chair with the distressed leather seat and warm blanket tossed haphazardly across the back. More accurately, he was staring at what was in the chair. That being a small black cat, blessedly asleep and purring absently. Aziraphale turned to stare at Crowley expectantly.

Crowley handed Aziraphale his mug and cleared his throat. “Yes, well, that appears to be a cat.”

“I know what a cat is, Crowley, I was there when they were created. Why is there one in my chair?” Aziraphale gave Crowley a rather stern look.

Crowley scratched at the back of his head, “Ngh, well, you see, um, the thing is- really I mean it’s quite a long story, and-”

“Crowley?”

“It was cold this morning,” Crowley said, “I found her sleeping up under the wheel of the Bentley.”

“So you pulled her out,” Aziraphale said mildly, “and then you brought her here, to my book shop, where I don’t allow pets.”

“She’s not a pet,” Crowley insisted, “she’s just a stray.”

“You checked for an owner, then?”

Crowley said nothing, looking a little guilty.

“Crowley!”

Crowley put his hands up defensively, tea sloshing out over the rim of his mug. “Well I wasn’t just going to leave her there while I went inside to check the lost and found pets Facebook page now was I?”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “My dear-”

“Look I know how you feel about them, but just give me a couple of days to see if she has an owner and if not I’ll turn her over to the humane society, alright?”

Aziraphale gave a long suffering sigh. “Fine, but get it off my chair.”

Crowley put down his tea, mostly forgotten by this point, on Aziraphale’s desk and approached the chair. He made a small noise, crouching down. The cat blinked its eyes open, making an inquisitive ‘mrrp’ noise. “Hello darling,” Aziraphale heard Crowley say very quietly, quite possibly quiet enough he wasn’t meant to hear. The rest of his words were mumbled as he outstretched his hand. The cat stared at Crowley and then at his hand before deciding he wasn’t a threat. Crowley scratched her chin and then bundled her up in his arms. “...good…you…”

“You know,” Crowley said, standing up with the cat cradled to his chest, “Cats are good for catching mice.”

“So are snakes,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley carried the cat out of the room, muttering too low for Aziraphale to hear, but the tone of it was fond.

*

That night in bed, the cat safely tucked away downstairs and away from Aziraphale’s things, Aziraphale let his hand trail fondly up and down Crowley’s spine. “I didn’t even know you liked cats.” He said into Crowley’s temple.

Crowley huffed against his neck, eyelashes fluttering along the sensitive skin. “Clever creatures,” Crowley said, “Smart, independent; not like a dog that needs you to be there for it every minute of the day. They domesticated themselves, you know that? Bloody smart, clever little things. Why don’t you like them?” Crowley poked his bony finger into Aziraphale’s sternum, making him grunt.

“They shed,” Aziraphale said, “and they make a mess. They’re noisy and they tear things up when you don’t pay them enough mind. They’re spiteful. I get enough of that taking care of you.”

“Hey!”

Aziraphale patted Crowley’s shoulder, kissed his temple and the top of his head. “Not that I mind, with you.” He added.

Crowley grumbled, kicking his leg over Aziraphale’s hip and pulling him closer.

Aziraphale rubbed his knuckles over the vertebrae in Crowley’s spine, more there than a regular humans, pressing his palm down flat when he came across a cluster of scales at the base. Crowley dug closer in, like he was trying to press them impossibly closer. It was endearing. Aziraphale smiled into his hairline, trailing kisses over the parts of skin he could reach.

“Angel, let me sleep.”

“I’m not stopping you.” Aziraphale rubbed his thumb over smooth black scales until Crowley shivered.

Crowley pulled his head back, annoyed. “You are, with your,” he made a vague noise.

Aziraphale stilled his hands, “Would you like me to stop?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, then furrowed his eyebrows, “No. I don’t know. Just let me sleep.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale wound his fingers in the hair at the back of Crowley’s head to pull him back down against his neck.

Crowley sighed and slumped against him, fingers digging into Aziraphale’s silk pajama top. He was quiet for long enough Aziraphale thought he’d fallen asleep until he said, “The black ones get adopted less, you know?”

“Hm?”

“The black cats,” Crowley mumbled, “People don’t want them. Think they’re bad luck. She might stay in a cage, angel, if I give her up.”

Aziraphale groaned, clutching Crowley closer. “Not this,” Aziraphale clucked his tongue, irritated, “we’re not keeping it. Go to sleep.”

“Angel-”

“My love,” Aziraphale’s hand slipped down to Crowley’s bare hip, “sleep. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Fine,” Crowley mumbled, and finally drifted off to sleep.

*

Crowley breezed into the shop about midday, scarf tucked around his face and jacket zipped all the way up. He shoved his gloves into his pockets with a viciousness they didn’t deserve before unwinding the scarf. “Bloody winter ,” He spat.

“Any luck?” Aziraphale asked, taking his scarf to hang up in the back room.

Outside, the streets of London were covered in a fine bit of sleet. The view from Aziraphale’s shop window was a dismal gray, the sidewalk outside a dirty brown. The ice was barely enough to keep customers from invading his shop, though now with Crowley back Aziraphale decided to close early and flipped the sign to closed.

Crowley locked the door for him, unzipping his jacket enough to pull the damned cat out from against his chest.

The pink collar about its neck was not an encouraging sign.

“She’s not chipped,” Crowley said, putting the cat down on the ground and scratching behind its ear, “and no one around Mayfair is missing a black cat. Best guess is that she’s a stray.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale eyed the cat winding around Crowley’s feet. “Best take her to the humane society then.”

Crowley’s face fell, “Angel-”

“No,” Aziraphale shook his head, “Crowley, no. You said you’d take it to the humane society if you couldn’t find an owner.”

“You’ll barely even notice she’s around, angel,” Crowley said as the cat hopped up on a bookshelf.

Aziraphale eyed the creature with barely contained disdain. “I sincerely doubt that, my dear.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, pulling them snug together.

“You’re not going to sweet talk your way out of this one,” Aziraphale said, “I’ve made my mind up.”

Crowley pressed a firm kiss to Aziraphale’s neck and then trailed up to his jaw, tracing the skin with his tongue. “Aziraphale,” He said again, softly, squeezing the angel’s waist, “angel.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale said in warning.

Crowley hummed, nuzzling Aziraphale’s neck with his nose, pulling up to kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

Aziraphale, stubborn to a fault but ever unable to deny Crowley anything, softened. He sighed, slumping into Crowley’s hold. “You’ve already named it, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Crowley murmured, “her name is Salem.”

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose in disgust. “It’s not sleeping in the bed.” He said.

Crowley tilted his head back and laughed.

*

Crowley was asleep on the couch, as he ever was when Aziraphale had inventory to do. Aziraphale sat as he desk, papers spread out ahead of him, glasses perched on the edge of his nose as a cup of tea went cold beside him. He cross referenced two of his sheets and heard the jingle of a collar. He looked up to see the cat dart into the room. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes as the creature hopped up onto Crowley’s sleeping stomach, turning to watch him with its bright eyes.

“Right then,” He said, “you stay there.”

The room was warm, courtesy of a little space heater Crowley had brought over from his flat. It was unseasonably cold for early winter so Crowley didn’t go anywhere without a jumper and his space heater. Aziraphale shrugged out of his jacket and went to hang it up on the coat rack. He turned back around and the cat had taken up residence in his chair.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“Wazza?” Crowley turned his head, blinking sleepy eyes in confusion at Aziraphale.

“Your cat,” Aziraphale said, pointing at his chair.

“S’za cat, angel,” Crowley mumbled, closing his eyes, “just move her.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again. They both politely pretended it wasn’t a whine.

Crowley sighed and swung himself up off the couch. He stared down at the cat in Aziraphale’s desk chair, making eye contact with the little beast. After a beat, he said, “Get down.”

The cat started purring.

Crowley pointed his finger at it. “Down, now.”

The cat batted at his finger, purring louder.

Crowley turned around and shrugged at Aziraphale. “Nothing I can do, angel,” He kissed Aziraphale’s cheek on his way out of the room, “I’m going upstairs to sleep in the bed. Feed Salem before you come up.”

“I-”

Crowley was up the stairs before Aziraphale could raise a complaint. Aziraphale turned back to the cat, holding it’s gaze. “Right then,” He said, gathering up his papers to do in the kitchen.

*

“I said,” Aziraphale mumbled against Crowley’s chest, “the cat doesn’t sleep in the bed.”

Crowley chuckled into Aziraphale’s hair. The cat was pressed up against Crowley’s other side, blessedly asleep and purring loudly. Crowley ran his hand over Aziraphale’s shoulders and back soothingly. “It was cold downstairs, angel.”

“The two of you test me.”

“You like her.” Crowley teased, “you like me.”

“Sometimes I wonder why.”

Crowley pinched Aziraphale’s side, making him yelp. The cat picked its head up in annoyance, hissing at them. Crowley made a shushing noise. “Don’t get sassy.” He pulled Aziraphale closer, mumbling exasperatedly,  “Teenagers.”

Aziraphale huffed out a breath, amused.

The cat settled back down, a black void amongst their white bedding. Crowley settled a hand in her fur, rubbing absently. Crowley was almost asleep, pliant underneath him. Aziraphale pressed a wet kiss to the center of his chest.

“I guess she can stay,” He said, “but just for tonight.”

“Of course angel,” Crowley mumbled, and Aziraphale could feel his lips press to the top of his head, “just for tonight.”

*

“Shut up.”

Crowley tried to hide his grin, hanging up his coat. “Why, whatever do you mean?” He asked.

Aziraphale gave him a dirty look. He was sat in his favorite chair, book in hand, cat in his lap. “Not a word, Crowley, I mean it.”

Crowley huffed out something that might have been a laugh and crossed the room to sit on the arm of Aziraphale’s chair. “I’d sit in your lap,” he said, “but that seat seems rather occupied at the moment.”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley by the back of his neck to kiss him, biting at his lips and making him groan. When Aziraphale pulled away Crowley looked down at him a little dazed. “She’s warm.” Aziraphale said, in way of explanation.

Crowley hummed, nosing at Aziraphale’s curls, reaching down to pet a hand down Salem’s back. “You like her,” Crowley said, voice full of honeyed warmth.

“We have an understanding.” Aziraphale corrected, tilting his head up.

Crowley brushed their lips together. “An arrangement of sorts?”

“Oh do shut up.”

[creepy-crawley-crowley]

Naive - Crowley X Angel Female Reader

This was requested, and it was requested byyyyy: @adela-topaz-caelon

My lil request is a Crowley x Angel Reader where said Angel is an angel who was booted out of heaven because she's vaguely out of character for an angel, but is definitely one, and often helps the two men and they blatantly love each other but don't know, and Aziraphale is so tired of it, because he's noticed it since the beginning, and he just had enough. I don't mind if it's fluffy or smutty, or both, if you decide to take it on. I just would love your writing on this 😊

One: I FUCKING LOVE THIS REQUEST SO MUCH PLEASE SEND MORE I BEG YOU

Two: Oblivious but in love idiots are the best idiots haha

Warnings: uh, spicy at the end but it isn't full smut because I won't write full on smut like the furthest I will go is clothes removal you can imagine the rest.

You all know the drill, right? Gimme a shout if you wanna be on the taglist, too.

"Oh my, they are...hopeless! Oblivious! Absolutely...agh! Fools in love, that's what they are...ugh." Aziraphale groaned. He was pacing in the back room of his bookshop, fretting about his two closest friends.

Now, the context of this situation: Crowley, a demon, Aziraphale's best friend, is hopelessly in love with Y/N, an Angel, also Aziraphale's best friend. She's also hopelessly in love with Crowley. Why is Aziraphale so annoyed? Because they're so obvious! But yet neither of them seem to notice.

See, it all started at the start, in the Garden Of Eden. Aziraphale was stood on the wall, watching Adam and Eve, yada yada, and Y/N was with him. Y/N was...unique. She'd been kicked out of heaven for being...out of character. Hadn't fallen, though, not really, much to Aziraphale's delight.

And then Crowley came along. He slithered up the wall, and stood beside the two Angels. He knew instantly who Aziraphale was, but who was that? Who was the other one? The thing that confused him most, though, was that Y/N's wings were a mix of black and white.

Was she fallen? Kinda. Was she a Demon? No. An Angel? Yes.

Crowley felt his confusion grow by the minute.

In fact, he was intrigued. He was going to get to know this stranger, whatever it took.

The next time the two really met was in Paris. Aziraphale had gotten himself into a spot of trouble, and Y/N had seeked Crowley out, and dragged him to Paris. Aziraphale, after being set free, wandered off, probably to get food. Perhaps some crêpes.

This left Y/N and Crowley to talk. And talk they did. They'd met many, many times before Paris, obviously, but it had been a while since they'd had a proper chat...3000 years, give or take.

Aziraphale thinks that this moment is when Crowley realised how hopelessly in love he was with Y/N. Aziraphale could see it on his face, they way he looked at Y/N with gentle eyes from behind black glasses. Crowley denied it whenever the subject was brought up. "We're just friends!" He would protest, scrunching his face up in faux disgust.

Or maybe he had fell in love when Y/N had ran off after a unicorn, and returned riding it, smiling as if she had just won the lottery, although that didn't exist then. In fact, that occurred during the Noah's Ark problem.

Aziraphale was a being of love. He knew love when he saw it. He saw the love in shared glances when they thought nobody was looking, he saw the love in the way they spoke to each other, he saw the love in the tiny touches they shared. He saw it all.

He thinks that Y/N fell for Crowley when he saved his books after blowing the church up. Not that it was his fault...kinda. Anyway, Y/N had flown in on trembling wings, having seen the bomb go down, and knowing who was there. She had literally tackled both of them in a hug, engulfing them with her wings too.

"You idiots! You stupid, stupid idiots!" She had yelled. "I can't believe - who made the bomb fall?" She seethed, and Crowley had sheepishly raised a hand, and she had glared that him for a few moments, before her gaze softened, and she smiled, yet again hugging the Demon.

Or perhaps she had fallen for him in Rome.

Don't even get Aziraphale started on the 80's. They were at their worst then, Crowley was trying to hide his obvious feelings, and so was Y/N, but they did terribly, and only worsened the situation, because they both most certainly did not get drunk, and certainly did not drunkenly make out. (They did.)

Yeah, that never happened, as far as Aziraphale thought they knew. But Aziraphale knew, of course he did. That was one image he couldn't erase.

And then there was the 90's. They weren't so bad, actually, Aziraphale had decided. They had fallen out after an argument about Crowley and his need for holy water. Y/N had assumed the worst upon being told.

"You what? Aziraphale gave you holy water?" She had screamed at Crowley, wings out, and her eyes were narrowed to the point that they were mere slits. Crowley had nodded, slightly frightened by Y/N's reaction. "Crowley, you can't have holy water! You know what it'll do to you! It'll...It'll destroy you! Or is that why you wanted it? An easy way out?" And as soon as the words had left her mouth, Crowley had reacted.

Aziraphale shivered at the memory. It hadn't been pretty, actually. Crowley had accidentally burnt a few books in his momentary anger, although as soon as Y/N had left, he regretted it, turning to face Aziraphale, his golden eyes wide, looking rather shocked.

They ignored each other for seven years, which had mildly impressed Aziraphale, who hadn't thought they'd even be able to stay away from each other for a week. But no, both of them were even more stubborn than a mule, and boy oh boy, could they hold grudges.

They managed to fix things in '99, when Y/N had been in the bookshop. She had had a run in with a few demons, and although she had never revealed what had really happened, it had scared her to the point where she was quivering in the back room of the bookshop, curled up, cocooned in her wings. And that's how Crowley had found her. Originally he'd come in to find Aziraphale, but he had heard gentle sobs from the back room, and went in, curious. Upon finding Y/N he had darted over, closing the bookshop with a snap of his fingers as he fell to his knees in front of her.

Not realising it was Crowley, Y/N had scuttled away, backed into the corner, trembling. Crowley was confused, that was for sure, but more than anything he was concerned for his friend.

"Y/N? Y/N what's wrong?" He had asked softly, sitting in front of her. Y/N had looked up with bloodshot eyes, peeking out from behind her black and white wings, and she had flinched slightly. "What happened?" He repeated, removing his glasses. Y/N had shook her head, and Crowley had frowned.

"There were some demons." Y/N had whispered, so quietly that Crowley could barely hear her. She didn't say any more than that. She had then slowly shuffled forwards, towards Crowley, and wrapped her arms and wings around him, burying her face in Crowley's shoulder, and that's where they stayed for a while.

They went back to their usual antics after that.

Aziraphale was relieved that they were back to normal, but now he was dealing with them dancing around their feelings again, and there was only so much dancing he could take, and he loved dancing...and food.

But now Aziraphale was just about done with them both. He was going to take things into his own hands, and began planning his master plan. There was no way it wouldn't work, right?

So, the next day, he led them both into the back room, and then locked them in there together. He had pinned a note on the door, the side that they'd be able to see, and Crowley ripped it off, reading it, and Y/N witnessed a rather amusing event. Crowley went red, and then sighed, and read it out.

"Hello Crowley and Y/N, this is Aziraphale, and I'm not sorry for locking you both in here. You two need to talk about stuff, and when I think you're done I'll let you out." Crowley read, grumbling, and Y/N chuckled.

"We can sneak out, you know." She stated, and after saying that, she shrunk herself, and wandered out, under the door. Crowley followed.

They snuck out, to the Bentley, and they both got in after returning to their natural sizes.

Aziraphale was state in the back, much to their surprise.

"I knew you'd try to sneak out, you know." He stated, smiling brightly. "This was my plan all along! Now I can talk to you both." He grinned. "You two are the most oblivious people ever, and I have therefore decided that I must do this myself."

Crowley realised what was happening, and hissed. "Aziraphale, don't you dare!" He growled, although there was no real threat. Y/N looked on, merely confused.

"Crowley, do it, otherwise I will." Aziraphale sighed. Crowley turned to face Y/N, and made a strangled noise, one of objection. "You can do it!" Aziraphale encouraged.

"No I can't! I've had...since the Ark to do it! If I could, I would have done it by now, Angel." Crowley managed to say.

"It's okay to be scared, Crowley." Aziraphale said, rather softly. Crowley hissed, almost angrily.

"I'm not scared! I'm just...just..." Crowley's shoulders fell. "I'm not scared. I just don't want to lose anyone."

"Hey, can someone tell me what's going on?" Y/N huffed, folding her arms, mildly annoyed, but confused, and overly curious, as usual. Crowley and Aziraphale looked at her. Aziraphale then looked at Crowley, who shrugged, then sighed.

"Don't...worry. Uh, it's not that important." Crowley smiled. Y/N sighed, knowing he had lied. "Okay, okay, Aziraphale get out, just for a minute." Crowley looked at Aziraphale, who smiled at him, before getting out of the Bentley.

"Y/N, I know it's stupid but there's something I really need to say to you." Crowley started, and his eyebrows fell as he tried to think of what to say. "I know I'm a Demon, and you're an Angel, kinda, and were supposed to be enemies, but there's nothing I could do. I tried to fight it because I didn't want to be like a human." He bit his lip, then removed his glasses, and his golden eyes stared into Y/N's. "I...I uh, how do I say this?" He mumbled. "I...like you? I really like you?" He blurted out, sounding slightly confused. Y/N smiled.

"I mean, it'd be problematic if you didn't." She chuckled, not realising what Crowley mean. The Demon groaned, mildly annoyed by her obliviousness.

"No! That's not what I meant! I meant that I really really like you and how on Earth do I say this? Okay...I don't like you as a friend, I like you as...more?"

Y/N realised what he mean, and her eyes widened, and she suddenly disappeared, leaving Crowley by himself.

Y/N had actually teleported herself inside the bookshop, and she had sat down, near Aziraphale. Aziraphale took notice of her shocked expression, and sat next to her.

Crowley stayed inside his car, groaning loudly, instantly assuming that the worst had happened and that she didn't like him back. That she didn't love him. Crowley growled at the thought. Love. What a useless thing.

"Y/N, my dear, what ever is wrong?" Aziraphale asked, confused. Y/N laughed softly, but as she laughed, she seemed to slowly descend into madness.

"He said he liked me as more as a friend, Zira. More than a friend! What does that even mean?" Y/N snorted, and Aziraphale sighed, glancing outside. Crowley was still sat in his Bentley, but now he was listening to Queen...probably.

"Y/N, it means he wants to...date you, I believe that is the correct modern term." Aziraphale hummed quietly. "It means he loves you. Y/N, I know you love him too. Everyone in Heaven and Hell might as well know, you two are so obvious! You've been dancing around each other for hundreds of years and I am just about done with it! Now go and talk to Crowley before he drives off and goes and does something stupid. Go." Aziraphale explained, and Y/N nodded, and ran back outside, clambering into the car.

"Crowley, let's go home, please." Y/N said, and Crowley raised an eyebrow, but drove anyway. "I don't want to cause a scene in the middle of a street. I have no idea what's going to happen next, Crow, but I'm hoping it's good." Y/N added, and Crowley raised an eyebrow, looking at her.

"Explain." He mumbled, mildly confused.

"Okay, okay...just...get inside first." Y/N said, rushing inside, to Crowley's flat. Crowley simply teleported, and sat on his throne as he waited for Y/N. Y/N ran in, and Crowley smirked slightly. "Okay, Aziraphale had to explain what you meant but I know now and I like you more than a friend too, or as Aziraphale said, love you and I guess he's not wrong." Y/N blurted, and Crowley suddenly coughed, standing up and walking to her. "And you're a really...cool demon too, so, I guess that's a bonus. You're pretty nice-" Y/N continued, and Crowley snarled, automatically darting forwards, and he (though gentler than usual) pushed Y/N against the wall.

"I'm not nice!" He snapped, and Y/N blinked. "I'm...not...nice!" Crowley repeated, through gritted teeth, and then he suddenly felt a gentle hand cup his cheek.

"Huh, Zira wasn't lying when he said you didn't like being called nice." Y/N mumbled, and Crowley didn't miss her eyes quickly flitting from his lips to his eyes. Or glasses, rather. He smirked, and edged slightly closer.

"You knew exactly what you were doing, damn. Little Miss Innocent isn't as pure as she seems." He remarked sarcastically.

"Well, obviously, I was cast out of heaven for a reason." Y/N stated, rather dryly. Crowley snorted, and Y/N smiled, and down her eyes went again, and back up, and Crowley hummed softly. "Are you just gonna stand there then?" Y/N asked, starting to shift slightly so she could get away. Not that she really wanted too, but it worked, because Crowley rolled his eyes, before pressing his lips to hers.

It was everything that Y/N had wished for and more. His lips were soft and gentle against hers, and might have well been puzzle pieces, slotting perfectly against hers. She realised that she could faintly taste wine, ands she smiled into the kiss, hands coming up to wrap around his shoulders, holding him as close as possible. Crowley's glasses were hard against her features, but she didn't mind because, finally, after thousands of years she was getting what she wanted. Crowley pulled away, quickly removing his glasses.

"How long?" He asked quietly, and Y/N smiled, lips still brushing against each other.

"Since Rome." She admitted, and Crowley hummed softly. "What about you, Crow?"

"Since the Ark." He mumbled, and Y/N smiled more, before seeking out his lips again.

Crowley gently held her hips, absentmindedly rubbing circles into her skin with his thumbs. "I love you too." He whispered, and Y/N nodded slightly, playing with the ends of Crowley's red hair. She connected their lips again, a little more force, a bit more want, and lot more need and Crowley knew where this was leading but he didn't mind. Besides, he was a demon, he was supposed to sin.

So he went along with it, revelling in the moment, and he unintentionally let Y/N take the lead. But only for now, he thought to himself. But he was still a Demon, and still decided to tease Y/N a little, his hands sometimes moving a little lower than they should've.

Y/N's only reaction was to huff, and gently bite his lip, which would cause Crowley to gasp, and allowed Y/N to have her way, not that Crowley minded. He certainly didn't.

He soon grew tired of just enthusiastically kissing though, and pulled away, pressing a uncharacteristically soft kiss to the corner of her mouth, and he began to trail kisses down to Y/N's neck, humming 'Somebody To Love' as he went. Y/N's grip on his shoulders tightened, and Crowley smirked, gently nipping at her skin, causing Y/N to gasp quietly.

"Crowley, you better not leave marks!" She hissed, and Crowley merely winked, before grazing his teeth across her skin again, before suddenly just nuzzling into the small crook of Y/N's neck. Y/N blinked, confused, but she smiled anyway, resting her chin on top of Crowley's head.

Then Crowley did the opposite of what Y/N had told him. He left a hickey.

Now, Y/N could pretend to be angry all she wanted, but she wasn't really, she never really could be. After all, it was Crowley. Who could be mad at Crowley? (A lot of people.)

So instead, she softly flicked him when he was done, and sighed.

"You're lucky I love you, Crowley." She grumbled, and Crowley shrugged, and pecked Y/N's lips, smiling. He then began working on the buttons of Y/N's shirt, and, well.

The rest is history.

Tags: @dekahg , @steampowerednightvaler

[alas-pancakes]

Our Own Universe // Good Omens

note: this is not going to go how you think it will go, this has been a PSA. 

One of Aziraphale’s favorite things to do after the world didn’t end was to curl up with Crowley on a couch in his bookstore with a book and a cup of cocoa. Whenever someone entered, Crowley would become a snake because he had been getting rather annoying comments from the conservative old men and women who frequented the store about his manicured nails and sunglass-wearing even though he was indoors. Most of all, they clucked their tongues disapprovingly about how he was nestled up next to Aziraphale. It was just outright irritating. Shouldn’t he be allowed to anything he damned well pleased? Especially since the whole world now owed him a very large favor for extending their lives? Despite this, his irritation faded away quickly as, curled up by Aziraphale’s side, he began to doze off. The angel was very warm and very soft and Crowley liked how Aziraphale draped an arm around his thin body. 

The bell rang, startling both of them. Aziraphale nearly upset his cocoa and Crowley jumped, snapping awake before shifting into a small snake, before absorbing Aziraphale’s body heat and dozing off again. However, it didn’t last long as Aziraphale put down his book and walked to the door to check out who was entering. An enthusiastic little boy in a soft, worn sweater and taped-together spectacles burst in, grinning in delight. His mother followed, lagging behind more warily. “Mum, look! All these old books! Prophecies! I love prophecies!” The boy spotted Aziraphale and turned to him, though he looked decidedly at the shelf behind the angel. “Did you know that Agnes Nutter predicted her own death? And she didn’t even try to avoid it! And you’re probably wondering who Agnes Nutter is. Well, she’s a witch. A real witch who can predict the future, she wrote a book too. You should know that then since you have books here. ” He had a kind of lively spark to him that knew no boundaries. 

His mother, however, looked tired, flustered and exasperated all at once. “Raziel, what have I told you about bothering people with your useless facts? Look at him when you talk to him, have I not taught you manners? Mister, I do apologize for Raziel. He gets a little excited sometimes. Do you mind if he stays here for a bit while I do my shopping?” 

Aziraphale looked the boy up and down, taking in his careful, clean fingers and his bright, amber eyes. “Not at all, miss.” He could feel something about the boy and thought he wasn’t sure what he is, he somehow knew that the boy wouldn’t be trouble.

“I promise he’ll be well behaved, no trouble at all. He likes books very much, wouldn’t dream of hurting one. I’m really sorry to bother you but he really has no patience for crowds and Christmas shopping. Now, Raziel, behave yourself, you hear me? Look at me when I’m talking to you! I’ll be on my way, then.” Aziraphale nodded curtly, not liking how the woman was talking to her son. There was something cold and unforgiving about her tone like she didn’t quite understand him and wasn’t trying to anyway. He waited until the woman left the shop before turning his attention back to the boy. He had been standing still while his mother talked, hands still at his sides like a soldier. Now that she was gone, he began to shift his weight back and forth gently from leg to leg, hands now fluttering butterfly wings. 

Raziel looked at Aziraphale briefly before asking breathlessly, “Can I look at your books?” There was something to him that Aziraphale found that one couldn’t not love. He smiled warmly at the boy and nodded, keeping a watchful eye on him as he dashed into the shelves in search of a book. He didn’t miss how Raziel’s gait was uneven, tiptoeing slightly as he moved. Before long, the boy’s voice came floating out from some part of the bookshop. “Oh! You have a snake!” Childish wonder filled his tone as Aziraphale hurried over to where the boy was, Crowley was going to kill him for this. He found Raziel crouching down by the couch where Crowley was lying, yellow eyes meeting gold-amber ones. Raziel didn’t look in Aziraphale’s direction but seemed to realize that the angel had approached. Without breaking eye contact with Crowley, Raziel said, “ The inland taipan is the world’s most toxic snake, meaning it has both the most toxic venom and it injects the most venom when it bites. Its venom sacs hold enough poison to kill up to 80 people. Can I hold your snake, mister? He’s not venomous right? It would be weird to keep a venomous snake in a bookstore, anyway.” A couple of very thick books were tucked under Raziel’s arm, books that Aziraphale treasured as his best and rarest prophecy books. 

“He’ll sit in your lap if he likes you, my dear. Now, why don’t you take a seat and read those books? Do you fancy a cup of cocoa?” Aziraphale couldn’t bear to say no to the little boy. Besides, this left the choice up to Crowley. Raziel nodded enthusiastically before climbing up the couch, kicking his shoes off and crossing his feet under him. Aziraphale smiled, soft like everything about him, before leaving to the back room, presumably to get some cocoa. 

He was back with a steaming mug in less than 2 minutes. That’s strange, Raziel thought to himself. It usually took more than 2 minutes to make a cup of cocoa. It didn’t matter though, because he was reading books on prophecy in a nice and quiet and warm bookshop and there was a snake. Aziraphale almost jumped in surprise when he saw that Crowley was lying curled up in Raziel’s lap, slightly too big to fit in properly but there anyway. He hadn’t expected Crowley to do that. “Here’s your cocoa, my dear. I’ll put on the table, alright? They’re some marshmallows in that jar if you want.” Raziel didn’t seem to register Aziraphale’s voice or presences and continued absentmindedly stroking Crowley’s smooth scales as he read. The weight of the heavy book and Crowley was reassuring to the boy and he rather liked the texture of Crowley��s scales. “Dwelleth,” he said out loud, his voice clear and melodic. “Dwelleth.” The word felt nice in his mouth. 

Sometime later, the boy’s mother came back, arms laden with heavy shopping bags. “Was he any trouble? Come, Raziel, we’re going home now.” The boy mumbled something and continued to read, not looking up. “Dear God! Is that a snake? Raziel!”

Aziraphale looked up from his own book, mildly annoyed. “He was a perfect angel, Ma’am. You don’t need to worry about him. He’s free to come back whenever he wants. And yes, that is my snake. Raziel seems to like him rather a lot. Come on, dear, time to go home.” Raziel shifted a little and continued to read, seemingly oblivious to everything. His mother’s features hardened and she clapped her hands twice, right next to his ears. At this, he noticeably jumped, hands darting up to cover his ears. 

His mother frowned before pulling his hands down. “We’re going home, Raziel.” He groaned loudly. “Look at me! We’re going home.” He pulled away from her. “Raziel!”

“Ma’am...” Aziraphale began nervously. 

She shot him a harsh glare before yanking her son out of the shop. The books falling, thankfully, onto the carpeted floor. “Thank you very much, mister!” The woman’s voice called out as the bell rang again. The boy howled as he was pulled into the busy street. 

Crowley slithered into Aziraphale’s lap before turning back into human form, lounging lazily with the angel as a pillow. “I didn’t expect that from you, you know,” Aziraphale remarked, closing his book after sliding a bookmark between the pages. “He is a nice kid, isn’t he? Pity about his mother, can’t believe she would do that to him.” 

“Humans are like that, aren’t they, shunning everything that is slightly out of the ‘normal’? What’s with that kid anyway?” Crowley commented, waving his hands vaguely. “Didn’t even look up from the book once to touch his cocoa.”

Aziraphale sighed. “As you said, he’s different. Do you think he’ll come back?”

“With a little demonic miracle or two, why not?”

And like that, Raziel soon grew up in the bookstore. Meltdowns, breakdowns and shutdowns, the walls of the store saw them all. A refuge from the loud, harsh world and a place of solace, he grew up on cups of cocoa and books of prophecy. His mother came in many a time, to drag him away. The books saw him through his best days and his worst, sweater after sweater, glasses breaking and mending. Autistic, the word was never spoken but Aziraphale and Crowley saw it in him. They didn’t see it the way his mother saw it, something wrong and broken, something that made him sick, something he needed to be cured from. They saw it as something that made Raziel fundamentally Raziel, something he would be nothing without. 

-

One stormy night, a pounding on the door broke through the rhythmic sound of rain. These kinds of nights, they’re always the stormy sort. “We’re closed! Come back tomorrow!” Aziraphale called from where he sat, drinking a bottle of wine with Crowley. They weren’t trying to get drunk, no, they just felt like drinking a little. Despite this, Crowley was somehow already more than slightly tipsy. The knocking continued. Aziraphale made a move to get up and answer the door but Crowley pushed him back down. 

“Stay with me, you’re warm,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Please, don’t go. I can’t live without you!”

Aziraphale shook his head and pulled himself free of Crowley’s grasp. “Sober up, just for a while.” He pulled the door open and stared out into the rainy Soho street. After a moment, he spotted Raziel, half-hidden by shadows, hair damp and tousled from the rain, sitting on the steps. “Oh, Raziel! Why are you here? You know I don’t open again until tomorrow.”

“Mum said that if I wanted to go to your bookshop so much, I should just live there. And I want to live here, can I live here?” Though almost 17 and significantly taller than when he first burst through the shop doors, Raziel still talked like he did when he was younger, speaking whatever came to mind. He took his glasses off (this pair had yet to break, Aziraphale noted) and wiped them on his light brown sweater. 

“Come on in, don’t stand out in the rain, dear. You can spend the night of course but I’ll have to talk to your mum about you living here.” Aziraphale opened the door wide enough for Raziel to enter and he squeezed through, drying his sneakers on the mat. “Dry your hands before you touch any books, dear,” he added in an afterthought. 

“Why do you have to talk to my mum? I’m almost 17, I’ll be an adult soon and when I’m an adult, I’ll come and live here no matter what she says. I mean, that’s if you let me live here?” Hope glimmered in his voice as he picked his way through the bookshop to the couch were Crowley had been sitting. Raziel turned around to face Aziraphale. “Please let me live here.”

Aziraphale sighed before telling Raziel, “I’ll see what I can- Oh! Crowley, you frightened me.” Crowley’s arms snaked around Aziraphale from behind and Crowley pressed a slightly-drunk-though-decidedly-soberer-than-previously kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “I’ll see what I can do, Raziel. No promises though.” Raziel nodded sullenly. 

When Raziel was 15, he accidentally caught Crowley changing into snake form and back which unleashed a round of questions which unleashed a round of answers. When he found out, he gave a sort of shrug and asked to use the computer, doing research until he knew everything there was to know about demons and angels that was on the internet. 

The next day, Raziel’s mother came to drag him back. The next week, he ran away. It happened over and over again until she kind of just... gave up. “You freak! I don’t want you as my son anyway! R*tard!” She yelled outside the bookshop door while Raziel curled into a ball, rocking back and forth on the carpet with earphones clamped tightly around his ears, not playing any music. 

After he finally calmed down enough to talk, he croaked out, “Why doesn’t... Why doesn’t she love-love me? I did every-ev-” He choked out a strangled sob that tore Aziraphale’s heart apart. “I did everything.” 

He moved officially that terrible, heartwrenching night, into the apartment above the book shop. His room was painted, lovingly, by Aziraphale and Crowley was cream walls, one covered in blackboard paint for him to decorate however he wanted. One morning, when Raziel was out, Crowley strung up fairy lights by the boy’s desk and stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling and put a constellation projector by his bed. He picked up a piece of red chalk and wrote on the wall, “There are 9,096 stars visible to the naked eye in the entire sky. To see more, you have to use a telescope to reveal stars fainter than your eyes can see but I can see only 1 and that is you.”

Raziel cried.

It was sad to think that he had never experienced this kind of love before, that someone could look at him and not see him as something other or something to be corrected but as someone to be loved. They frequently left him little notes and gave him little gifts, something he’d never had the luxury off before. All the legal problems he had with his family were cleared up with a few little demonic miracles from Crowley but it didn’t mean anything to him compared to this:

“Raziel, it doesn’t matter what other people think. We don’t need anyone but us three, we could build our own universe. To you, we gift this book for your 18th birthday: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch and we hope that you will continue to live with us. 

-Love, Aziraphale and Crowley”

(2409 words)

note: it ended pretty weirdly but I hope you like it

[madrabbitsociety]

“Shall we discuss our eventful morning? Your boyfriend-”

“Nng, not my boyfriend,” Crowley interrupted with a growl. He sounded annoyed.

“What is he, then? He is certainly more than a former employer, and he seems utterly unwilling to give you up, from what I’ve noticed.” Aziraphale allowed self-pity to get the best of him once more as he muttered, “He’s quite good-looking.”

“Not my boyfriend.” Crowley stretched, and Aziraphale recognized the gesture from when they were younger. He was attempting to look bored and casual, but the stiffness in his arms and back weren’t going to fool anyone. He was uncomfortable and anxious. “Slept together a bit.”

“Ah. Friends with benefits, then,” Aziraphale said, nodding sagely. Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What? I do know some things. I’ve had a- a- oh, what is that charming phrase? A ‘fuck buddy’, once or twice!”

Crowley had the unfortunate luck to choke on his tongue at the phrase ‘fuck buddy’ coming out of Aziraphale’s pristine mouth. “Nngk!”

Aziraphale wiggled in his seat, happy to have gotten some sort of reaction out of Crowley. “It’s hard to believe, I know, but there was a time when some people found me mildly attractive. Such a long time ago-”

Crowley snorted and rolled his eyes. “Riiight.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? You don’t believe-”

“Angel, you ran away with our professor. You had fffuck buddies,” Crowley said, stumbling over his words. “Y’know you’re cute. Don’t play dumb.”

(( Chapter 9 Now posted on a03 )) 

[angelofrainfrogs]

Antithesis

Fandom: Good Omens

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley

Description: Azirafell finds something unexpected when returning to his shop one afternoon- the pawnshop is now a bookstore, containing a fussy angel with a very familiar face. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, an equally familiar-looking demon awaits Anthony back at his flat. Now, Aziraphale and Crowley must figure out how to get their opposite selves home, a feat which shouldn’t be too hard for a group of supernatural beings… as long as they can get along for more than a few minutes at a time, of course. A Reverse AU crossover.

Rating: T

Genre: Humor

Read on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24815284/chapters/60019681

*ALL CREDIT for the Reverse Azirafell and Anthony designs and base personalities goes to Speremint (https://speremint.tumblr.com/); I adore her Reverse AU and wanted to try my hand at writing something with it. Go check out her page for fanart and original comics!*

Part 1

Azirafell stepped out of the taxicab and slammed the door shut behind him, snapping his fingers to miracle a few dollars into the driver’s hand. The demon didn’t feel like exchanging final pleasantries; while he’d been able to shut his eyes, it hadn’t been much of a rest, as the ride had been unnecessarily bumpy and left him in a slightly sour mood. All he wanted to do was go to his pawnshop and pour over the latest collection of knickknacks he’d picked up.

So, it was with great shock that once the taxi sped off and Azirafell turned around, he found an old, dingy bookstore standing in the space where his pawnshop should be. The demon blinked a few times, rubbed his eyes, then blinked again. Sure enough, the bookshop remained- a place that looked dusty, warm, and unbearably homey. This must be part of some elaborate prank, the demon thought with noise of disgust, though Azirafell had no idea who would dare try such a thing on him.

“Alright, what the heaven happened to my shop?!” the demon exclaimed, slamming open the old wooden doors. It was just a he feared- rows upon rows of dusty, filled-to-the-brim bookshelves. Azirafell’s lip curled into a scowl as he stalked further into the room, trying to find the cause of his beloved shop’s upheaval.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale the angel had been carefully restoring an ancient book when the slammed door caused him to jerk in surprise and tear a hole right through the page he was working on. He sucked in a breath, trying to control his swiftly rising temper, and henceforth missed the loud declaration from the intruder. Aziraphale carefully set his tools down and stood, adjusting his waistcoat in preparation for meeting his uninvited guest. He took a few seconds before leaving the back room to see if he could sense any supernatural presence- sure enough, the unmistakable tingle of demonic energy filled the air around him.

The angel frowned. Crowley often came over unannounced, and while he usually entered dramatically- as “dramatic” was the demon’s default setting-, he’d never slammed the doors like that before. With a twinge of fear, Aziraphale wondered if something bad happened- had Hell gotten over their fear of the demon who could (supposedly) survive holy water and come to destroy him once and for all?

“My dear?!” Aziraphale called, rushing out into the main room, looking around frantically. “Are you alri-”

The angel sharply cut off his words as he rounded a corner and came across the demon- at least, the creature’s aura certainly identified it as a demon. The face, however…

“Um�� what’s going on?” said the other version of Aziraphale, and the angel frowned, noting the double pupils and, more concerningly-

“My goodness, whatever are you wearing?!” Aziraphale blurted out before he could stop himself. He clapped a hand over his mouth, knowing this to be the least of his worries, but he couldn’t help it. He prided himself on his fashion, as outdated as it was, and to see himself in a coat of deep teal, black, and white in lord knows what sort of pattern caused an involuntary reaction of horror.

“What am I wearing?!” the mirror image said, lips twisting in a sneer unbecoming on such a face. “What in Satan's name are you wearing?! You look like you stepped out of a Victorian catalogue! It’s the twenty-first century!”

“Excuse you, this outfit is considered ‘vintage,’ which I’ve been told is all the rage now!” Aziraphale pursed his lips, unable to stop himself from verbally lashing back. If Crowley saw him now, he would be astounded. But, the demon before him was not Crowley, and therein lied part of the problem. Aziraphale shook his head briskly, clearing away the thoughts of fashion choices in favor of more pressing matters.

“This shouldn’t be our concern right now,” he said, voice returning to a calm, reassuring lilt. The mirror version of himself flinched at this, as if physically pained by the angel’s demeanor. “Let’s try this again- I am Aziraphale, an angel, and this is my bookshop. And you are?”

“Azirafell,” the other version said, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “A demon, and this is supposed to be my pawnshop.”

“…Right,” the angel said, resisting the urge to comment on the demon’s on-the-nose choice of name. He knew Crowley would certainly mention it if he were there. “Well, I regret to inform you, but this building has never been a pawnshop; I’ve owned this bookstore for well over two centuries.”

“Same amount of time as my own establishment,” Fell said, one eyebrow raised. “I have a feeling that one of us isn’t where they’re supposed to be… and that would probably be me.” The demon let out a huff of air and rolled his eyes. “Typical. Nothing is every easy, is it?”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said, thinking of how to get this unnerving version of himself out of his bookshop as soon as possible. He certainly couldn’t contact Heaven- not that he ever would, seeing as he was on his own side now-, and Hell was surely out of the question. So, really, the only option was-

“Anthony!” Fell suddenly exclaimed, startling the angel. The demon frowned, staring at the floor in contemplation. “I wonder if he ended up here, too…”

“Your Crowley?” Aziraphale ventured, and the demon met his gaze with a nod. Aziraphale smiled. “Well, it seems we’re both of the same mindset, at least somewhat. I was going to suggest we call my Crowley and see if he’d have any idea of how to sort this out, seeing as demons are more of his thing…”

Aziraphale trailed off with a vague hand gesture and Fell sighed again, flopping onto a nearby couch with a weary wave of his hand.

“Fine, sounds like as good a plan as any,” he responded. Aziraphale beamed at him even more and the demon wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, will you wipe that stupid grin off your face? It’s unnerving.”

“I could say the same about your constant scowl,” Aziraphale muttered tetchily, not liking when he was told not to smile. However, he knew arguing further was a lost cause, so he ignored the demon’s scoff and went over to the phone. He dialed Crowley’s home number first, figuring that he would try his cell if he didn’t answer.

“Hey, Aziraphale,” Crowley answered on the second ring, and the angel frowned. Crowley didn’t usually greet him by name.

“Hello, my dear. Um, I’m not quite sure how to explain this, but I seem to be having a sort of… situation at my bookshop.” Aziraphale glanced at the demon still lounging on the couch. Though Fell faced away from him and was seemingly focused on examining his nails, the angel was certain he was listening carefully to everything he said.

“Let me take a wild guess,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale heard a twinge of strain in his voice. “Another you showed up at your place and nearly took your head off?”

“Er, well, I wouldn’t say he ‘nearly took my head off…’” Aziraphale frowned, noticing that the demon on his couch had perked up and was now watching him, fully focused on the conversation. “But yes, there is another version of myself here. Well, sort of. He’s…”

“Guessing again- he’s a demon?”

“Yes, actually.” Aziraphale’s frown deepened and then he jumped suddenly as Fell appeared at his side and snatched the phone away.

“Crowley, right?” the demon said, sticking out an arm out to physically hold Aziraphale away from grabbing the phone back. There was a beat of silence on the other end, before Crowley responded, slowly:

“…Who’s this?”

“Oh, it’s Lord Beelzebub, just dropping in on the call to say hello,” Fell responded with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “Who do you think it is?! It’s another version of your angel- and I’m guessing you have my angel in your apartment right now?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” Crowley said, and Fell smirked at how utterly taken aback he sounded.

“Okay, good. Well, not really good, but at least we’re in the same boat. Now- hey!”

The ever-smoldering fire in Fell’s eyes flashed as Aziraphale snapped his fingers and miracled the phone back into his hand. The angel smiled triumphantly and quickly said into the mouthpiece:

“Crowley, dear, it’s me- listen, I think it’d be best if you and Anthony meet us at the bookshop so we can sort out this whole mess as soon as possible. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Crowley responded. He paused, then said, softly, “Be careful, Angel, alright?”

“Of course, of course.” Aziraphale waved his hand to brush away Crowley’s concerns. “I’ll be perfectly fine; just please get here as fast as you can.”

“Will do; see you soon.”

With a click, Crowley hung up the phone. Aziraphale did likewise and then focused his attention back to the demon in his bookshop, who currently stood with his arms crossed and a mildly annoyed expression etched across his face. Aziraphale cleared his throat and tried another smile, which was met with another curl of the demon’s lip.

“Right, well, Crowley and Anthony are on their way,” Aziraphale said. “Knowing Crowley’s driving, I’m sure they’ll be here soon, but… care for a spot of tea while we wait?”

***

Approximately thirty minutes before Crowley’s phone rang, he was tending to his plants. The large fern by the window looked particularly scrawny, and Crowley was giving it a stern lecture when an overwhelmingly angelic presence appeared out of nowhere, almost knocking him to the ground with the sheer force of it. The demon steadied himself and gripped the plant mister tighter in his hand; he’d used it as a weapon once, and he’d use it again if need be (though he doubted tap water would have much effect on an angel save for making it angry at being spritzed).

Crowley cautiously stalked towards his front door, plant mister held out in front of him like a gun, wondering what any angel other than Aziraphale could want with him. And this angel was definitely not Aziraphale. Crowley was extremely familiar with the soft vibe that hid Aziraphale’s true nature as a Principality; his angel gave off a sense of warmth and comfort, unlike the presence Crowley felt now that gave off an aura of cold power. Whoever this new company was, they meant business.

The doorknob jiggled a bit as Crowley stopped dead center in the middle of the room, ready to attack. He wondered half-heartedly if he should call Aziraphale and let him know that something was about to go down, but he knew that any distraction could mean his instant discorporation. Because he and Aziraphale were now on their own sides, Crowley wasn’t sure they would get another chance at returning to earth with human bodies. So, he decided to face the potential threat head-on and hope for the best.

“Who’s there?” he called loudly, putting a demonically threatening undertone into his voice. Crowley sensed the presence on the other side of the door still for a moment, before a shockingly familiar voice responded:

“I should be asking you the same question, demon.”

Crowley blinked, plant mister lowering a millimeter as he struggled to understand why his own voice had responded. There was a gentle sigh on the other end of the door and another half-hearted shake of the doorknob.

“Listen, we can make this easy, or we can make this difficult- your choice,” the voice said, and though its tone was calm Crowley knew the presence wasn’t playing around. Still in a fighting stance, ready for an altercation, Crowley snapped his fingers and miracled the multiple locks on the front door open. Slowly, the door swung inwards to reveal the last person the demon expected to see.

“…Well,” said the other version of himself, dressed in white and pink and brandishing a glowing caduceus staff in front of him. “This is unexpected.”

[ourloveisforthelovely]

Time to Waste 13

Good Omens 

Link to Chapter 12 

Words, 1,500

Pairings: Gabriel x Reader 

______

“Please, I just want us to sit down and talk before Matilda gets away from your father. Can’t you give me like five minutes without one of us losing our tempers?”

You wanted to yank your hand away but you didn’t.

 “Fine, we need to get out of here for a bit…

The next thing that you knew, you were sitting in a hotel room. Gabriel sat beside you on a small sofa.

“Well?”

You questioned softly. There was no denying the fact that Gabriel and yourself needed to sit down and have a long conversation about everything. Gabriel took a breath.

“Look, I know things between us have been...tense to say the least.”

You raised an eyebrow and took a sip of the martini in front of you.

“That is putting it mildly, darling.”

Gabriel held a hand up.

“See this is what happens every time! One of us has to be a sarcastic ass when the other is trying to make things right.”

You sighed. God, you hated agreeing that Gabriel was right about something! This time, however, he was. You too had the same thoughts many times when you were wanting to fix things with Gabriel.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. Continue…”

Gabriel’s annoyed expression softened a little bit.

“Y/n, I love you and I know that you love me. The two of us kind of suck at showing it. As the person that knows me best...you know how selfish and jealous that I can be. The day that we almost had everything worked out and Beelzebub showed up...I totally handled that wrong. Maybe because every time Beelzebub or myself is involved in each other’s business all hell breaks loose...it could be because I am…”

Gabriel stopped talking for a moment before standing and looking down into the busy street below. He knew that he was truly fucked at the moment. He had to tell you the truth. Gabriel knew that you had to know everything if the relationship would ever work out! You had to know about his fear of losing you to the prince of hell. Gabriel wasn’t the least bit thrilled with having to show some vulnerability.  

“Yes?”

Your voice interrupted his thoughts. Gabriel turned to look at you. Had you always been this beautiful? It sounded sappy but it was the most important thought at the moment. Gabriel took a breath.

“I’m afraid that one day you will decide to choose Beelzebub over me.”

You sat motionlessly. Part of you was looking at Gabriel like he was an idiot. The other part felt sadness. You quickly stood and walked to Gabriel.

Reaching out, you ran a hand down his chest and stopped to intertwine your hands with his.

“I wish you wouldn’t think of such things.”

Gabriel slowly pulled one hand away to raise your chin so your eyes could meet his fully.

“I can’t help it. Beelzebub is a better match for you. The two of you have more in common. We are different creatures entirely.”  

For the first time in years, you were fighting back angry tears. Normally, it took a lot to bring you to this point. After all of the emotions that you had been feeling since falling in love with Gabriel; crying seemed to be the only feasible emotion.

“Different creatures be damned. Gabriel, I don’t know how many times I have told you that I am not interested in Beelzebub like that. They are only a friend of mine. That is it!! I don’t love them as I love you. Gabriel, I don’t care what my father, Beelzebub, and whoever else has a problem with us...I want you. I’ve been trying to tell you that for a long time. You just didn’t want to listen.”

You said the last part with a small smirk on your face and a slight taunting tone to your voice. Gabriel smiled.

“Listening isn’t one of my best traits. Hey, that’s another thing that we have in common.”

You rolled your eyes.

“You may be right. When we were talking in that hotel and I asked if we were still friends...I didn’t mean it like casual friends. That was supposed to be meant to take me, I’m yours.”

Gabriel reached out and pulled you against him. He wanted the small space between the two of you closed.

“Don’t play with fire.”

“Maybe I want to.”

You said in a seductive whisper. Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed your lips to his. Gabriel seemed a bit thrown off for a moment but quickly took over. He wrapped an arm around your waist holding tightly.  

“Can we make love now?”

You asked, keeping your mouth close to Gabriel’s. He chuckled.

“I thought you would never ask.”

(meanwhile)

Crowley sat on the couch watching a documentary on the Black Death. He broke his attention away from the screen when Matilda’s voice came from the other room.

“That’s disgusting!”

He stood and walked into the kitchen where Matilda sat at the table looking down at some green vegetable on her plate. Aziraphale, meanwhile, looked almost exasperated!

“It's a vegetable. It's good for you.”

Aziraphale said hopefully. Matilda snarled her little nose before looking back to the plate.

“Eww, it's green!”

Aziraphale looked over his shoulder to Crowley for help but received nothing. He sighed and turned back to the child.

“It’s called Kale.”

Matilda rolled her eyes and faked a gag.

“I don’t care if it's called lord cuddles...it looks nasty.”

Crowley chuckled.

“Come on Tilley try a little bite. It may not taste as bad as it looks.”

Crowley suggested. Matilda muttered something under her breath before trying the smallest bite possible. She immediately made a face and reached for the glass of water in front of her.

“It tastes like sadness.”

Crowley immediately started laughing while Aziraphale groaned. Aziraphale turned back to Crowley as the doorbell rang.

“I blame you. If you would have her try things. I’m going to see who this is. Try to con her into eating it.”

Aziraphale didn’t stick around to hear Crowley’s response. Going to the door he opened it with a sigh. The moment that he came face to face with Michael on the other side, he froze.

“Michael…”

Aziraphale managed to get out. Michael smiled that smug sarcastic smile that Aziraphale knew so well.

“Hello, Aziraphale. I am here to see Gabriel.”

Aziraphale stuttered a few times as he tried to speak. This was the last person that he had ever expected to show up at the door.

“Um...um…”

“He isn’t here.”

Aziraphale looked down frantically when Matilda’s voice chimed in. He looked down instantly as Matilda’s arm went around his leg. Michael looked down too and looked equally as surprised.

“So the rumors are true? Gabriel has created an offspring with the demon girl.”

Matilda frowned.

“My mummy’s name is Y/n, thank you very much and I am a child, not an offspring.”

Aziraphale quickly motioned Michael in so no neighbors would hear the conversation. Michael, meanwhile, was still looking at Matilda with clearly worried eyes.

“What is your name?”

Matilda’s expression was cold. Aziraphale had never quite seen this expression on the child’s face.

“Not for you to worry about, archangel.”

Matilda said coldly. Michael blinked a few times before looking back up to Aziraphale.

“What exactly is she? Human archangel demon...something?”

“HEY! I’m not done with you!”

Matilda snapped. Michael looked down and forced a small smile.

“I am truly sorry, dear. What did you want?”

Matilda put her hands on her hips.

“I want you to go kick rocks. You are causing enough trouble around here. You are the reason that my parents fight all the time and I’m going to stop it.”

Matilda snapped her fingers causing Michael to hit the ground shrieking. Crowley had quickly run into the room after hearing all of the commotion. He froze watching his four-year-old grandaughter beating the shit out of an archangel. Aziraphale, meanwhile, was quietly panicking.

“Crowley do something!”

Aziraphale snapped. Crowley focused his attention back on Matilda. Her face was almost ecstatic with glee as she watched Michael suffering.

“Matilda that will do.”

Crowley said sharply. Matilda snapped her fingers one last time stopping her telepathic attack. Michael quickly jumped up and vanished from the room.

“Matilda….”

Aziraphale half-whispered her name. He was still too shocked to say anything else.

“You should go get ready for bed.”

Crowley said, stepping in. Matilda immediately walked up the stairs with no further fuss leaving her two “grandparents” in shock.

“What the bloody hell was that?”

Crowley snapped. Aziraphale shrugged.

“I don’t know. She came out of nowhere. Crowley, that wasn’t good. She attacked an archangel. You know what this means…”

Crowley nodded. Michael had all of the proof that they needed now to go to heaven and said how dangerous the child was.

“Gabriel and Y/n  are going to love this.” 

________

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[nancywheelxr]

Ok OK now I am ready. This isn’t very specific but if you could find a way for Crowley to have his wings be injured and Zira help him, that would be rad!! (Haha) Maybe you could do a double whump and he gets ill (idk how i already did a holy object prompt but it will be different I’m sure!) and that’s how he hurts his wings. His wings are just so pretty!! So we must DESTROY THEM... right??

Okay, oh my god, I already had a prompt exactly like this about Crowley’s wings so I’m answering them both here, but the illness bit didn’t really work in this story so like, if you want, you can send me another prompt later!

And @umbrella-babies​ here it is!

*

The day had begun perfectly sensible, not too bright and not too dim, just the exact thing you expect from your English summer; a sure sign Adam has got the hang of this Antichrist thing.

Which is why, perhaps, Aziraphale should have known it could only go downhill from there. It’s just how these things go. But alas, he did not and therefore did not pick up on the vague sense of impending doom that loomed by the door when the knocking began.

“Oh, Crowley,” he gasps once the demon comes into view in the sidewalk outside. He’s soaking wet from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, and his wings– oh, his wings! They’re torn in some places, a few primaries hanging loose, and his left wing is definitely bent awkwardly. “What have you done?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” Crowley scowls, wiping pitifully the cracked lenses of his glasses. “Didn’t even mean to come here, was trying for my flat, really, but it’s impossible to see in these blasted things,” he takes off his sunglasses angrily, but still tucks them safely in the inside pocket of his ruined jacket.

Well, that explains nothing.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale begins carefully, sensing Crowley is in a spiky mood and could very well stomp away, bloody wings and all, but finds he doesn’t quite know what to say and trails off awkwardly.

Mercifully, Crowley beats him to it. “Although now that I’m here,” he looks down at himself, turning his nose at the sight, and glances back at Aziraphale, yellow eyes almost bashful. “Would you mind, erm,” he gestures vaguely at his dripping clothes.

“Oh, oh, of course,” Aziraphale hurries out. Truth be told, he had been itching to take a closer look at the damage, see if he can soothe the inevitable pain there, and receiving permission to fuss comes as a blessed relief.

First, he miracles the water away, drying up Crowley in the afternoon sun before the demon caught a cold. Then, he prepares himself to assess the wings, grimacing already at the poor estate they’re in.

“Do come in, dear,” he ushers Crowley in now that he isn’t dripping wet anymore and is no longer a threat to his books, but the demon digs in his heels, spluttering adamant noises about not needing to be coddled.

Absolutely nonsense if you ask Aziraphale.

“If you’re quite done,” he sniffs after Crowley finished talking himself into circles, “the tea is getting cold.”

Crowley huffs.

“Fine. Have it your way, angel,” he glares, then adds haughtily, “but I reserve the right to complain the whole time.”

*

They end up settling on Crowley staying in the small room upstairs since Aziraphale hardly ever indulges in sleeping anyway.

And if it should have been dusty and moldy after not being used in several decades, well, it had never occurred to either of them that that should be the case, so the room had the good sense of adjusting itself.

Crowley’s wings were in quite a state, too, but it shouldn’t take too long to heal, about a week or so if he doesn’t move them much, Aziraphale would say.

While Crowley halfheartedly suggests miracling them better, they both know this kind of things are best left to their own devices, nothing good comes of rushing the ethereal– or, erm, the occult, in this case1.

So now, Aziraphale does his best to clean up the mud and torn feathers, and set the bone right, Crowley standing stock still under his hand and shivering every minute or so.

It must be a bit cold without a shirt on, the shop is a bit drafty, he has to admit.

*

“Crowley,” he says the next day while watching the telly he had set up on the counter of his shop to remind his customers they’d be better off leaving the books be.

“Yes, angel?” comes the silky reply from the backroom.

“The news is reporting a rather interesting story,” he says mildly, “it seems a gentleman was caught wrestling the ducks at St. James yesterday.”

Silence reigns for a minute.

Then, “humans lie, you shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV, you know.”

“Oh, do they now,” Aziraphale smiles amusedly. He can just see the pout Crowley is undoubtedly sporting right now. Still, “but the ducks, really?”

A pause.

“Yes, well, maybe the ducks were being bloody bastards.”

“Of course, dear, I’m sure the ducks had it coming,” he laughs quietly, turning up the volume just a notch, just to be sure it’s heard in the backroom.

*

The strange thing out of all this isn’t having Crowley over but how normal it feels to have Crowley over. It’s alarmingly easy to accommodate him into Aziraphale’s routine and the sight of the demon lounging in sunlit places of the shop is alarmingly endearing. He rather looks like a cat, stretched on the loveseat or curled up in corners, and Aziraphale feels something warm perking up inside his chest every time he catches sight of him.

It’s also quite easy to bid him good night after late night drinks and watch him bound upstairs, a bit unsteadily and giggling all the way, and it’s even easier to huff a laughter at his mussed hair in the morning.

It’s considerably less easy not to follow him up to the bedroom, but Aziraphale is very good at not thinking about things like this. And it’s not as if they’re new, anyway.

That being said, this doesn’t mean Crowley isn’t making good on his word– while he’s not doing anything so obvious as complaining, he’s set on making Aziraphale kick him out.

He whines about the tea and he whines about the coffee, and he whines about having to walk all the way back to the park to pick up the Bentley he left behind2.

But most of all, Aziraphale is dead sure that Crowley is attracting people into the bookshop.

Ever since the demon had taken up residence upstairs, at least three or two people can be found in the shop every hour or so. It’s the most customers it’s seen on the regular ever since being opened and before the invention of ebooks, and it’s understandably very confused and upset. Aziraphale is climbing up the walls to shoo them all out and discouraging them from purchasing anything of true value3.

It makes no harm, but it’s driving Aziraphale mad.

Enough is enough, he thinks, as he steels himself to confront Crowley in the backroom. It should not make him this nervous, it’s just Crowley after all, but Aziraphale has never been terribly good at saying no to the demon. It’s almost impossible, in fact, what with those wide golden eyes staring up at you. Impossible, he swears.

“Crowley,” he says, firmly, and pats himself in the back for his assertiveness, “you must stop this nonsense at once.”

The bell rings at the front.

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about, angel,” Crowley drawls. On his lap, today’s paper is open in the crosswords, halfway done.

“Hello?” a voice calls from the front.

“That is what I’m talking about,” Aziraphale huffs, gesturing the door separating them from the irritating customer in the other room. He gives him a pointed look. “You know very well what you’re doing. It won’t work, anyhow, so there’s no need to keep on with it.”

“Still haven’t the foggiest, sorry.”

“Hullo? Anyone here?”

“It sounds like you got a customer, angel,” Crowley smirks and his amusement is visible even through the sunglasses. It’s written all over him, really. “You should see to that, it won’t do to lose business now, not in this economy.”

“Are you serious– oh for the love of–,” he bustles to the front of the shop, zeroing on the lady by the counter and shooing her right off. “I’m very sorry, ma’am, but we’re closed right now. You’ll have to come back at some other time, or not, that’s up to you, but I must insist that you leave.”

The lady seems quite annoyed at that and not very likely to come back at all, and Aziraphale flips the sign in the front to make it extremely clear they will not be opening today. The door locks, a deadbolt that had not been there before sliding shut.

“There,” he says once he’s back, crossing his arms over his chest to indicate he’s not, he’s not… playing around. “That’s taken care of. I understand it must be quite boring to stay here all this time, but is this really necessary, dear boy?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “If you’re implying I’m somehow using a miracle or two to tempt people into coming in,” he leans forward on his seat, lips curling into a sharp grin, “then I’d have to say it would be impossible. I am, after all, terribly injured. Unless, of course, you were to agree that twisting a wing or two the wrong way is not so serious as you make it to be.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes. “That’s all right,” he smiles serenely, “if you say so. But since your corporation is in fine shape, you’ll have no problem in showing the next customers around the shop, then.”

“Now, wait a second there, Aziraphale–”

The influx of customers dwindles drastically after that.

*

“After all,” Aziraphale says by the end of the week, after checking over the now nearly healed injuries on Crowley’s wings. The feathers are soft to the touch again and the bone seems to be well on its way to fully healed. A small part of him, the one he takes great care not to notice too much, already grieves the loss of not having the demon around as much. “What were you doing in the park?”

Crowley ducks his head, buttoning his shirt back on with not so steady fingers, and pointedly not looks at him. “It’s none of your business,” he sighs, “but if you must know, I was meeting an antique’s dealer.”

“An antique’s dealer,” Aziraphale repeats disbelieving. A bottle of a very good red wine appears in his liquor cabinet and he pours them both healthy doses. “You’re thinking of acquiring any more priceless pieces of art?”

He’s thinking of the Mona Lisa sketch in Crowley’s apartment, yes. Crowley gives him a look through his sunglasses the says oh, get off it, enough about the Da Vinci. Aziraphale sips his wine and pretends he didn’t see it. “No, not exactly,” Crowley continues, primly reaching for his suit jacket and bringing out a black box that should not have fit there from the breast pocket. “I was buying this old thing off his hands.”

Curious despite himself, Aziraphale makes for the box, hesitating until Crowley nods his permission. Then, he opens it carefully, half afraid of what might be inside, Heaven knows what could have moved Crowley into sniffing around the antiques black market after all.

A pocket watch.

The answer is a golden, shiny pocket watch that Aziraphale knows will have his name engraved in the back and whose seconds hand always runs just a bit too fast.

He knows this because it’s the pocket watch he lost somewhere in Switzerland around the late 19th century. He had mourned its loss all throughout the 20th century and certainly moaned about it to the demon many times.

“Is this,” he murmurs, gently pulling it out of the box, lets the chain pool on his open hand. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Don’t say anything,” Crowley warns, glumly retreating as far in the couch as possible, as if distancing himself from it. “It’s only so you’ll stop whining about it. It was starting to get on my nerves, is all.”

“Of course it is, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a knowing smile. It won’t do to push Crowley on this, they’ve played this tune a few times over the year and it always sounds best when he lets the demon keep up the selfish appearances. Still, he knows the tenderness, the gratitude, and all this warm, light love must be glowing through his eyes. “Is this what you were wrestling with the ducks for?”

“Yes, the bastards nicked it from my hand when I was distracted,” he scowls again, shoulders easing a little and tension seeping from his edges. “Figured it wouldn’t take much to get it back, but turns out they’re bloodthirsty gits. Below should consider replacing a few hellhounds with them, I’ll say.”

Aziraphale hums distractedly in agreement. Crowley can talk all he wants, go into another one of his rants, and think he’s fooling everyone but the watch doesn’t lie. It’s like back in Tadfield, something is loved enough and it leaves footprints behind. This is no different, it stayed this whole week and a half with Crowley and some of his feelings towards it have bled into the metal.

And Aziraphale knows for a fact Crowley doesn’t care for watches of any kind, much less something so outdated.

He smiles.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he interrupts him mid-rant, watches his eyes go round behind the glasses and his face turn a shade redder. Crowley falls silent, softens.

“Don’t mention it, angel,” Crowley shrugs carelessly, voice is anything but. His wings flutter in the ethereal plane and the air where they would be shimmers. Thank you, he means.

Aziraphale sets the box down in the desk and hooks the watch into his vest. The sunlight reflects off the gold and warms the room. He pours them more wine and it tastes even sweeter with the I love you too floating between them4.

*

1. See, around the fifth century Aziraphale got his own wings in a spot. It was a case of bad landing, really, a silly mistake, but it twisted his right wing wrong at the tips and the bone cracked a bit. Nothing to worry over, and since he had been in a rush, Aziraphale had healed it on the spot.

Never was the same, that one. Always itches when it rains.

2. That had been an interesting conversation and Aziraphale had been amused by it, on and off, for days. Why didn’t you drive it here? he had asked that first night while pouring them both some wine. Crowley had made an affronted noise, soaking wet? It would’ve ruined the leather! the demon had huffed. Why didn’t you dry yourself up, then? And that had been met with an awkwardly guilty silence. Crowley had not thought of that at the time and left the Bentley alone in the park. 

The papers next day had reported love of my life by the English band Queen could be heard playing all night long near St. James Park. 

3. Not that any of them buy anything. They seem to come in very intent on buying rare and early editions of all sorts of books, but they all end up losing interest after a good fifteen minutes. Aziraphale hasn’t sold a copy in the whole week, except for a guide to London to a very lost tourist looking for the Eiffel Tower.

4. As it turns out, the wine is at it’s sweetest when tasted in Crowley’s tongue, but Aziraphale won’t find this until a few days later when Crowley’s wings heal and he shows no intention of moving back out.

[apostate-crowley]

Like four different characters say something about Hell loving Crowley down there, despite all evidence to the contrary. People are barely staying awake during his presentation, no one gives him a wahoo. Beelzebub seems ambivalent at best, but realistically just distrustful and tired of his shit. Dagon doesn’t really interact with him— their relationship is probably limited to paperwork. Hastur and Ligur openly hate his guts.

But “they” love Crowley down there. He receives commendations and awards for astounding work. Even for stuff he didn’t lie about doing— someone somewhere heard a great evil was happening in the area and assumed “oh yeah that’s gotta be Crowley.” Even assuming he’s just spent thousands of years coasting off his reputation, he’s only credited with four big things, he holds no title in Hell’s hierarchy, and no one down there seems to fear him, at all

And further, those things he got massive credit for? Let’s see here:

The original sin— caused the downfall of man, cursed humans with mortality, granted them knowledge of good and evil and got them expelled from the garden. Actually a big deal, and his own idea that he downplayed greatly, to the point of calling it predestined

The temptation of the Christ— he showed Jesus the kingdoms of the world as a kindness and then the story got mixed up and changed when retold. Possibly by Crowley himself, as a lie to make himself seem more evil, but on the other hand, it was angels who granted divine inspiration to the Bible writers. Entirely possible that Aziraphale lied to cover Crowley’s ass

The Spanish Inquisition— he wasn’t even in the area? Shouldn’t have received credit, someone down there assumes way too much of him

WWII— heavily implied he was British counterintelligence. Which, yeah, he could spin that to be more evil in a report. Hell may not have been very informed on current Earth events and may have assumed both sides were equally evil, that encouraging human warfare at all was demonic. Saying he was the one who actually started it would make sure he stayed in the clear, no matter what happened after

And like, he doesn’t try at all outside of this. He only performs extremely minor and petty works. He mostly seems to think they’re funny, like this demon literally treats his job as a joke and it’s obvious. He’s writing sigils in human highways. He calls a coin glue prank evil, and laughs at people who fall for it. He’s directing a horde of rats to take down cell towers. He invents things that he thinks would be mildly annoying. This demon’s a joke

No one takes him seriously, he’s never been promoted, but it’s universally accepted within the show that his superiors love him when clearly they Do Not. And yet, he gets entrusted with the antichrist. Satan calls him personally through his radio, praises the M25. He’s apparently taken a personal interest in Crowley’s projects, which I doubt he does for all of Hell’s 10,000,000 demons. Especially given that Crowley has no title. It’s generally accepted that Hell has princes, dukes, marquesses, and then everybody else, and Crowley is part of the ‘everybody else.’ So why does Satan even know who he is?

Not only is Satan apparently tracking Crowley’s career, but also he trusted him with his kid. Obviously Crowley is the only demon who ever should be trusted with a kid, but how did Satan know that? Did Satan know that? Or did he give Crowley Adam for unrelated reasons? Why was this Crowley’s “starring role”?

There’s also that thing with Satan calling Crowley “darling,” but to me it seemed like that was just how Satan talked, you know, like with Aziraphale saying “my dear.” The specific term was irrelevant, the fact that Crowley warranted a pet name at all might not be. It’s possible this is genuine affection on Satan’s part, or an underhanded dig/threat

Anyway what I’m saying here basically is that they seem to have a history. No clue what that relationship was or how it might have changed over the years, but for all intents and purposes, Crowley and Satan seem to know each other on a personal level. Not particularly well, it doesn’t seem, but Satan inexplicably trusts Crowley and thinks he’s some excellent hardworking demon I guess.

tl;dr they knew each other and must have been reasonably close in the past at some point. There is a story here, we just don’t know what it is

[preraphaelitepunk]

Fictober19 Day 24: The Most Boring of Virtues

Prompt #24: Patience . . . is not something I’m known for.

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Crowley, Aziraphale, cameos by Anathema and Newt

Rating: Teen (bit of swearing)

Warnings: None

On AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843936/chapters/50358566

“Why did I ever agree to this?” Crowley groaned and slumped even further in his chair.

Aziraphale just sipped his tea as if nothing was wrong. “Because it will be nice to see our human friends again, dear.”

“We’ve talked about that word, angel.”

“I wasn’t applying it to you, so it doesn’t count. Besides, I’m quite looking forward to seeing Anathema and Newt again.”

“A whole afternoon with Book Girl and a boy named after a slug. Lovely.”

“A newt isn’t a slug, darling. It’s a type of,” Aziraphale paused, brow furrowing slightly. “I believe it’s a marsupial.”

“Is it?’

“Not sure. You could look it up on your computer phone.”

“Bah! I’ve already been through the entire internet while we’ve been waiting for them. I’m sick of it. Where the, the Whatever are they?”

“There’s no need to be tetchy, my love. They probably ran into traffic or something. That does tend to happen when you don’t drive like a maniac.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow at that. “I am an excellent driver. Not my fault if the other drivers are too slow and get in each others’ way. And I am not tetchy.”

“Of course not, dear. And they’re not very late, just a quarter of an hour or so.”

“A quarter of an hour we could have spent doing much more interesting things!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “And what much more interesting things would we be doing?”

“Dunno,” Crowley had to admit, adding defiantly, “but they’d be bloody fascinating things, angel. The fascinating-est. Instead we’re stuck here, waiting.”

“Poor darling. The trials and tribulations you go through.” Frankly, Aziraphale sounded more amused than sympathetic, which was annoying.

“If we had to see them, why couldn’t we have gone to Tadfield instead of them coming here? Then we’d at least be doing something.”

“They wanted to come here. Wanting to see London is hardly unusual, after all. Just have a little patience, my love.”

“Patience,” Crowley growled, “is not something I’m known for, angel.”

“Is that so?”

“Well known for not having patience, me. Patience is a virtue, and demons don’t do virtues.”

Soft, strong arms slipped around him from behind, “I could list quite a few of your virtues very easily. Including patience. You waited for me for six thousand years, after all.”

“’Sdifferent, angel.”

“Mmm?” How so?

Crowley wasn’t sure how to explain; wasn’t sure he could in words, not without nearly discorporating from exposing his raw soul like that, even to Aziraphale. Still, he tried: giving the angel what he wanted whenever possible was too deeply ingrained. “It wasn’t all or nothing back then, either us together this way or not seeing you at all. I could still see you, talk to you, take you to lunch. I still had something, a bit of you.”

He felt more than heard Aziraphale sigh. “When I wasn’t getting the wrong end of the stick and storming off, away from you. Did I ever apologize for how I acted? The holy water in St. James’s Park? The bandstand fight? All the other times?”

Crowley reached up and squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, still pressed against his chest, over his heart. “No need. I understood. Still do.”

“Still, I acted abominably, and I am so very sorry, my dear. I should never have hurt you like that.”

“Doesn’t matter. You were trying to protect us.” Some of those fights had nearly shattered Crowley, but the past pain was irrelevant now. They were together, and that made everything worthwhile.

“Still, I went about it the wrong way, and I hurt you. I was wrong, so wrong, and I will never truly forgive myself.”

Crowley turned around, startled to see tears in his angel’s eyes. “Aziraphale, it’s all right! I understand, and it all worked out, okay? That’s the important thing.” Rising from the chair, he gently swiped his thumb across Aziraphale’s cheek, wiping away a tear that had spilled over.

“I was so cruel,” Aziraphale murmured.

“You were scared. Rightly so. You’ve always been the sensible one — and after seeing what’s become of Heaven, I have to say I don’t blame you for being scared. Gabriel is insane, and the others just follow after him like little rabid sheep.”

Aziraphale laughed damply and rested his forehead on Crowley’s shoulder. “Can you forgive me?”

“Already forgiven. Forgiven so long ago I can’t even remember you being not-forgiven. All right?”

“All right.” Aziraphale nestled closer in his arms. “Thank you. You really are far too good to me, my love.”

“Nah.” Crowley snapped a cold compress into existence. “Here, lean back a little. Your eyes will puff up if you don’t put this on them. Here, sit down.”

“Is that really necessary? I must look a fright if you think —”

“I just don’t want Book Girl and Marsupial Slug Boy to think I’ve been making you cry. Come on, angel.”

Obediently, Aziraphale sat and let Crowley drape the compress over his eyes and fuss over him. “Do you need a blanket, angel? Do you feel cold?”

“What I feel is preposterous,” Aziraphale grumbled, but it sounded more fond than irritated.

“Well, you are pretty preposterous, so that’s all right. My perfectly preposterous angel.”

At that point, the bell on the door jingled. “We’re here! So sorry we’re late,” Anathema called. Aziraphale whipped off the cold compress and vanished it, shooting a look how you nearly embarrassed me, you wily serpent look at Crowley. The demon just grinned.

Behind her, Newt waved a bottle of scotch. “But at least we brought presents.”

“Oh, Aberlour!” Crowley exclaimed, snatching the bottle and examining it. “Twelve years. Not bad, Marsupial Slug Boy.”

Newt’s brow furrowed. “Er, what?”

“Please don’t mind him, he’s in a mood,” Aziraphale said, hugging the newcomers. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Same here. Oh, and before I forget,” Anathema rummaged in her sparkly tote bag and pulled out a paper sack. “The Them send their love, too.”

The fragrance wafting up from the sack was unmistakable, even from where Crowley was standing a few feet away. “Apples?”

“The very best, freshly stolen from R.P. Tyler’s orchard,” she said.

Crowley could see Aziraphale firmly deciding not to hear that last bit. “How delightful! Please give them our thanks, and our love.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley stashed the bottle for later and started urging everyone back toward the door. “That’s great and all, but our reservation was at one and we’re fucking late.”

“I believe you’ll find that it’s been miraculously moved to one thirty,” Aziraphale said mildly as he was ushered outside. “Still, we must get a wiggle on.”

“Wiggle. I don’t wiggle,” Crowley grumbled. “Everyone into the Bentley, now!”

Settling into the back seat, Anathema said, “No wiggling? What about in your snake form?”

“Shut it, Book Girl. Everybody in? Right.” The Bentley’s engine roared to life.

“You may find it advisable to hang on,” Aziraphale murmured over his shoulder to the humans, but it was too late. Crowley couldn’t help but grin at the startled yelps from the back as he and his car lunged forward, finally able to fling themselves into action.

Patience was fine when the payoff was Aziraphale, but in general, it was far overrated.

[cayranwilde]

A Burn Worse Than Whiskey

CHAPTER 2

As a southeastern American would say, Crowley drove like a bat out of hell. More accurately, a drunk bat out of hell with its wings on fire being chased by the devil himself. His golden, serpentine eyes paid little attention to the road as asphalt turned to gravel, and with a squeal of his breaks, his Bentley jerked to a stop in front of a quaint English cottage.

“My dear, I’d sometimes swear by your driving that you were attempting to have us inconveniently discorporated,” Aziraphale huffed, straightening his bow tie as soon as he found it safe enough to let go of the handle above the window. It had become his lifeline whenever he rode with the demon. He had even heard that some humans referred to the handle as an “oh shit” grip, which when riding with Crowley, was a suitable term.

Smirking fondly at the tousled blonde, Crowley simply shrugged his narrow shoulders. “You’re being overly dramatic, angel. Besides look - we made it in record time! Who else can get you from London to Tadfield in under and hour, eh?”

“That’s not something you brag about, Crowley.” Aziraphale tried to sound stern, but his tone came off as mildly annoyed at best. Crowley rolled his eyes.

“I bet once your little witch friend liquors you up, you won’t complain about my driving the entire way home.”

“She’s your friend too, Crowley.” Aziraphale corrected, watching as the demon sauntered towards him with the usual careless sway of his hips. Damn him and his hips. The way the demon walked should have been illegal. His hips were the eighth bloody deadly sin. The angel peeled his eyes away from said hips with a disgruntled huff, quickly finding a piece of lint on his tan vest to be equally as interesting.

Crowley, pretending not to have noticed the lingering gaze of blue eyes, refrained from smiling and bumped past the angel on purpose, though careful not to cause him to stumble into the brick wall surrounding the property.

“She’s a friendly acquaintance at best. I’ll give her that.” Crowley turned to walk backwards, facing the angel as he shuffled towards the door. Glasses slid from his hair to the bridge of his nose. “But do come along now, it was you that insisted on coming to this bloody gathering, after all.”

Aziraphale brushed his hands over his vest and straightened it by habit, following the insufferable demon up the stoned path to the house. “True, but it was you that insisted on driving me.”

“Tomato, Toe-mah-to, angel.” Crowley waved a hand carelessly as Aziraphale joined him at the door. Neither would ever openly admit that they wanted to be here with the other. It was unspoken - a little game that they played. One would think that after surviving an Apocalypse and attempted executions that feelings would come easier for the two of them; however, pride and denial were far easier to front.

So, they stood awkwardly, elbow to elbow, as Aziraphale reached up to knock on the door. He cleared his throat expectantly.

Faint voices could be heard from inside the cottage as well as a shuffle of footsteps. Within a moment’s time, the footsteps paused and the door knob jiggled open to reveal the bookish American. She straightened her askew glasses with a smile, holding the door open for the two celestial beings standing on her stoop.

“Aziraphale, Crowley, do come in!” She exclaimed, standing aside to welcome the pair. Her long, black curls were pulled back off of her shoulders revealing her usual attire; however, it was apparent that the witch had tried unsuccessfully to keep the sugar and flour off of her dress with a thin, laced apron. The poor dear had tried to cook. Crowley gave her a quick glance over and though his glasses hid his eyes, it was obvious he was unimpressed. “Oh thank you, dear. How kind of you to have us over!” Aziraphale smiled at the human. She had become one of his “favorites” over the past few months.

“I do hope your ride was pleasant.” Anathema offered to take their jackets as they entered her home, though Crowley chose to ignore her open hand as he meandered into the foyer. He acted far more interested in the interior of the cottage rather than its occupants. If Aziraphale tried to scold him on his rudeness later, he’d simply use the cozy decor of the home as his defense. It was quaint, after all.

A fire crackled, heating the living room while slow jazz (which unfortunately reminded Crowley of elevator music) played softly. The furniture was old but still stylish, and a few lamps -a mixture of modern and rustic - added additional light to the off-white walls and hardwood floors. There was nothing particularly special about the cottage itself, but it was apparent that Anathema added her own particular flair to the cottage’s decor by adding a few crystals to the mantle and side tables. Witches and their rocks - Crowley snorted.

“Pleasant enough I suppose,” Aziraphale replied, handing her his 180 year old jacket, “I’m just glad to have gotten here in one piece.” Crowley pretended to ignore the comment, though Aziraphale knew his yellow eyes rolled behind the thick, dark glasses. After six thousand plus years of knowing each other, they could practically predict each other’s reactions. It caused Aziraphale to smile inwardly as he followed Anathema into the study.

“Where’s lover boy?” Crowley sniffed the air. Newt’s scent wasn’t fresh.

“Newt will be along shortly. I needed a few extra baking supplies so I had him run to the store.”

“Is he still driving that blue embarrassment?” Crowley asked, picking up and inspecting one of the larger crystals. He was half tempted to swipe it.

“You mean Dick Turpin? Yes,” her cheeks flushed. While she didn’t particularly like the vehicle, she had grown somewhat fond over it. She’d never admit it though.

“Strange. I figured he’d get rid of it. I can hardly imagine it being comfortable for the two of you and whatever it is you get in to,” Crowley waved his hand flippantly.

“Well, I think he has an emotional attachment to it.”

Crowley could understand that. He had had the same car since 1926. He loved his car. It was probably the only thing he’d openly admit to loving.

The demon gave a half-nod, but didn’t respond otherwise. Anathema was 90% sure that Aziraphale would apologize for the behavior of his companion later in the evening; he always did. But there was no need for an apology. In the short amount of time that she had known the two of them, she had grown used to their quirks. They were the yin to the other’s yang. Aziraphale was overly polite and pleasant, while Crowley gave two shits about what anyone thought of him. Well, not anyone. The demon had a soft spot for the angel. Anyone with two eyes could see it. His aura practically strained to touch the angel’s, and Crowley often hovered around Aziraphale like a guard dog.

In the short time she had known Crowley and Aziraphale, Crowley had never told the angel no. Aziraphale had, but his “no’s” were often meaningless when said to Crowley. They cared about each other, but to what extent Anathema wasn’t quite sure.

“Until Newt gets back, would either of you care for a drink? I would offer tea, but Newt tells me I’m horrid at brewing it.” She was American, after all. She could make a pot of coffee all day, but tea not so much.

“I would love something, yes,” the angel replied enthusiastically. “Would you happen to have anything slightly stronger than tea?”

“Excuse me?” Anathema appeared confused.

“Alcohol. He means alcohol, love.” Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the door frame.

“Oh! Yes, of course. Actually, I have this hard cider that I think you’d like - an old family recipe. You mix apple cider with a few shots of whiskey, heat until warm and add a few cinnamon sticks. It is a nice drink to have in the fall, I think. ”

“That sounds delightful, doesn’t it Crowley?” Aziraphale clapped his hands together and smiled, though Crowley shrugged, indifferent. Alcohol was alcohol. He’d take it hot, room temperature, cold, in a mug, jar, cup, whatever. But the brewing cider did explain the faint hint of cinnamon in the air. He had noticed it upon entering the house. He had initially assumed Anathema had lit a scented candle, or perhaps set out potpourri - women (and Aziraphale) liked that sort of thing.

“Fantastic! You two make yourselves comfortable - I’ll be right back.”

As soon as the young witch disappeared into the kitchen, Aziraphale turned to Crowley with a huff.

“Really dear? Can you at least attempt to be nice for once?” The angel’s arms crossed over his chest - a typical stance whenever the angel was displeased with the demon.

“Nice? This is my nice, Aziraphale. Demon, remember? I’m not hugging the bloody girl if that’s what you want…”

“I’m not…” Aziraphale paused, eyes closing as he took a deep breath. He got flustered easily.” I’m not asking you to hug her, just don’t be rude!”

“I’m not being rude.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not going to fake it, if that is what your asking. She’ll be dead in another seventy years or so, so I don’t see the point in…”

“ Crowley! For Heaven’s sake! I…” Before the red-faced angel could finish, Anathema walked through the door carrying a tray of steaming hot mugs - a cinnamon stick poking out of each one. She was stifling a smile, having heard the tail-end of the conversation between the two celestials. Most would have been offended by the demon’s comment about her impending death, but not her. She was different. She had seen things that mere mortals weren’t supposed to see. She helped stop the Apocalypse. An angel and a demon were standing in her study. What applied to her didn’t apply to other mortals - not anymore.

“Here we go…” Anathema set down the tray and handed them each a mug. “You might want to let it cool for a bit. It is quite hot.”

Aziraphale tested the liquid cautiously, thin lips pursed against the rim of the ceramic mug. He sipped thoughtfully, “Mmming” in agreement, his fingers catching a few rouge drops that trickled down his chin.

“Quite right, it is.” He set the mug down, careful to do so on a coaster. He didn’t want to stain her polished wood table, after all. Crowley on the other hand sniffed the drink, slurped the cup and smacked his lips as if he didn’t like the aftertaste.

“Needs an extra kick if you ask me.”

“I didn’t, but thank you for the tip,” Anathema shot back, smirking up at the demon.

Aziraphale chuckled.“Oh, good one!”

He was quite pleased to see someone (other than himself) give Crowley a taste of his own medicine. He knew he liked Anathema. The girl had already proven to have a spine of steel at the Tadfield air base and was obviously very smart, but quick wit? It was a welcomed surprise. Even Crowley seemed genuinely surprised by her response. His eyebrows rose atop the rim of his glasses, and if Aziraphale knew better, there was the slightest upward turn of his lips. Maybe Crowley would warm up the girl after all.

“ Hardy har har…” Crowley mocked, pulling what looked like a flask out of his back pocket. “Aren’t you just hilarioussss.” While Crowley was known to bring his own alcohol with him, Aziraphale had never seen that particular flask before.

It was silver, much like Crowley’s other accessories, and had a small imprint of a snake twisting around the flask with the serpent’s mouth as the opening. The pattern was done by hand - that much Aziraphale could tell. Probably a custom job. Of all things, only Crowley would have a flask custom made. Flashy bastard…

Crowley poured the contents of the flask into his mug, stirred it around with his finger, and took another slurp. Then another. “Better.”

He then put his mug down next to Aziraphale’s and plopped down on the couch. He slapped his boots atop the coffee table, long gangly arms draping over the side of the couch. The piece of furniture creaked under his weight. He knew Aziraphale was glaring holes in the back of his head, and he grinned.

“So what interesssting activities do you have planned for us this evening, hmmm? Board games? Potion brewing?” Crowley asked, head leaning back against the top of the couch. “I absolutely refuse to play Candy Land, but you might tempt me to a game of Twister.”

“Actually,” Anathema began, pausing only to sip at her own drink. “I was hoping to get Aziraphale to take a look at a book my mother recently sent me. She said it had been in the possession of a cousin of mine on my father’s side. It is rather old. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

Of course, Crowley mused. Books and food. Why else would Aziraphale want to come? Said angel lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of the book, eagerly following the witch as she retrieved it from the cupboard.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, never one to presume. Anathema nodded and handed it over.

The angel took the book from her with all the gentleness one would have holding a newborn baby. His fingers grazed over the spine of the book, carefully peeling back the cover to read over the title page. He had come to realize in his years of collecting that most novels printed before the 1800’s rarely had a title printed on the cover. Instead, the cover of a book would've been bare. This novel was no different.

“Remarkable, simply remarkable,” he breathed, flipping through the pages. For its age, the book was in amazing condition. Another point for the Device family. They seemed to cherish and take care of old books much like himself.

“How long do you think your cousin has had this book?”

Anathema shrugged, watching the angel with interest. “I don’t know. I believe he inherited it from his parents. Not sure which one.”

Aziraphale nodded, scrambling for the reading glasses in his upper vest pocket. They weren’t needed - just an accessory. The angel had grown used to them over the past hundred years. They made him feel more human - like he belonged.

“It is written in Latin. If I could just find the publisher’s date…”

“Careful, it’s probably a summoning book, angel,” Crowley called over his shoulder.

Aziraphale scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” He grabbed his mug and took a generous gulp of cider. “It is nothing…”

The angel didn’t finish. A noise akin to a gag rasped in the back of his throat. Crowley had never heard Aziraphale make that noise before.

The demon turned his head curiously, eyebrows creasing in concern.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer. The mug shook in his grasp, splashes of cider trickling down his clinched, white knuckles. The poorly concealed distress in the demon’s voice caused Anathema to look up from the book to take in the angel’s appearance as well.

“Angel, what…?” It was then that Crowley noticed it. A horrible, sickening feeling bubbled in the pit of the demon’s stomach as the angel shook from head to toe. Sitting atop the coaster was Aziraphale’s mug of cider - right where he had left it. The mug in Aziraphale’s trimmering hand was Crowley’s. He had grabbed the wrong mug. Oh fuck.

Anathema reached out as if to steady the angel; however, before her fingers could grab hold of his elbow, Aziraphale crumpled, scarcely hearing someone scream his name before his head smacked against the floor.

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5]

[nebutomo]

An Ineffable Cold

Here, have some cute divine beings! -------------------------------------------------------------------- Rain pattered gently against the roof of Aziraphale’s beloved bookstore, setting up a rather nice atmosphere for a day of reorganizing the store and tea drinking. The best kind of day really! Well aside from getting to spend all day actually reading that is. The angel hummed a soft but merry tune as he moved about the shop, seeming to bounce from one shelf to the next, fixing the books often so carelessly disheveled by the hands of modern man.

Sometimes he wondered how humans could be so careless with books. Perhaps because reading actual books was a dying art? With those annoying cellular thingy’s occupying so much of their attention on a daily basis anyways. He scoffed a bit at the sheer thought and if he wasn’t so holy he’d curse Crowley for ever inventing them! Speaking of Crowley, it’d been a few days since he’d seen or heard from the demon. He wasn’t worried, figuring he was simply off indulging in a bender of sorts.

His reverie was interrupted as the small bell above the front door chime noisily, signaling a customer no doubt. “Welcome~!”,he called out cheerily as he made for the front, pausing in surprise when he didn’t immediately see anyone,”Oh..well that’s rather odd. I could’ve sworn I heard someone come in?”. A sudden crash sounded behind him, the sounds of precious books hitting the floor making him rush back to the aisle he’d just been in, once again not seeing any humans but catching what looked like the literal tail end of a certain demon he knew.

“Crowley?”,he called out,”Love, is that you?”.

No response came.

Aziraphale huffed indignantly, picking up the books that had been knocked over along with the small table they’d been displayed on.

“You know I don’t appreciate you being so reckless with my books..”,he pouted, dusting off the covers and righting the table,”You haven’t spoken to me in at least two days. The least you could do is be mindful of my things..”.

A hoarse, echoing whisper met his ear coupled with the distinct feeling of a large serpent winding it’s way to his shoulder,”Sssorry, Angel. Mby sssenses are a little bunged up at the moment.”.

Aziraphale cast a glance at the large snake head resting on his shoulder, watching as it slowly shifted and morphed into Crowley’s familiar visage. Although he seemed a bit paler than normal and the angel was sure his nose wasn’t that vibrant of a red around the edges the last time he’d seen him.

As if to add to the angel’s suspicion, a thick and liquid sniffle sounded (right by his ear might he had!) just before the demon swiftly turned away,”Hh’gSTchKK! Eh’IstCHHk! Oh..bloody hell, think thad last one sprang mby throat..”. He backed off Aziraphale in favor of fishing a silken, deep red cloth from his pocket, gaze squinted at the lights up above.

“You don’t sound well at all Crowley. Are you ill by chance? You know the last I saw you like that was--”

“Nduh uh, ndope. Don’t even--Hihh!--say it! I’mb a demon, I don’t get sihh..sigk..”,his breath wavered and hitched unsteadily, cloth raised just in front of his flaring nostrils,”Probably just all these dusty books..Hh’TsCHKK! Fuck, thank Satan, there it is..”. He buried his pointed nose into the cloth, gingerly massaging it between thumb and forefinger.

The angel looked only mildly offended that his books had been insulted. Dusty? Why he cleaned three times a day for his information! And even if he didn’t he didn’t know Crowley to be allergic to anything besides certain blossoming plants but he made sure to keep those out of the shop solely for that reason alone.

Besides, he wasn’t so confident allergies could make one look so..awful. The last time he’d seen his demon look like this was 1897 if he remembered correctly. The weather had been much like it was now, rainy and a bit frigid and Crowley had caught a particularly nasty cold from God knows where. Aziraphale could practically see him in his pressed suit now, sneezing much like he was currently, and desperately trying to look put together in front of the others in the Gentleman’s Club they’d been a part of back then.

Such fond memories..

Crowley eyed him with a suspicious pout,”You’re thinking about it aren’t you? Stop it. Stop it right now because I. Amb. Fine. Look at me, I’mb the picture of hellish health!”. He stood a little straighter, chest puffed out a bit for all of a few seconds before a coughing fit overtook him and he quickly doubled over.

“Ah, yes..absolute health. I must say the plague victims sounded much better than you. God, what a disgusting point of history..”

“Hey! Thad was some of mby best work..”.

“If you say so, dear. Why don’t I close up shop and we head upstairs for a spot of tea, hm? I bought that kind you like. The stuff from India.”.

“I’mb ndot sigk but that sounds ndice, Angel..”.