#but aziraphale is sipping one in spirit

[lauriegraham01]

violent delights & violent ends

pairings: crowley x angel!reader, gn!reader (aziracrow x reader if you squint)

summary: having stood through the testaments of time, as Heaven and Hell's forces and anger grow closer every day, you and Crowley must both make a choice but what fateful consequences lie in store for star-crossed lovers

cw: hurt/comfort, lotta hurt tho, angst,

wc: 4.5k

a/n: UPDATED ON 9/23!!!! inspo came from a dream, romeo + juliet, and 'romeo' by until the ribbon breaks. working on a masterlist currently and hope to get it up soon. tysm for your support and enjoy :)

The party was in full swing and you found yourself getting lost within the noise of William Shakespeare's famous parties. You were currently backstage in one of the parlors where you, Crowley, and Aziraphale had joined Shakespeare and his fellow actors and other socialites in celebrating another successful opening night.

"I mean it, William. You are just absolutely brilliant, I mean you're ability to capture human emotion and spirit, well it's just marvelous!" Aziraphale had spent the better half of the night praising the poet as he truly felt starstruck by his talent.

"Yea, yea the blokes alright. You should've seen him when he was just starting out, now the bastard his own theatre." Crowley sneered as they took another sip of the mead they carried in their hand.

"He's more than alright, you can admit that. He's quite the poet." You look at them with an amused smirk as though daring them to disagree.

" 'O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night', trust me love, I would not be here had you and Aziraphale put up such a fight," the demon recites almost mockingly.

"Now look who's the poet?"

"Enjoying ourselves are we dear?" Aziraphale shakes you from your thoughts as he appears before you and Crowley sort of breathless.

"Seems like you are, Angel," Crowley quips back.

"Oh just marvelous really. The talent that the Almighty has given some of these actors is just beyond words! I've even been invited to the opera to see one actor perform! Oh, I do believe I see "Mercutio" across the room. Excuse me- Mercutio!"

As Aziraphale makes his way back into the crowd of stifled bodies, you turn your head back to peer at Crowley as they take a seat onto a plush red velvet couch. Sinking into the couch, they spreads their legs open wide, almost invitingly.

"The opera? I like the sound of that." Eyebrows raising, creasing their forehead as they peer at you through dark glasses. With a free hand they tap their thigh, inviting you in. You happily take it as you make yourself comfortable upon it, head falling upon their shoulder.

"You know what I like the sound of? Silence. I do believe that I am beginning to overstay my welcome," you sigh tiredly as you study the side of their face. Finding your eyes tracing the tattooed snake just beside their ear.

"Oh come on, what are you talking about? The fun's just barely begun. Plus I've heard rumors of what really goes on in Will's study, if you know what I mean," their hold on you becomes tighter as they wiggles their eyebrows suggestively.

"Crowley, c'mon be serious," you protested.

"I am! You're gonna tell me that doesn't peak even the tiniest bit of your interest?"

"What? No. Crowley, I mean it. I'm heading back home, need to step away for the night."

The demon fully turns their face to look at you for a second and as they look into your tired eyes, they let out a sigh, defeated that only you could make them change their mind and make them bend in ways they never though possible. Defeated that you were their soft spot.

"Alright, let's go love," they sigh as they pull the both of you onto your feet. Taking a hold of your hand, they guide you through the crowd as the two of you make your way outside of the theatre and back onto the streets of London. You knew Aziraphale would be fine on his own, as he had no intention of his ending his night anytime soon, thoroughly enjoying himself in the presence of talented artists. Crowley maintained an arm wrapped around your shoulder as the two of you walked on cobblestone until the bookshop finally came into view.

"Home sweet home," Crowley announces as the two of you make your way inside the dimly lit bookshop. Taking your coat off, you blow out the remaining candles that had been lit prior to your departure and made your way upstairs to your bedroom. You heard Crowley trailing not too far behind, and as you make your way into your bedroom you look behind to see them leaning against the doorframe.

"You can come in Crowley, you know that." You softly smile as you find their sheepish behavior rather odd.

"Nah i'm good, I was thinkin' of taking off. Just wanted to make sure you were alright s'all."

Having known Crowley since the dawn of creation, you knew when they were deceiving you.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm?"

"Come inside, dear."

"Well alright, I mean if you insist," the demon blows a puff of air before making their way inside, shutting the door behind them.

They made themself comfortable as you got dressed for bed. You felt Crowley's eyes burning on you with your every move, and the fact alone made heat creep its way up your face. Turning to face them again, you saw them burrowed beneath the multiple blankets that draped your bed. Making your way beneath them, you slide in beside Crowley but still left enough roof to distance the two of you.

"Any particular reason you're so far?" The demon quips as their yellow eyes quizzingly look into yours.

"Didn't know if you wanted me to be that close."

"You know me better than anyone, y/n. You know the distance never made a difference to me, love." With that they pull you closer until you're engulfed in their body heat as you remained pressed against their side.

It wasn't unusual for you and the demon to be close like this, in fact in ways it was one of the reasons your bond with each other was so strong. Crowley, for better or for worse, craved physical touch. Having been deprived of it in their time in Hell, the only time they ever felt the touch of another is when pain and violence would be awaiting on the other side of it. With you it was different, it was their way of demonstrating emotions where words failed him. Most days it would be small things like a hand placed on the small of your back, or their hand laying gently on your knee whenever you sat near, but tonight it was different. By the way they had been handsy all night and with the distant look in their eyes as they stared up at the ceiling, you knew something was up.

"Crowley?"

"Hmm," they hum back in acknowledgement, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.

"What's on your mind?"

Crowley remains still for a minute, holding in a breath of ancient dread as they pondered over how to encapsulate the overwhelmingly conflicting emotions they were feelings, emotions they've felt since the Fall.

"S'nothing, you just get some sleep," they mutter, hoping to whisk away your concern as a way of sparing them from having to confront their emotions.

"Crowley..."

"Y/n?"

"I know when you're lying to me. I can sense that your mind is elsewhere, talk to me."

You pull back from where you laid and propped yourself up on your elbow, in order to fully look at him. Raising your other hand you softly run it through their locks before hooking a hand underneath their chin, turning their face to look at you.

"I'm here," you whisper.

Crowley's eyes search yours and they're met with nothing but adoration. The twinkle of the very stars they've created were nothing but a pale comparison to the light of hope that glimmered in your eyes. The light that no matter how hard they tried to run from, they always found themself running home to.

"It's the torment."

"From?"

"From the fall. Seems silly to dwell on something so ancient, but those demons, that torture..." their voice wavers as dread aches through their spine, "i guess it never really goes away."

Words die on your lips as your heartaches for the pain Crowley's been through. They never talked about what torture awaited for them in Hell after the Fall, but as an angel you could only imagine the suffering that was Crowley's fate.

You hadn't realized how silent you had been until Crowley shifts to sit upright. Mirroring their actions you move to face them and you see the way they try to hide from you as Crowley buries their face within their hands.

"Crowley, I understand I won't ever know what you feel, but one thing I do know is that you don't deserve to live in that pain. Something so vast as the darkness of the universe before you illuminated it with your creation." You gently wrap your hands around their wrists and pull them away to reveal Crowley's eyes reddened from silent tears.

"Let me walk with you, in that darkness."

"You could get lost in it," they shake their head, sniffling as they feel vulnerable by the transparency of their emotions.

"Then let me be lost in it, as long as I'm lost with you." You brush their hair back before your hands softly caress the side of their face.

"It would be your sin, I would be your sin." Crowley's hands creep their way up to your side as they hold onto you tightly, afraid you would realize the wickedness that lies within them and leave in disgust. The space between you and Crowley had shrunk as your foreheads pressed together. Your eyes never left theirs as the pain behind their serpent eyes sought refuge in you. You could feel their warm breath fanning over your lips, and for just a second you dare to move your gaze to look at his lips. Lips that looked so soft and tempting to draw you in. You didn't miss the way Crowley had also flickered to look at yours as well, so when your eyes meet again you felt a certain clarity wave afront as the feelings for the demon you held in your hands could no longer be buried.

"If sin be from thy lips then thus with a kiss I die."

Your words fall as a whispered prayer onto Crowley's ear as you close the spaces between and capture their lips into a soft kiss. After overcoming initial shock, Crowley's lips moved with yours in something so sweet as a sacrament. Yet that sweetness quickly turned into hunger as they kissed back fiercely, hungry for more and you were willing to be devoured whole. The burning within your lungs became too strong and you pulled away. Resting your forehead against Crowley's, as you both caught your breath you look into their eyes and see the mischievous light that you had sorely missed.

"You're in for it this time, love. A whole new world of sin," Crowley rasped lowly, as a wicked smile grew on their face.

"Very well then, give me my sin again."

It's been 423 years since that fateful night that would change the trajectory of Crowley and yours relationship forever. You loved each other in secret, while finding freedom in your relationship on Earth, both of you still feared the consequences you would face if either of your sides caught wind of the true nature of your relationship. It seemed that your relationship only got better with time, Armageddon was a testament of that. With the help of Aziraphale, the two of you managed to prevent a destructive war between Heaven and Hell, and remained living on Earth amongst the crowds of humans whose lives had been spared by your hands. Yet, despite this somewhat happy ending, Crowley knew that the fight wasn't over just.

"If you would just listen to me for once y/n, you would see that we are in danger."

"You're being irrational, Crowley. There is no war!"

Your voice had gone raw from how long you and Crowley had been screaming at each other. Crowley was trying to convince you that Heaven and Hell were conspiring and would be back for their revenge, and soon. You however were stuck in your stubbornness and were determined that their was no danger in sight.

Even with their shades on, you could feel the intensity of Crowley's glare as they stared back at you wide-eyed in disbelief that you could be this blind. Pacing the kitchen floor of his apartment, they pinched the bridge of their nose, trying to calm themselves down even though it felt it was useless.

"Y/n, listen to me," they say lowly, "you, Aziraphale, and I are in trouble. The longer we spend on Earth the longer we walk around with a target on our backs waiting to be killed."

"Crowley please, enough of this," you wave your arms impatiently as you pleaded with them with desperate eyes.

Crowley walks across the kitchen island and stand in front of you, holding your arms tightly within his grasp.

"Come with me."

"What?"

"Come with me. We can leave this place while we still have a chance. We can travel amongst the universe and settle down on any other planet. We can have a new start, turn a new page."

"Crowley, we're fine. I promise there is no danger he-"

"No, but you're wrong y/n, because there is!"

You flinch at the boom of their voice as their hands tighten around you. Fear flashing your eyes as you let out a sharp hiss from their tight grip that burned your skin.

"Crowley! Stop, you're scaring me." You manage to free yourself from their grasp. Breathing heavily, you stare at them frozen in fear, unable to recognize Crowley for the first time.

Crowley's faced drop and seeing the fear that they had instilled in you made their body slack and and a weighted dread sink into their stomach. Averting your eyes as you rubbed over the spots where they once held you, they could feel their heart break. The very hands that they swore to use to protect you, had been the same ones to hurt you. As you hesitated to look back up at the demon, when your eyes met and you saw the inner turmoil within their serpent eyes, you imagined the darkness that Crowley's mind was spiring down upon.

"Crowley I-"

"Don't." They stumble backwards distancing themself, afraid of what else they might do, afraid of hurting you again.

Crowley never meant to hurt you, and deep down you knew this. You two had your fair share of arguments over the course of millenniums but they never once lost control of their emotions and hurt you in the way they just did. Even as Crowley heard your thoughts, reassuring them that they weren't wicked and a danger, it wasn't enough. You knew the risks of being with a demon, and they were always afraid that one day you'd decide that being with them was a mistake and that you'd walk out of their life forever. And now, seeing you in this light, seeing that he hurt you and could hurt you, that scared them more than anything.

"There are somethings that'll never change."

Crowley swiftly made way for the door, feeling the walls of the apartment closing in on them. The shouts of Crowley's name as you quickly followed them fell on deaf ears. You're meet with the pouring rain as you follow Crowley outside into the driveway, the lightning being the only thing illuminating the night sky. The growing rolls of thunder seemed to match your quickened heartbeat as your anxiety grew with Crowley's distancing stride.

"Crowley, please!" Your voice comes out strained as you desperately cry out to Crowley. Opening the drivers side, Crowley stiffens as though fighting with themself to stay or go. Looking back at you, their red locks clinging to their face as their face scrunched in anguish, heart breaking more as they saw the pained look on your face.

"As long as you're with me, you will always be in danger."

The memory of Crowley driving away and leaving you behind replayed in your mind all throughout the night. Flashing days and sleepless nights passed as Crowley consumed your thoughts, unable to hide from the pain that their absence caused. This being the farthest things escalated in your relationship, you clung onto hope that there was a way to come back from this. That Crowley would come back and you could find a way to move past this together.

As days turned into weeks, you felt the hope that once burned so brightly begin to snuff out into smoke as you faced the probable reality that Crowley would never return and that you were left on your own. Well not completely on your own. After noticing how silent things had been from you and Crowley, Aziraphale decided to check in. Unaware of the mess that he would stumble upon, he felt blindsided from the state of things, heart broken too in the wake of Crowley's absence. Yet, seeing your severely distressed state, the angel put his emotions aside in order to attend to you. He took you within his care, hoping to help bring the light back in your eyes and comfort you until Crowley could come back.

Padding down the wooden hallway floors, you rub the fatigue of another sleepless night from your eyes as Aziraphale's door comes into view. Pressing an ear against the door, you found the silence on the other side of the door rather odd as he was usually up by this hour. Knocking lightly against the wooden door, you await to hear a stir yet when you get no response, you open the door to make your way in. Walking inside, the sleeping frame of Aziraphale's body come into view as he begins to stir from the noise of your intrusion.

"Y/N? Is everything alright, dear?" The angels voice come out raspy, fresh from sleep.

"Yea, i'm okay," you croak out, voice weary.

He looks at you for a moment, curious as to your sudden intrusion, not that he was bothered but that it was out of character for you to come to him so early in the day. With slow movements, Aziraphale slowly rises from bed, tightening the robe around himself as he made his way to the window. With a tug, the suns rays engulf the room as it casts its warm light throughout the space. Aziraphale closes his eyes, as though in silent gratitude prayer, and basks in the suns warmth. Looking at him, you can't help but feel a stillness in his beauty, especially with the way the sunlight illuminates his face and casts a celestial orange glow around him. Making him look even more angelic if that were even possible.

"But soft, what light through yonder window breaks," Aziraphale breaks the silence, opening his eyes and turning to face you.

"It is the east, and Crowley is the sun."

"You would deprive that from the Almighty herself?" Smiling brightly, you don't miss the way Aziraphale teases you for your endearing words. You find small comfort in his childish tease and bright smile, not being able to help the way your lips tug upwards at his remark. Aziraphale relishes in the small happiness that flashes across your face, even if brief. It had hurt him to see his love in pain especially at the hand of someone he too loved. Looking back to the window, he finds himself getting lost gazing into the crowded streets of Soho beneath him. A silence settles over the two of you, and your eyes remained fix on his side profile as the emptiness of the gravity of your situation creeps back into your mind.

"Crowley's not coming back." It was you who broke the silence this time, Aziraphale turning to you taken aback with furrowed eyebrows by how matter-of-factly you spoke.

"What ever do you mean?"

"I mean they're gone," you inhaled sharply, "for good this time."

"Well no, not really. I'm sure they'll come back, you know how Crowley gets." Aziraphale. Ever the optimist until the very end.

"Aziraphale-"

"You've always known how dramatic they can be I mean really-"

"Aziraphale-" you call out, his optimism making your wounds bleed even more at the false promises of an angel.

"Look, it's only a matter of time before Crowley walks through that door and everything will be as-"

"Aziraphale!" Your voice angrily booms like a roll of thunder as it bounces off the bedroom walls.

"They're not coming back! Aren't they?!"

Despite your volume, it was your tone that cut like a knife. Even as your voice felt so shaky, you spat those words out like venom that laid bitterly on your tongue. Aziraphale could feel his heart break as he stared into your eyes. Red and puffy from fighting to keep your emotions at bay, but also cold and unwavering as you forced yourself to come to the crossroads of the truth.

"No," he says barely above a whisper, a slight tremble in his voice as he barely shakes his head. "No, i'm afraid not my dear."

You've never seen Aziraphale look so defeated. So hopeless as he stared back into your lifeless eyes. The air around you feels restricted as your throat tightens. Your lips quiver as the painful truth of your beloved angels words echo in your head and settle in your heart. Your vision blurs as tears begin to welt in your eyes before inevitably cascading down your cheeks. Aziraphale then wraps his arms around you, pulling you in a tight embrace as you collapse within his arms. Sobs muffled from where your head laid buried in his chest, the world going silent as an insurmountable wave of grief washes over you, pulling you to drown in a sea of sorrow.

You don't know how long you cried for or even how much time had passed. When you came out of your daze, you realized that you and Aziraphale were on the floor as he pressed soft kisses against your temple, hoping to reel you back into reality.

"Forgive me," you croak, voice spent from lament, "i've been lonely, but it's not like I don't know my way." You try to reassure Aziraphale and yourself as you felt hollowed. Guilt also eating at you for putting the angel in this situation, having to take care of you.

"You have nothing to be forgiven for, my dear" he whispers lowly into your ear. Taking the hands that were wrapped tightly around you, he brings them up to caress your face within them. Your tears have dried by now but that doesn't stop him from peppering tender kisses upon your cheeks. Overwhelmed by his soft touch, you feel your face heat up again as the gentle sentiment causes your emotions to arise again. When he feels a salty tear catch upon his lip, he pulls away to see your glossy eyes staring back into his, searching for some kind of relief.

"But I don't know my way, Aziraphale."

The angel remained at your side for the rest of the day, never leaving you alone for a moment longer than absolutely needed. As he aided to your every need and treated you like a fine china plate- afraid to drop you and shatter into a million pieces. And for a while it helped, it made the pain more bearable, the ache of Crowley's absence less debilitating- but even all of Aziraphale's love wouldn't be enough to ix the hole that Crowley left in your life.

You thought hard about your next move. Calculating everything over in your head a million times but all roads led you back to where you were now. Managing to slip out of the Aziraphale's bedroom in the middle of the night, you made your way back to your original bedroom where you were now packing frantically. You packed as much as you could into your suitcase as you grew restless, wanting nothing more than to run away from this emptiness you fear you would never escape from.

As you left your suitcase by the stairwell, you looked down the hall before quietly making your way back to Aziraphale's room. Once inside, you made sure to leave behind the note that you had written for him on the side where you usually laid. You burn the image of his sleeping frame into your mind, wanting your last memory of the angel to be one where he seemed at peace. Leaning across the bed, you place a soft kiss upon the corner of his mouth, careful not to wake him. He stirred slightly beneath your touch, but still remained in a deep sleep even as you pulled away.

Making way for the bedroom door, you freeze under the entranceway.

"Look back, look back," you thought to yourself, a voice of reason wanting to make itself hear. Despite this, you fought against it and forced one foot in front of the other, because you knew if you looked back you would never leave. The cold air greets you as you make your way out into the streets of Soho, winds blowing harshly as you toss your bag into the backseat of your car. As the engine roars to life and you pull onto the main road, you glance at the rearview mirror where the bookshop fades from view. Silently saying goodbye to the place that had too also become home for you. You don't know exactly where you were headed, but just that you were ready to get there. Ready to go, but never to return.

The next morning, Aziraphale finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed where he gripped the white sheets, frustration and heartache threatening to drown him as he re-read your letter line for line, over and over and over again.

"Dearest Aziraphale,

My love, I'm sorry for the mess I've left for you to clean, it was unfair to you given your own heartbreak. Azira, I cannot thank you enough for what you've done for me now and in the past. But now I must go my own way and figure out what to write in this next chapter for myself. I know things will be difficult for if they weren't... well you see I would've killed Romeo and saved Juliet, but I don't write stories that time won't forget. So please angel, forgive me for grabbing the kerosene and letting it all burn to the ground. I've been looking for meaning, I don't know if I like what I've found. Forgive me for I've been lonely and one day I hope to tell you that I now know my way. I'm sorry. "

[greenthena]

Fanfic Update

Because Wednesday is as good a day as any.

“So, what then? A poltergeist? Some occult being?” He rolled his hand, clearly searching for suggestions. “Ooooh! I know…uh…one of those, ya know? Eldritch thingies?”

“Crowley, shut up,” Anathema snapped. “There aren’t any ghosts or spirits or anything like that in your classroom… Oh! Oh, actually…” she gazed into the midground for a moment… “Nope, they’re gone. Anyway. My deck and my pendulum have been very talkative this weekend. Mostly in regard to you.”

“To me?” Crowley gawked, taking a sip from his coffee and trying to appear nonchalant. At least that’s how Anathema interpreted his awkward lean against the corner of his desk.

“Yep. You and Mr. Fell,” she said. “Look, I know it probably sounds creepy, but I’ve been keeping an eye on the two of you…”

“Yah, that’s definitely stalkery, Ana,” interrupted Crowley with a smirk.

“You know what I mean, dumbass,” she retorted. “Over the last few weeks, I’ve been getting some very…I don’t know…pointed readings about you and Aziraphale.”

Keep reading on ao3...

[zenlesszonezero]

Join Zenless Zone Zero with Tsukishiro Yanagi, the deputy leader of Hollow Special Operations Section 6! Beneath her ordinary office lady exterior lies a meticulous, emotionally intelligent big sister to the team.

[darkhighness]

Good Omentober Day 28 - Zombies

Prompt by @disaster-dog

Crowley watches some scary movies with Aziraphale and enjoys watching the angel squirm.

With a bowl of popcorn at the ready and admittedly too many wine bottles, Crowley was prepared to show Aziraphale some of his favourite classic zombie films. This American thing called Halloween seemed to be generating some steam in England, and Crowley was keen to adopt the spirit. Aziraphale, significantly less enthralled by the creepy and the crawly, was not nearly as excited.

As the opening credits of a black-and-white zombie flick began to roll, Crowley reclined on the sofa, sipping his wine lazily straight from the bottle. Crowley had seen many of the films before, their cheap horror and gore effects no longer having the same lustre they once did.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, sat at the edge of his seat, his eyes barely peeking out from behind a cushion he clutched as if his life depended on it.

"Crowley, my dear, must we watch this?" Aziraphale's voice quivered with unease. He would’ve much rather watching anything else, or even read a good sci-fi book if it absolutely had to be spooky but he knew how excited Crowley was for this.

Crowley grinned, his snake eyes almost glowing in the dimly lit room. "Oh, come on, angel. It's all in good fun. It's not real, you know."

Aziraphale reluctantly lowered the cushion but kept one eye on the screen. He couldn't help but flinch at the special effects and the zombie hordes, “Looks awfully real.”

“Oh angel, this is nothing,” Crowley laughed, taking a small amount of pleasure in the angel’s anguish.

As the movie progressed, the tension in the room mounted. Aziraphale occasionally sought refuge in his wine glass, taking larger sips as the fear grew. Crowley and Aziraphale found themselves engrossed in the marathon of B-rated films Crowley had prepared for the evening. Aziraphale, still much more afraid than he would dare to mutter out loud, shifted closer to Crowley on the sofa. Crowley, pretty quickly getting what he was after, moved to hold his arm around Aziraphale as a small token of comfort.

By the time the credits rolled on the last film, Aziraphale was quite ready to read a good book and pretend none of this happened, “Well, that was…something.”

Crowley grinned, pouring another glass of wine. "See? I knew you'd come around eventually. Maybe we'll make a horror aficionado out of you yet."

Aziraphale chuckled unsurely, sipping what was left of his fourth glass of wine. "Well, if we’re going to do this again I think I should at least get a say in the movies we watch. Something less brainy, perhaps."

Crowley raised his glass in a celebratory fashion, glad to have slowly started to chip away at Aziraphale’s tough exterior. "To embracing the spooky and the supernatural, even if it takes a bit of wine and some company to do it."

After a brief pause, Crowley reached for the remote control. He switched from horror movies to a different set of films, and the Disney logo soon began to play on the screen. He scrolled down to find a film he knew that Aziraphale would love.

Aziraphale's eyes widened with surprise and delight as he recognized the familiar films. "Oh, Crowley, you sly demon. Are you trying to redeem yourself with Disney now? You know how I love Hocus Pocus."

Crowley grinned, his arm still around Aziraphale. "Well, angel, I thought it might be a good idea to end the evening on a lighter note. After all, it's Halloween, and what better way to celebrate than with some Disney enchantment?"

Aziraphale settled back into the sofa, a genuine smile on his face as he watched the familiar film. It was one he’d watched with Crowley many times before during some of their other quiet nights in. A few more viewings and he could probably recite it. He leaned into Crowley's comforting embrace, feeling safe and content.

By the end, Aziraphale was fully curled up into Crowley’s form, gently humming along to the song playing throughout the credits. His little murmurs brought a smile to Crowley’s face and he reached to fuss with the angel’s curls.

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Crowley teased, watching as Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut.

With his eyes still closed, he retorted, “Shut it, you wily serpent.”

Crowley just enjoyed the comfortable silence, letting the previews play through on the screen as they sat. Their bottles of wine had since been discarded and snacks abandoned but the demon didn’t mind. He was just thankful for these moments. After all they’d been through, there was always some kind of anxiety that they were running around of time.

Aziraphale didn’t seem as worried about the development as he fell into a light sleep, small snores barely escaping his pink lips. Crowley gently trailed his fingers along the angel’s soft skin, enjoying each delicate touch. He eventually reached over and turned on his favourite film.

It was a guilty pleasure and if anyone brought it up he would deny it to Hell and back but as he saw the opening credits of Encanto begin to play, he almost felt himself tearing up pre-emptively.

It shouldn’t have made him so emotional but somewhere in the pit of his darkened heart, it touched him. The last time he watched it with Aziraphale, they were both sobbing messes by the end. As Crowley’s favourite song came on, he began singing softly, still softly fussing with his lover’s hair. The language, while still a little bit rusty, came back naturally to him.

Dos oruguitas enamoradas Pasan sus noches y madrugadas Llenas de hambre, siguen andando Y navegando un mundo Que cambia y sigue cambiando Navegando un mundo Que cambia y sigue cambiando

[attackonmarty]

Chapter 2

Heaven was as beautiful as he remembered. Apart from that time when he discorporated by accident, he was missing from there for a long time.

When he discorporated, he came back to Earth as a spirit just to meet Crowley and tell him about his bookshop. God Father he was going to miss his bookshop so much.

"I lost my best friend." How could he have been so stupid and blind not to understand what he was trying to tell him?! But it was too late for regret. It was too late to look back and see what he had lost, maybe forever.

No, not forever. There was still hope, nothing can kill hope. And he still hoped to convince Crowley to turn back to be an angel and live with him. He was taking Gabriel's place after all! And he had the second coming to prepare. He would have had so much power to convince Crowley to change his mind.

"You idiot. We could have been... us."

The memory of that kiss made him blush. Not for the kiss itself but because Crowley opened up to him so much. He didn't expect a demon like Crowley to be like that. But who was he trying to fool? For how many years had they known each other? And how many signals had been captured, over time? How could he say he didn't see that conversation coming? And how did he dare to say I forgive you? For what? For being honest? For saying the right things at the right time? Why on earth did Aziraphale answer like that?

Because you needed to go take Gabriel's place, suggested a voice in his head. Because you desperately needed your superiors to notice you. Because your life on Earth was starting to bore you!

He bowed his head and followed Metatron through the offices.

"This will be yours, Aziraphale. I'm sure you will make good use of it. I'll send someone to call you when we're ready to start a reunion."

Without waiting for an answer, he went out.

Aziraphale sat at his new desk. The chair was comfortable... not that he expected anything different from the archangel Gabriel.

If Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it... go off together...

He shut out that thought before his mind could complete it.

He was an Angel who was called to do his duty. If he was too stupid to understand what he wanted to do worse for him.

First of all, he needed new clothes. If he wanted other angels to accept him and respect him, he needed to look more like one of them and less like a human.

His fingers snapped twice: the first time a tunic replaced his taftan suit, the second time made his wings grow back. Aziraphale felt reborn.

He felt like he waited centuries for that moment to happen, and the joy almost broke his heart.

Somebody entered the office. It was one of the Ishim who bowed.

"I apologise, sir" the angel said in a whisper. "Metatron said to bring you a cup of coffee. He said that you enjoy drinking coffee very much."

She handed him a steaming cup.

"Oh, thank you so much, my dear." He didn't have the heart to say he always preferred hot chocolate (even though his all times favourite was red wine), so he took the coffee and had a sip of it.

It had a funny taste like the one he took from Nina's bar. Aziraphale knew how the coffee tasted, and it was definitely not like that. But maybe it was because he always put too much sugar in it, and that was instead the correct way to have it he couldn't tell.

"So, my dear," he said, noticing that the Ishim didn't leave yet "what are the orders from Metatron, now?"

"I don't know, sir," she said, blushing. Her voice cracked "I am an Ishim, my job is just to speak to humans, so I cannot say what are the plans of lord Metatron. I can ask him to tell you what to do, though..."

"That would be great, thank you." he smiled but felt that was one of the fakest smiles he ever made.

As the one he made to Metatron when he showed him the elevator that would bring them to heaven. The Ishim left with a bow.

Really, now what? What had he hoped to do without Crowley? He was right, they've always been a two. They worked together, had the same ideas at the same time, and when one of them didn't know what to do, the other was there to support him with precious hints. Now he was completely on his own in a place he barely recognised, having to deal with the... second coming? The first time was already a disaster, the son of a carpenter started speaking gibberish and he was crucified because of his ideas, with a little help from Crowley. The real Son of the Almighty hadn't been taken into consideration, and humanity seemed to be doomed. That was a great victory for Hell, everyone said that even in Heaven. That was why the Archangels had a great hope in the Apocalypse.

But a second coming? Could humans bare it? They escaped the coming of the Antichrist twice, was that the right thing to do?

"Of course it is... it's the son of the Almighty we're talking about" he muttered, snapping his fingers. A tiny plant appeared on the white desk. Why was a plant the first thing that came to his mind? Why couldn't have that been the poster of a movie? A record player? A plate of crêpes? Why everything he did reminded him of the friend he had lost?

[athenascarlet]

5 Things Crowley Learned About the Bookshop Now That Aziraphale is Gone

Summary: There are a few things that Crowley is learning about the bookshop now that Azira… well, now that a certain person who he can't name is no longer there.

Notes: Just a little five things snippet inspired by Good Omens 2. Spoilers!

AO3 if you prefer

1. Crowley drove as far away from the bookshop as he could and somehow his Bentley still brought him back to where he started.

He wasn’t sure how long he drove or how far he got, but he knew it was long enough that the bookshop had changed in his absence. At least that’s what he could tell from the outside looking in.

“Are you going to sit here all day again just staring across the street?”

He looked up at Nina staring at him.

“Maybe.”

He took a sip of his six shots of espresso and peered out of the window some more. The store looked the same for the most part except for some gauzy white curtains that framed the windows on the inside.

“You’re scaring my customers away. No one wants to drink coffee next to someone who broods all day.”

“I’m not brooding,” Crowley said defensively.

He watched someone walk into the bookshop and the gauzy curtains above the spot where the desk was – or used to be? – were so light that they moved in the wind. They were like delicate angel wings.

Crowley growled and was about to take another sip of his coffee when his mug disappeared from his hand.

“Nina,” he said with disdain. “Give. Me. My. Espresso.”

She put a defiant hand on her hip. “I’m putting it in a to-go cup. You can’t stay here anymore.”

He gave up and followed her to the counter, taking the to-go cup from her hand without a word. He knew he wasn’t wanted there anymore today – and he knew Nina would have his espresso ready for him tomorrow.

He also knew he wanted to see what else he could learn about how Muriel redecorated Azira… Nope, he couldn’t think of that angel’s name today. It would hurt too much.

2. “‘ello, ‘ello, ‘ello.”

Crowley sighed as he closed the front door behind him. “Muriel, we’ve been over this. That’s not how humans greet each other anymore.”

“Did they talk like that before?”

Crowley thought about it for a moment. He was sure they had before but when? This was one of the issues with being around for 6,000 years. Days and months and years jumbled together sometimes.

Instead, he just gave Muriel a shrug. “Hell if I know.”

Their smile was infectious – at least to humans – but it irritated him. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just too cheerful or bright. Maybe it reminded him of the infectious optimism of the angels.

Crowley was like that once when everything started and he created Alpha Centauri. And he used to still have fleeting feelings of happiness around Az… well, the angel.

Muriel was trying, he would give them that, but he was learning that no smile could lift his dour spirit whenever he actually visited this place.

3. Yes, Crowley visited the bookshop on a regular basis, but he still couldn’t explain how exactly that started.

He would sit outside in his Bentley and brood and then moved to the coffee shop and brood and then started visiting the bookshop itself to brood.

Muriel was a sweet angel but very naive, which worked to his advantage because they never asked him why he kept coming in or why he went from never being around to wandering the aisles for a few hours every day looking at the shelves over and over again.

Crowley remembered that time only a few years into Aziraphale’s ownership of the bookshop when he found the squeaky board between the two shelves in the back, but he had been avoiding it since he started visiting the shop again with the angel here.

Crowley could hear Muriel talking to a customer and figured it was a good time to finally summon the courage to step on that board again, knowing it would remind him of Aziraphale.

But when he stepped on it, the board didn’t squeak under his weight.

He wasn’t sure if Aziraphile had finally fixed it or Gabriel nailed it down during his work in the bookshop when he couldn’t remember who he was.

Crowley did know that he didn’t like it. He missed the sound… or maybe it hurt because the sound reminded him of Aziraphile.

4. Seriously, did Arizaphile put these books in any logical order? Because Crowley couldn’t figure it out.

“Muriel, do you know where the Jane Austen books are?”

The 37th order scrivener angel poked their head around the corner of the shelf. “It’s over in the section with the B’s.”

“Why?”

Muriel shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s just where Mr. Aziraphale put them.”

Crowley trudged over to the B section of the bookshop before stopping mid-stride. He was standing in the spot right where Aziraphale had pulled him over to dance with him that night.

The Jane Austen Ball.

Aziraphale put the Jane Austen books in the B section for Ball.

Crowley figured it was a sign left over from the angel that he should actually read Jane Austen.

So he did.

And he was surprised just how good a brandy smuggler and diamond thief could write books.

5. Crowley still couldn’t figure out how Gabriel was able to lay in this little bed without being uncomfortable.

Sure, the archangel wasn’t as tall or lanky as Crowley, but even he couldn’t have been comfortable on this little piece of mattress.

And why the hell did Aziraphale even have this thing here in the first place? Angels don’t need sleep so it seemed like a waste of space anyway that could be used for books instead.

Still, there was something about coming in here and laying down to close his eyes that didn’t feel good to Crowley, but sort of made him feel content. A quiet spot away from the bookshelves downstairs so he could be alone with his thoughts.

He wondered where Aziraphale was and what he was doing right now. Could he see Crowley in this room folded up on this stupid bed? Could he sense that Crowley was in the building?

Did he even think about Crowley at all?

He didn’t want to contemplate the answer to that last question. It would hurt too much, and Crowley was still working on not feeling pain every time he thought of Arizaphale.

[brightwanderer]

Untitled Stardew Omens Fic (17)

(Index)

Fall 6

Aziraphale is rather full up with the joys of autumn as he walks down the road to Eden Farm. Crisp cool mornings, golden sun-filled afternoons, the riot of colour crowning every tree, and the gentle sense of the land beneath his feet preparing to sleep for a season. Hot cocoa with a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg, lovely warming soups, soon it will be scarf weather and he's already got his softest woollen gloves in his coat pockets. The leaves are already drifting down from the trees to lie on the dew-gemmed grass; in a few weeks they'll be a crunchy, whispering carpet of reds and golds and yellows and browns, and Aziraphale will have to resist the urge to throw himself into them, because two years ago he learned a very important lesson about hedgehogs and their preferred nesting sites.

Stardew Valley always has the most perfect seasons, he thinks as he reaches the gate of the farm. Before he moved here he suffered through the long grey days and perpetual, chilly dampness of the city. There were still days like this, but they were rarer, and there were never as many trees to walk beneath. Yet another reason he doesn't care to go back. It's impossible not to love this idyll of autumn, impossible not to want to drink it all in like breathing in the clear air with its little hint of frost—

Smoke hits the back of his throat and he coughs and splutters. The source becomes quickly apparent. Crowley has built a bonfire out in one of the newly cleared parts of the farm, and it's smouldering like it's been loaded with wet rags. Crowley is in the process of emptying a bucket of leaves onto it. About half of them flutter away on the hot updrafts, and Crowley swears viciously and creatively, snatching at them like they're runaway butterflies.

Aziraphale watches with bemused fascination for minute or two, then makes his way over to the half-hearted blaze.

"What on earth are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Crowley gestures wildly to the rest of the farm. "Trying to burn these goddamn leaves!"

"I see that," Aziraphale says mildly. He waves smoke away from his face. "Any particular reason?"

Crowley stops, and it's no exaggeration to say that he stops, every muscle in him going still at the same time as he stares at Aziraphale.

"Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" Crowley says finally. "Burn them?"

Aziraphale looks around, takes in the evidence. Crowley has a rake, but it's the wrong kind of rake for leaves, and it looks suspiciously like he's discarded it and been trying to shovel them into the bucket with the spade he uses for turning the soil. And then emptying the bucket onto the flames. Probably along with a whole lot of damp earth and other soggy detritus, which accounts for the bonfire's lacklustre performance.

"Well," Aziraphale says, each word very careful and measured. He's trying very hard not to laugh, hands clenched in his pockets, feeling himself shudder with suppressed giggles every few seconds. "I suppose if you're desperate to keep your lawn immaculate, yes, but it's better to just leave them anywhere you don't need to keep clear."

Crowley looks completely flummoxed.

"But then there would be leaves everywhere," he says like he's trying to explain something to a child. "You're not supposed to— everyone always rakes the leaves up in the city—"

"To keep them off the pavements and roads, yes, otherwise they're a hazard. There's no need for that here."

"But then what happens to them?"

Aziraphale bites his lip to keep it from twitching. Crowley sounds so confused. He's proved resourceful enough when it comes to figuring things out as he goes along, far more comfortable with modern technology than Aziraphale ever has been, quick to research what he doesn't know and find out the best way to approach the situation. It's just that sometimes, like anyone in an unfamiliar environment, he stumbles over an assumption so basic that no-one's thought to explain it, and it doesn't occur to him to look it up.

"They just rot away into the soil eventually," Aziraphale explains, voice slightly strained from the effort of keeping a straight face. "Gives it lots of— lots of nutrients. Makes humus, you know."

Crowley gapes.

"What, with the— the chickpeas and the garlic—?"

And Aziraphale can't hold it in anymore, even though he presses both hands against his mouth to try. The laughter bubbles out of him like a volcanic eruption of mirth, and he ends up bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath as his eyes stream.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says dangerously, "are you having me on? Because I've been out here for hours and I am not in the mood—"

The thought of Crowley spending all morning trying to clear an acre of land by shovelling up leaves by the bucketful does nothing to improve Aziraphale's situation.

"Aziraphale!"

Aziraphale swallows his merriment with desperate gulps, straightening up and shaking his head desperately.

"I'm not," he protests, "I'm not, it's just, oh Crowley—"

Crowley's mouth draws into a flat line. Aziraphale gets a hold of himself and reaches out to pat Crowley on the arm.

"Put the fire out," he says. "Come inside. I'll make some tea."

"'S my house," Crowley grumbles, but he drops the bucket and stomps on the fire a couple of times, which is all it takes for the poor thing to give up the ghost completely.

"Yes, but I know where the tea is and how to boil the kettle, and I think you need to sit down and do a bit of reading."

Crowley scowls, but Aziraphale can see the beginnings of resigned amusement in the lines around his mouth.

"Is this like the whole thing with the sea urchins?" he asks.

"A little bit, my dear, yes. Come on. You'll see the funny side once you've had a chance to catch your breath."

[edosianorchids901]

Never Be Lonely

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt - "meeting of the minds"

London, 1655

Aziraphale shuffled aimlessly through the pages of his book, unable to focus. It was the fifth one he’d tried to read today, and he simply could not pay attention to it. Because of the past month, life had seemed rather empty.

He’d finally given up at sitting alone in his house or the bookshop he managed these days, and had squeezed down London’s crowded streets until he found himself at one of the marvelously popular new coffeehouses. Sometimes when he felt a bit listless, it was nice to be around humans for a while.

And the coffeehouses were wonderful. Packed with scholars, businessmen, and ordinary folk with an interest in learning. Vibrant debates and discussions bounced between the tables, aided in their energy by copious amounts of bitter coffee. Tea and chocolate, too, fueled the exchange of ideas.

Usually, the intellectual environment and meeting of minds buoyed Aziraphale’s spirits and stimulated his own interests. He loved to hear the latest theories about the world, and to take part in lively discussions about politics, philosophy, and religion. It was so exciting to be around passionate people.

Today, though, it hadn’t helped at all. He still just felt quite sad.

Lonely, in fact, even surrounded by humans. It was a temporary problem, though, and one that would be resolved in time. He simply had to be patient, and everything would be okay again in time. It never lasted too long.

Sighing, he picked up his bowl of chocolate and sipped the hot drink. It wasn’t enough to soothe the ache, but it did taste quite good.

He was on his fourth serving of chocolate when he became aware of something else warm and comforting. A fiery presence in the metaphysical realms, so familiar that he relaxed into it at once. Yes. This was precisely what he’d missed so badly these past weeks.

Crowley was back in London.

Aziraphale reached out with his own mind, the coffeehouse fading into the background as his focus slid to the astral planes. He found the beloved smokiness and iridescent serpentine coils—Crowley—and brushed against him in greeting.

When he and Crowley communicated like this, their True Forms meeting, it rarely took the form of distinct words. Aziraphale’s questioning hope for a physical meeting was met with immediate reassurance and warmth, and he returned his focus to the coffeehouse. Smiling, he ordered tea for both of them.

As promised, Crowley arrived within minutes. He paid his entry fee with a miracled coin, then sauntered over and flopped down on the bench beside Aziraphale. “Hey, angel. Thanks for saving me a spot.”

“Oh, always.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “It’s wonderful to have you back. I see you acquired a few things between assignments?”

Crowley was wearing a smart new doublet—black, of course, with red embroidery on the collar—as well as a new leather bag, and his fiery hair spilled across his shoulders in carefully arranged ringlets. He set the bag on the table and rummaged through it, then pulled out several pears. “Yep. And I picked these up for you.”

“Goodness, you do spoil me.” Delighted, Aziraphale moved his book out of the way and examined the pears. “The perfect ripeness. You chose very well.”

“I’d bloody well better be able to choose well, after how much time I’ve spent listening to you complain about the ones at the markets.” There wasn’t a scrap of real irritation in Crowley’s voice, only deep fondness. “You all right? You felt sad.”

Of course he’d picked up on that. Even just a brief moment of contact between their True Forms was rather intimate, and any strong feelings would resonate. Crowley was particularly observant, which made it difficult to hide anything from him.

Aziraphale gave a little shrug. “I was, yes, but I’m much better now. Afraid I was getting a bit lonely, even with all this lovely company.”

Frowning, Crowley tilted his head. He reached up, fingers brushing against Aziraphale’s cheek in a delicate caress. “Listening to arguments about the morality of playing football didn’t cheer you up, huh?”

The gentle humor in his tone made Aziraphale chuckle. He leaned into Crowley’s touch for a moment, then captured his hand and clasped it tightly in both of his own. “I’m afraid that Puritan morality does not cheer me up, no. Although I don’t believe that ‘cheering up’ tends to go hand in hand with Puritanism.”

“Not so much.” Crowley’s slender fingers curled around his hand in a reassuring squeeze. “But you do seem loads happier now. I guess something else musta cheered you up, hmm? Maybe those pears?”

“Well, the pears were certainly a helpful ingredient for mood improvement.” Aziraphale gazed into the affectionate golden eyes, basking in the familiarity. He and Crowley would spend the rest of the day together, drinking and talking and simply enjoying themselves.

And, thanks to the company of his adversary—his best friend—who always returned to him, Aziraphale would no longer be lonely.

[darkpurpledawn]

For @racketghost 's 13 Days of Halloween, prompt "witches"

It was darker than any place Aziraphale had seen on earth, darker than the caves inside mountains, than the sky without stars. Perhaps it was even darker than Hell, although someone who knew had once told Aziraphale there was nothing darker than Hell, that Hell was so impossibly dark that its very absence of light was transmuted into a kind of malevolent presence.

The same someone had also complained to Aziraphale that such deep darkness made Hell clash rather horribly with his entire wardrobe.

Aziraphale did not mind the dark, he was brightness enough for wherever he happened to find himself. But he was unnerved by the skittering of unseen creatures, the faint smell of death, and a distant ululation that could have been ecstasy or terror.

A flicker of light and the world returned in shapes and shadows. Up ahead a twisted tree reached from the ground like an arthritic hand. Something was glowing, something that looked awfully like the bubbling contents of a cauldron. Aziraphale could see the reflective eyes of a cat.

“What walks there, Grimalkin, who is’t approaches?” 

The voice was raspy and slurred, and it would have been utterly impossible to discern any words but for Aziraphale’s centuries of practice interpreting drunken hissing.

He allowed his wings to break forth and increased his own luminosity as he prepared for the standard angelic introduction. All things considered, he decided ‘be not afraid’ was probably not the phrase for this occasion. He wouldn’t want the witches to get the impression he was reassuring himself.

“Ahem. I’m terribly sorry to disturb what looks like quite a pleasant meal of soup, but I need to inform whoever resides here that you have once again been cited for reckless prophesying in the second degree.”

There was a noise that sounded like the unhappy marriage of growl and shriek. The cat winked one eye, then the other. Aziraphale fluttered his wings and tried to sound less nervous.

“Again, I’m frightfully sorry to be a bother, and I’ve only got a tiny bit of paperwork, just a single scroll to sign, and then you can get back to supper.”

Three shadows came forward and became the ugliest women Aziraphale had ever seen. It was not the ordinary sort of ugliness--though he was far more appreciative of earthly beauty than an angel ought to be, Aziraphale’s heart was as full of love for humble creatures as it was for striking ones. The faces of the three women were repellant in a true and terrifying sense, as though their ugliness was revenge for being seen at all.

“Erm, may I come in?” Aziraphale asked. 

“There’s room yet at the fire for thee.”

“By the stooped and stretching tree.”

“Wilt thou sit down? We’ve brewed the tea.”

They answered one after the other like singers in a round. Aziraphale brightened. He felt himself on firmer footing when there was tea involved.

“Fillet of a fenny snake?” a witch offered, holding a small plate with something shiny and scaled. “‘Tis freshly baked, ‘twas not an hour ago it slithered in the gloam.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. “Erm, none for me, thank you. I’ve always found snake feels a bit odd down the throat.” 

For some reason his face felt hot. The witches paid him no mind.

One of them handed him a cup with a hand that was green and mottled. Tiny mushrooms grew from each fingernail.

“Oh thank you dear, how very kind,” Aziraphale said, taking the proffered cup. He’d expected rough stone or heavy, dented metal, but it was porcelain as fine as his own personal teapot.

He sipped politely at something that was like tea if tea were a viscous sludge.

“Speak, angel, but do not stay us from prophecy,” the tallest witch said, as spiders raced in and out of her hairline.

“We will not be commanded,” the second said, in a voice like the crackle of thunder.

“Thou knowest not which stars may fall,” said the third witch, ladling herself a warm cup of tea.

“Good ladies,” Aziraphale said, setting his cup in its saucer and assuming a stern expression. “I assure you I take no pleasure in these administrative niceties, but I’m afraid you have repeatedly contravened several divine statutes, and Heaven can only turn its other cheek so many times before the entire host is facing the same way we started.”

There was a soft mewling sound as the knobbly tabby cat leapt into the lap of the tall witch. No one spoke, but something that looked very much like fresh blood began dripping over the rim of the cauldron.

“Look here, I am not the sort of angel that can be frightened off by a bit of occult oddity,” Aziraphale said, indignant. “Why, I dined with a creature of Hell not a fortnight ago!”

The witches all turned their horrible heads and looked at each other. Aziraphale felt a tremor of faint panic. Perhaps he ought not to have said that. He was glad he had not mentioned how afterwards he’d split a bottle or two or three with the demon, how he’d glanced sidelong at those yellow eyes and wondered why they reminded him of starlight instead of sulfur.

“Speak plainly, spirit, what is thy request?” the witches said in unison.

Aziraphale sighed and pulled out a small sheet of parchment. 

“I need you to acknowledge receipt of this cease and desist letter. There have been multiple complaints that your prophecies have incited murder, usurpation, and the wanderings of unregistered ghosts, which is a violation of the Divination Decree, Section IX, Article V.” He paused and fiddled with the hem of his cloak. “Eventually there are fines for this sort of thing, you know.”

There must be, somewhere, after a nearly-infinite stretch of notes that grew gradually ruder.

The witches emitted what sounded like a vaguely-mirthful wet cough. One flicked a mushroom-tipped finger, and a series of sigils appeared on the paper in Aziraphale’s hand.

“Thy office done, thou mayst depart this place,” the witch with the cat on her lap said. 

Aziraphale stood up and set the cup and saucer on a flat stone.

“Thank you, much obliged.”

“But we have yet an augury for thee,” said the witch stirring the congealing tea.

Aziraphale stared at her hideous face, wanting and not wanting to know.

“We see how thy most secret heart inclines,” said another.

“Fair with foul, and foul with fair--”

“Heart of serpent, wing of crow, these fell desires thou wouldst know--”

“I think we’re done here,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Thank you very much for the tea.”

The witches laughed again, then the cat meowed three times, and they were gone.

[infinitevariety]

A Kind of Spooky Feeling

Having embraced the festive spirit last December, Aziraphale finds himself wrapped up in the spooky season this October, with Crowley insisting they celebrate the entire month of Halloween.

Chapter Four: Puns (AO3)

Snippet:

Aziraphale hums. “Shall I get you a drink?”

“No!” Crowley cries, actually lifting himself up from his prone position and looking a little queasy.

“Not alcohol, you fool. Tea.”

“Oh.” Crowley slumps back into a relaxed seated position on his sofa. “Yeah. Tea would be great. Thanks, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles at him and slips away to the kitchen.

He comes back with a mug in each hand. One—his own ghost mug from Crowley, and the other—Crowley’s new mug from him.

Aziraphale’s smile, he knows, is beaming when he hands over Crowley’s drink. Crowley takes the orange, pumpkin-shaped mug with narrowed eyes and turns it as he reads.

“Hello gourd-geous. Angel, that’s terrible.” He pauses to take a large sip. “I love it.”

Aziraphale bounces with delight so hard he almost spills his own drink. “I hoped you would!” He sits himself down beside Crowley of the sofa.

“And obviously you—” Crowley nods to Aziraphale’s mug. “—are boo-tiful.”

That does funny things to Aziraphale’s insides. He smiles softly at Crowley and then swiftly hides his face in his mug.

Full chapter on AO3!

[lady-divine-writes]

TricketyBoo 2020 one-shot - “Count Ziraphale” (Rated PG13)

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are supposed to be at the Shadwell's for a Halloween party, but Aziraphale's lack of confidence in his costume is causing them to run behind. Crowley can't imagine that his husband looks bad, but he doesn't quite get his nervousness.

After Crowley gets a good look at his angel, he makes the executive decision to spend the night in. (1402 words)

Notes: Written for the @tricketyboo2020 prompt 'eyes in the dark' by @scrapbramble. This is level zero spookiness. It's just some husbands fluff.

Read on AO3.

“Come on, Aziraphale!” Crowley bellows. “You’ve been in the bedroom for over an hour! We've gotta go! Time’s a-wastin’!”

“I … I don’t know if we should," Aziraphale's timid voice answers.

"Wot?" Crowley frowns at the closed door, annoyed that his angel has kept him waiting this long if he's just going to decide not to go. He's only mildly annoyed, however, since he's been sipping at a bottle of his favorite bourbon to pass the time, so it's not actually been a waste. "Why?"

“I … I may want to re-think my costume. I think … I may have made a mistake.”

Crowley shakes his head and takes a swig this time. Personally, he'd opted not to put on a costume. He's not much for fancy dress, and besides, he feels he's terrifying enough being himself. But Aziraphale hasn't been to a real costume party in ages. And he was so excited about the persona he'd come up with, too. Would be a shame for him to change his mind at this late hour.

“A mistake? How could you have made a mistake?”

“Well, that happens when one doesn’t think a decision through completely," Aziraphale says tightly. "That’s why it’s called a mistake.”

“But you were looking forward to being a vampire for Halloween. It’s all you’ve talked about for weeks. Was gettin’ downright annoying, to be honest.” 

Crowley mutters that last part into his bottle.

“Why are we even going to a Halloween party? Halloween is more of an American holiday, isn’t it?” Aziraphale offers, trying to come up with a roundabout way out - one that Crowley could object to on Aziraphale's behalf, thus "convincing" him to stay the course and go.

“The Shadwells invited us," Crowley reminds him, playing along. "And may I remind you that you were the one who said It’s only once a year, Crowley, dear. We’ll go, make the rounds with our friends, then pop back home for a nightcap. And I think we should stick to that plan.”

Crowley doesn't actually think they should stick to that plan. Crowley would love to stay home. He couldn't care less either way. The Shadwells have a decent liquor cabinet. That alone would be worth the drive. But he knows Aziraphale will regret not going. And since he loves Aziraphale, he'll do what makes him happy.

Aziraphale sighs. “You’re absolutely right. We did RSVP. It would be rude not to attend.”

Crowley takes a final swig out of his bottle and belches. “That’s the spirit. So … are you coming out?”

“That depends … are you going to see me?”

“Nah." Crowley puts his empty bottle down and reaches for another, seeing as, at this rate, they may never leave the flat. "I don't have to see a thing. In fact, I can just drive with my eyes shut. Done it before. Loads of times.”

"You're being overdramatic."

Says the pot to the kettle, Crowley thinks. "Am not. Being completely truthful."

"Alright, alright. I'm coming out."

Crowley sits back on his sofa and props his feet up on the coffee table. "Bout time." 

Aziraphale heaves the heaviest sigh Crowley has ever heard, leaving him to wonder how bad Aziraphale actually thinks he looks. He's seen his angel face down far more terrifying prospects than a dress-up party with heaps more cool than this. And the Shadwells - they're not exactly what one would call high maintenance sort of people. Why would going to a party of theirs make Aziraphale nervous? 

"On the count of three, then?" Aziraphale says.

"Three," Crowley replies, curiosity outweighing tact.

Aziraphale sighs again, but this time he steps out.

Crowley watches the door swing slowly open, watches Aziraphale step out of the shadows and into the light.

And his jaw drops.

“Oh … Lord,” Crowley murmurs. He gets up off the couch and stalks toward him, staring at his husband dressed to the nines in a black, three-piece suit that's been tailored to his body within an inch of its life. The white shirt peeking out from underneath is satin for certain. It looks creamy and as soft as Aziraphale's hair, which Aziraphale is wearing slicked-back tonight, which highlights all the hard edges of his round face. His shirt has ruffles at the cuffs and collar because of course it does. Aziraphale wouldn't choose a period shirt if it didn't have ruffles. In his hands, he's clutching a cane with - oh, God! Is that ... a snakehead handle? Crowley takes a good, long look and swallows hard

Yes. Yes, it is a snakehead handle. 

Crowley's entire body lights on fire.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale asks self-consciously as Crowley circles him, getting the view from all angles. He even drops to the floor to get a glimpse of his shoes. They're brand new, a pair of ankle boots made of faux snakeskin, and Christ Almighty! Where in the Heaven did Aziraphale even get this outfit?

“Hello, handsome," Crowley purrs as he rises to his feet. "Where have you been all my life?"

"I beg your pardon?" Aziraphale asks with a nervous chuckle.

"Why haven’t I seen you in this outfit before?”

“I didn’t have an occasion to dress as a vampire before tonight," Aziraphale says, eyes wide when Crowley finally catches sight of them and closes in for a better look, staring unblinkingly, his own eyes growing to the size of dinner plates. "I mean, it’s not the kind of get-up I’d wear every day.”

"Your eyes," Crowley whispers. He puts a hand to Aziraphale's cheek, gazing deep into a pair of startling, crimson eyes, glowing in the dark with Aziraphale's holy aura behind them - such a striking departure from Aziraphale's baby blues that they make every hair on Crowley's body stand on end. "Aziraphale, what did you do to your eyes?"

"They're called contact lenses, dear." Aziraphale nearly rolls his eyes, but he can't bear to look away from Crowley's awe-filled gaze. "It took a fair amount of stabbing myself in the eye to get them in, but I thought it better than miracling them this way. Less to explain to the head office and all that. Do I ... do I look alright?" He clears his throat, and a little bit of discomfort along with it. Not that Crowley's staring makes him uncomfortable in a bad way. Far from it. But the uncomfortable he feels right now usually goes hand in hand with them not leaving the flat - or the bedroom specifically - for several days at a time. "What I mean is ... do I look like a vampire?"

"No," Crowley says, grinning even though Aziraphale looks positively skewered. "You look like a demon." Crowley growls that last word and Aziraphale's brow wrinkles.

"And you ... like that?"

"I wouldn't all the time ..." Crowley buries his nose in the crook of Aziraphale's neck, needing to catch a whiff of his angelic scent, so Crowley can know for certain nothing has changed. Aziraphale may not have gone for demon, but he still looks awfully convincing. "But tonight's the right night for it, in't it? And this ..." Crowley takes a step back to get another look "... I could get used to one or two nights a year. Maybe more."

Aziraphale flashes his husband an amused half-grin. "I'll take that as a compliment. So ... shall we get a move on? It is getting awfully late."

“You know ..." Crowley takes Aziraphale by the arm and turns him around, leading him back the way he came "... on second thought, I think you may be right.”

“About what this time?”

“Maybe we shouldn't go to the party. It is getting late. We can hole up here, turn down the lights, open a bottle of whiskey, and have a spooky celebration of our own.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chuckles. "What about everything you said before? We RSVP'd, remember?"

“Wot? We can un-RSVP. The Shadwells shouldn’t be throwing a party anyway. Not during a pandemic.”

“But, darling! You said …”

“You worked hard on your costume, angel. It's very authentic," Crowley presses, not letting his angel use his own words against him. "That's quite the trick for an angel. Looking demonic." Crowley snaps his fingers, turning on his stereo and fetching himself a bottle of single malt scotch in a single go. "Now, I think you deserve a treat …”

[metaphorical-love-for-a-car]

Heaven of a Human Spirit-- Aziraphale x Reader

Request; “Can I request an Aziraphale x fem!reader where he's drinking with Crowley in the bookshop and when she enters he just confesses his love to her in a very poetic and theatrical way (Aziraphale style) and then kisses her out of blue. Like, I image her completely shocked but pleased and Crowley surprised while cheering for his angel friend.” (anon)

Warnings; bit of swearing, specified fem! reader

Word Count; 1.4k

Notes; reposting this old fic cause it got taken down for “violating the terms of use” or some shit like that and has been under appeal for the last few months... highly doubt they’ll release it any time soon so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

You had first met Aziraphale when a friend of yours had dragged you to his bookshop. Your friend kept telling you about how weird the little shop was and how all the Yelp reviews were terrible. Hardly anyone seemed to be able to purchase a book there. So, as soon as your friend noticed that the shop was actually open for once, they were forcing you to go in with them.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was a cute little shop with dozens of books scattered about. There was a bit of an odd smell, but you shrugged it off. It was a used book store. Old books can sometimes bring strange smells. The two of you browsed the shelves, and your friend read some of the Yelp reviews to you. You both found a book that interested you. Deciding to take it home, you two began to hunt for a staff member. According to Yelp, workers at A. Z. Fell's bookshop are reclusive creatures that are often incredibly hard to locate.

When your friend finally spotted Aziraphale, they made a beeline for him. It was apparent he didn't want to sell the book to them, constantly haggling for a higher price. Your friend finally got frustrated and put the book away. They made a comment about how they didn't have time to stand around and argue about book prices. They wished you good luck on purchasing a book then left.

You had a different strategy than your friend. Instead of just going up and asking to buy the book, you'd ask his opinion on it. He seemed a bit surprised that you just wanted to talk about the book but was eager to tell you his love for it. You ended up spending hours in the little shop, just talking to Aziraphale about books. He even confessed to you that he hated selling the books because he loved them all too much. You joked about how he should have opened a library instead of a shop, which made him look quite offended.

That evening, you left with a book. Aziraphale had loaned you one of his favorites, with a piece of paper stuck inside that had his number scrawled on it. You made a point to go back and visit him whenever you had the opportunity. The two of you were constantly trading books, and it felt like a sort of personal book club with just the two of you. He enjoyed your company, always looking forward to your next visit.

Armageddon was just beginning to peek over the horizon. Both Crowley and Aziraphale knew that it would arrive in the blink of an eye. Neither of them wanted it to happen, but what could they do?

The answer, of course, is get drunk. They chugged down bottle after bottle of Aziraphale's finest wine collection. The two of them could hardly even walk, let alone finish a sentence without stumbling over every other word, but they babbled on anyway. Well, Aziraphale babbled about you, and Crowley just listened, occasionally nodding or inserting his own comment.

"For Satan's sake, Aziraphale. You're obviously madly in love with her. Just fuckin' tell her already," Crowley groaned. Aziraphale looked at him with wide eyes.

"What? I'm not madly in love I just... I just— er— I enjoy her company." Crowley pursed his lips and raised a brow at Aziraphale, who was now blushing something fierce thanks to both the alcohol and embarrassment. "Alright, alright! Say hype— hyper— hippo— WHAT IF I am in love with (Y/N). How do I know she feels the same?"

"She does," Crowley answered without hesitation. Aziraphale scoffed. Crowley rolled his eyes and leaned forward. "Have you seen the way she looks at you? I mean, the moment she lights up as soon as you walk into the room? Plus, she talks about you almost as much as you talk about her." Aziraphale gave him an incredulous look.

"How do you know that?" Crowley opened and closed his mouth, stuttering nonsense as he tried to find the right words.

"Not important. I just know that she does, okay? I mean, I keep tabs on everyone. You should know that by now." Aziraphale nodded, taking another big sip of his wine. "The point is... uh... the point is that..." Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "The point is that you need to tell her how you feel. 'Cause you might not get another chance, ya know. With Armageddon and all that." On that note, Crowley downed the rest of his glass and started to pour himself another. Aziraphale stared into his own drink. A quick rasp on the front door startled him out of his thoughts. A smug grin formed across Crowley's face. "Showtime." He leaped out of his seat and dashed toward the door. Aziraphale sank further into the chair.

"I'm too drunk for this," he grumbled.

You smiled as the tall, lanky demon swung the door open, shouting your name. He quickly ushered you inside. "How much have you drank?" you teased, poking him in the side with your elbow. Crowley stopped and furrowed his brows. He slurred something about losing track after the third bottle and continued to stumble through the bookshop. When you walked into the back room, you found Aziraphale glowering at the full glass in his hand. "Must've been a hell of a day for the both of you to get piss drunk." Crowley nodded, plopping back into his seat.

"We were talkin' about love." Aziraphale shot Crowley a look, but you missed it. You snorted, crossing your arms.

"Really, and who do you have the hots for? Let me guess... Beelzebub? No, no, no. It's Hastur, isn't it?" Crowley's jaw dropped, and he looked quite offended. Aziraphale laughed but quickly covered his mouth to stifle it. Crowley pursed his lips and leaned back into the seat.

"No, actually, we were talking about Aziraphale being in love." Your smile faltered for a moment, but you quickly composed yourself before turning to look at the angel.

"That so?" He nodded slowly. You waited for him to say something, but he didn't. "Well, who's the lucky one?" Aziraphale glanced between you and Crowley. The demon nodded and gave the angel a thumbs up. Aziraphale stood up from his chair and set down his glass. He muttered something about trying to find the right words to say, but you couldn't quite catch it because Crowley loudly interrupted.

"Why not something Shakespeare? You love his stuff so bloody much." Aziraphale's face lit up at the suggestion. Dozens of different quotes flashed through his mind.

"Yes, okay." He cleared his throat and focused his gaze on you. "Shall I compare thee—"

"No, no," Crowley groaned. "Too cliché." Aziraphale nodded. His brows furrowed as he tried to come up with something slightly more original. You awkwardly rubbed the back of your neck.

"Anyone care to tell me why we're coming up with Shakespeare quotes?" Aziraphale huffed and shook his head.

"Fuck!" You and Crowley stared at the angel in shock. Aziraphale hardly ever swore, and him using the 'F' word was an absolute rarity. The angel took a step closer to you and took a deep breath. "It's you. You're the one I'm in love with," he rushed out. You blinked slowly, taken aback by the sudden news.

"Me? You're in love with me?" He nodded. His eyes searched your face as various emotions washed over you. You shook your head in disbelief. "You're just drunk, Aziraphale." The angel cupped your face in his hands. On instinct, you placed your hands on top of his. There was a sort of urgency in his eyes that you had never seen before.

"No," he said firmly. "I sobered up before you walked in. I truly meant it. I'm in love with you, (Y/N)." Aziraphale pressed his lips to yours. You melted into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. He pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours. "Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love." A bright smile graced your features.

"I love you, you cheesy bastard." Aziraphale started to lean in for another kiss. The two of you pulled apart when Crowley started clapping.

"Wahoo. Now, how about we have a toast?" The demon reached for another bottle, but you moved it away from him.

"I think you've had enough for today," you laughed.

~*~*~

Good Omens Tag List:

@fatbottomedboi​ @kawaiiusagichansan​ @godhateskyleigh​ @drhughgrection​ @popbubblegumpop​ @shirukitsune​ @slithredn​ @dabbingintoart​ @elazarofir​ @shiftingphoenix​ @toxicxmindsposts​

Permanent Tag List:

@blitchen​ @blitchen-fics​

[anotherwellkeptsecret]

Unfinished Business

(An unfinished ficlet about 6,000 year old idiots learning how to kiss.)

Crowley drained his glass. “Have you?” he asked, punctuating his query with a blithe, “Ever?”

“Ever what?” 

Aziraphale knew exactly what. And Crowley knew he knew exactly what, going by the way his eyebrows were slowly inching up his forehead like twin, fuzzy caterpillars whose souls had shuffled off this mortal coil and were beginning their ascent into the afterlife. 

Aziraphale snapped his book shut as fussily as possible, which was pretty damn fussy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. 

“You do,” Crowley rebutted. 

Shit. 

Aziraphale spun on his heel. He busied himself with tucking Moby Dick back where it belonged on his desk with the other Melvilles. He could feel Crowley’s gaze bore into his thoracic vertebrae while he stalled, trying and failing to soothe the heart pounding in his chest for no good reason. He flattened his palms against his lapel; a little pat-pat to make sure they were lying neatly. 

“No,” Aziraphale finally admitted. Followed by a defensive, “Have you?”

“Nope.”

Oh. 

Well, that was a surprise. 

Azirapahle glanced at Crowley over his shoulder, assessing. Both of Crowley’s arms were akimbo on the back of the sofa, legs sprawled artfully and--dare Aziraphale think it--invitingly. His ankles crossed and the gleam of his snakeskin boots lambent in the dim light of Azirapahle’s shop.

“I thought that sort of thing was…” Aziraphale twiddled his fingers in an approximation of something or nothing at all. “...a part of your lot’s milieu.” 

“I don’t have a lot. Neither do you.”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley smirked. “I rather thought kissssing was more of a heavenly affair.” He tilted his head to one side. “Love...” he drawled with a curl of his lip, like the very word was in itself divine, and perhaps it was. “...’n all.”

“Ah.” He had a point. But...

“You don’t have to kiss someone to have sex with them, angel.”

Aziraphale could feel himself turning red. The avatar of his body was betraying him altogether. “I-I know that!” (He hadn’t.) “Sex isn’t always governed by lust, you know.”

“Mmm, was never really my thing.”

Aziraphale blinked.

“Lust,” Crowley specified. 

Aziraphale blinked again.

“Icky.” Crowley smacked his lips, frowning. “Humans. They leave gobs of themselves everywhere. All those fluids and hair and skin!”

“You’re a snake,” Aziraphale reminded him, exasperated. 

“Well, yeah. But that’s…” Crowley shrugged. “...snakey, innit?” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. 

Crowley sprang to his feet. He jabbed a finger at Aziraphale, a devilish lilt to his voice when he crooned, “You’re curious.” 

“I am not!” Aziraphale lied. Badly. He scampered away, collecting a stack of books from one organized mess and sorted them into another organized mess on the other side of the room.

Crowley trailed along behind him with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Or as stuffed as they could be in his tight, leather trousers. He followed Aziraphale from one shelf to the next, twisting and turning around a pillar here, a marble bust there, more and more amused by Aziraphale’s bluster and fluster. “You are!” he sing-songed. “I saw you making goo-goo eyes at the lovebirds in the park.” 

Aziraphale blanched. He tripped over a step ladder he never really used anyway. Stupid. Why did he even own such a thing? It wasn’t like he needed it. “I was making eyes, as you so eloquently put it, at the love they were emanating, not--” He tripped again. This time into an entire bookcase, which was something he needed. So focused was he on preventing the impending avalanche, Crowley effectively trapped him against the shelves by the cunning use of what Aziraphale knew to be called leaning. 

“Oh, dear,” he murmured.

Crowley watched him avert his eyes to the ceiling, the floor, and back again. He waited until Aziraphale deigned to look at him. Approximately one minute and ten seconds, which wasn’t that long in the great scheme of things, but a rather ridiculous amount of time not to look at the person standing in front of you. “Do you trust me?” Crowley asked when their eyes finally met.

Aziraphale was offended. Did he trust Crowley? Of course he trusted him! A thousand times--six thousand times--yes! Aziraphale meant to say as much, but ended up squawking instead. And that was rather embarrassing. So he nodded. But he wasn’t happy about it.

“Say it.” A flash of teeth. Equal parts commanding and pleading, which must have inadvertently spirited all the oxygen out of the room because it was suddenly difficult to breathe. And necessary, besides.

Aziraphale swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

Crowley edged closer. Invading his personal space. Not that he’d never done that before. Personal space was all very relative to beings who can will themselves as small as a microbe at any given moment. But still. Right then and there, the air between them hot and humid, it was quite invasive.  

One beat. 

Two.

Neither of them moved.

“Alright?” Aziraphale asked, tentative.

“Yeah--no--” Crowley stammered. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine. Fine. Are you…um...?”

“Fine?”

“Fine, yes.”

“Yes.”

This was absurd.

“You started it,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“I--no--nyrk--look! You wanna do this or not?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose. If it’s you.” 

“Right. Okay, then.” Crowley bullied himself flush against Aziraphale’s chest.

They were nose to nose. Still familiar territory. They regarded each other, a little cross-eyed, and Crowley pivoted ever so slightly to his left so their noses not only touched at their tips, but slotted side by side. Which was very much new. And nice. Soft and warm and they could feel each other’s pulses hammering away uselessly, but somehow unavoidably.

Aziraphale shut his eyes. He wanted to see, but Crowley’s features had gone all blurry. He wasn’t sure he could will his vision to adjust because are those Crowley’s hands on his waist? He licked his lips, nervous, and made the most outrageous yelp when the tip of his tongue met flesh and sweet Jesus and his barefoot apostles. 

Aziraphale had sampled the most exorbitant wine, the most delectable foods the Earth has to offer. No fruit, fermented or otherwise, compared to the brief taste of Crowley’s lip. Whichever one it had been. Sweet and firm and delicious. 

“Sorry,” Azirapahle gasped. It had been an accident even though he liked it.

“No, it’s…” Crowley’s hands kneaded fretfully against his waistcoat. “...do it again.” 

“Okay.” Aziraphale stuck out his tongue. A bit shy. A bit overwhelmed. A bit what-the-Hell. And so he probed, just there, and licked with unrestrained indulgence.

Crowley’s spine went ramrod straight. “Aziraphale,” he spoke the angel’s name like a benediction. And then, “Aziraphale!” Scandalized. Delighted.

Aziraphale squinted open one of his eyes. Then the other. “Did I do it right?”

Crowley had the most annoying and sinfully crooked smile on his face. “You made an Effort!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed irritably. “I had to!”

Crowley was looking at him the exact same way he did when Aziraphale told him he’d given his flaming sword away six thousand years ago. 

“The fit of my trousers just wouldn’t do without the Effort, dear.”

Crowley blatantly stared at Aziraphale’s crotch. “Is it functional?”

“Not sure, really.” 

Crowley gawked at him. 

“It’s simply for aesthetics, mind you. Would you rather I didn’t…?”

“What? I--no--of course! It’s--it’s fine, yes.” 

“Do you have…?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is yours functional?”

“Sometimes.”

Aziraphale was pretty sure he was Falling because his veins felt like they were on fire.

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“It’s fine.”

“Good. Shall we?” Crowley swooped in close without waiting for a response. Their noses knocked and their mouths pressed firmly together over their teeth, but Aziraphale’s tongue was back where it belonged and Crowley positively melted into the sensation. Sighing, sinking firmly into the spit-plush of Aziraphale’s mouth (before remembering himself), and standing back up to his full height. And, oh. That was rather delicious, that friction, their clothes rucking up and up and yes. Crowley managed to restrain himself, allowing space between their lips once again, and he reveled in the sensation of Aziraphale tonguing right where he used to have a soul patch in the 1590s. Nothing until this moment had made him want to revisit that particular facial hair trend.

“Hath ith?” Azirapahle asked.

“What?”

Regrettably, Aziraphale’s tongue retreated back into his mouth. “How’s this?”

“Great,” Crowley all but sobbed. “Keep going.”

Aziraphale didn’t have to be told twice. Not when it mattered. And his natural curiosity got the better of him. After probing the same spot with his tongue five or six or twenty times (He lost count.), he pursed his lips for just a little sip. He privately thought that Crowley never truly learned how to use his human legs, his hips the fulcrum of his languid and snaking gait. But, standing? Crowley had that down to a science. Contrapposto, mostly, a holdover from the Renaissance, his body striking an S-curve that would put The David to shame. It was an art form, really, so it came as a shock when Crowley’s knees betrayed him altogether.

Aziraphale caught him around the middle. “Are you alright?”

The question was barely posed before Crowley regained his footing and pinned him up against the bookcase hard enough to send a few volumes toppling to the floor, saved in the nick of time by a quick snap of Crowley’s fingers.

“Do that again,” he demanded, almost frantic. 

If Azirapahle thought there had been no space between them before, he was sadly mistaken. Crowley nuzzled their mouths together, curtailing a desperate whine with an explosive sigh the moment Aziraphale sandwiched Crowley’s philtrum between his lips and suckled just so. 

“Oooh.” Crowley almost sounded in pain. “Fuck me.” 

Aziraphale pulled off Crowley’s lip with a wet pop that seriously did things to Crowley in places he didn’t even know he had. “W--really?”

“No! I mean, yes! But no. Later. Kissing now.” Crowley bit down on Aziraphale’s bottom lip and tugged. Not quite sipping, but just as good. If not better. And there was Crowley’s forked tongue drawing him in and further in. His teeth sharp in the best possible way, followed by a massive slurp that had Aziraphale’s eyes rolling back in his head before Crowley released him. 

Aziraphale boggled, wide-eyed and panting. He was surely going to discorporate. “Oh, my God!” 

“Don’t bring Her into this.”

Both of them glanced overhead.

No, best not to call upon the Almighty in flagrante. 

“So that’s what all the fuss is about.”

“I’d say so, yeah.” 

Aziraphale was on him in a flash, drinking greedily at his lips, one after the other, and Crowley absolutely refused to wait his turn nicely. Because he wasn’t. Nice, that is. Not even a little bit. That was the good thing about being a snake, he thought, unhinging his jaw just enough to devour Azirapahle’s mouth and they both moaned in unison at the feel of hot, wet heat and breath and slick and fuckfuckfuck!

A sudden gust of wind, a loud FWHUMP. The sound of a lamp smashing to the floor, maybe.

Crowley’s wings were fanned out behind him. He was gasping for breath like it was something he needed to live, fingers wound tight in Aziraphale’s coat. “Fuck,” he said. 

“We need to slow down.”

Crowley snarled, “Any slower and I swear I’m going to literally explode.” 

[these-violet-delights-fic]

Chapter Excerpt:

“That’s the spirit!” said Aziraphale, sipping his mimosa. “So, you still perform the occasional act of evil for Hell, correct?”

“It keeps them off my back if I throw them the occasional bone, yes,” replied Crowley.

“Fair, but now you’re acting as a guardian to this young lady who it seems is trying to be a hero.”

“What’s your point?”

“You’d be doing good things, Crowley, that is what I’m getting at.” Aziraphale’s demeanor took on a professor-like quality, more so than it usually possessed. “I know you are not as practiced in the art of do-goodery as you are treachery, and on our way down I was thinking that if you ever needed advice, I could… I don’t know, be a sort of guiding angel to you? Maybe pop in to assist if there’s no one in the bookshop and your ward calls on you? Just in case you or she strays from the straight and narrow… of course.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, a rare tenderness coloring his voice upon noticing Aziraphale’s smile was just a bit forced, and for the first time realizing what his new “job” might imply, “London is still my home, I’m not leaving. You know that, right?”

Inspired by this prompt

[sneezedarling]

Five Times Crowley Lent Aziraphale his Handkerchief and One Time He Needed it Himslef

This post is fairly long but I hope you enjoy some adorable ineffable husbands. If you have any requests send them in!

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

Crowley’s eyes skimmed over every piece of Aziraphale’s newly exposed skin. He’d abandoned his coat and tie, undone his top button and even rolled up his sleeves. A crease appeared between Aziraphale’s eyebrows as he hoisted a box into his arms. Crowley was supposed to be helping but all he could do was watch his angel as he worked. 

“Crowley? Oh my, these are dusty…Crowley my de-heh dear boy?” Aziraphale shifted the box in his grip.

Crowley vaguely registered that he was being spoken to but elected to ignore it, instead focusing on Aziraphale’s face. His nose twitched slightly as his breath waivered, eyes fighting against fluttering shut.

“M-my dear boy, I ne-heh…hih? I need some he-Hit’SHU! Hitshiew! H’ISH!”

Aziraphale pitched forward with each sneeze, struggling to keep hold of the box as he was overcome. Crowley’s stomach fluttered as Aziraphale’s nose began to twitch again.

“Goodness, th-hih…this is e-embarrassing. Hih…hah? Hashuh! Hitchiew! Crowley, some ass-ah! Assistance, please?”

“Hmm? Oh right, coming, I’m coming!” Crowley grabbed to box from Aziraphale and set it on the floor as he fished through his pocket.

Zira’s head tilted back as he raised his hands towards his face.

“You alright, Angel?” Crowley produces his black handkerchief, knowing Aziraphale’s, if he had remembered it, would be in his coat pocket.

“H’TSHU! Heh- Hetchiew! Quite fine, just a little bit irritated is all.” He scrubbed at his now red nose.

Crowley handed him the handkerchief which Aziraphale gratefully accepted, softly blowing his nose.

“Thank you, Crowley.”

Crowley flashed a toothy grin. “Anytime, Angel.”

Derived from art by @just-a-nervous-bean

***

Crowley was trying to pay attention, he really was but it was just so dreadfully boring. The actors glided across the stage, artfully reenacting some old wives tale that he really had no interest in. It was only when he glanced over at Aziraphale that he remembered why he was here. He was smiling, eyes glued to the performance, hands gleefully fidgeting in his lap. Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if Aziraphale would mind if he took one of those soft, supple hands in his own.

He banished the thought and turned his body, deciding to focus on something much more interesting than the performance. A few minutes later, Aziraphale’s smile faltered. His hands stilled before one reached up to wipe at his face. Maybe it’s a sad moment in the play? A quick glance at the actors giddily singing and dancing quelled that idea. Crowley ducked his head, trying to get a better look at Aziraphale’s face but the lights dimmed.

Suddenly, Aziraphale lurched forward, shuddering into is cupped hands. It instantly occurred to Crowley what was going on. He reached into his pocket, retrieving his soft handkerchief, which he really only carried for Zira, because he would never be caught using one in this day and age. He pressed the fabric into the angels hand as he doubled over with politely stifled sneezes. Htsh! Tshuu!

“Gesundheit, Angel. “

***

“Heh…hih? H-Hah?”

“Satan, Angel, what is the matter with you?” Crowley snapped as Aziraphale pinched his nose shut.

“N-need to sn-sneeze.” Aziraphale scrubbed at his nose before pinching it again, cheeks flushed red.

Crowley raised a slender eyebrow. “Then sneeze?”

Aziraphale’s crystal blue eyes snapped up. “I will not! We are i-hih…in public, i-in a restaurant and I don’t have a-ahh handkerchief! It is ru-huh! Rude, Crowley.”

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses and handed Aziraphale the square of black cloth from his pocket. Aziraphale’s hand shot out and nearly snatched it out of Crowley’s hand, pressing it to his trembling nose.

“Hitshaa! Itshiew…Heh’tchoo! Oh, Goodness! You’ll have to excuse me, Crowley.” Aziraphale wiped his nose, cheeks red with embarrassment.

“You’re always excused, Angel.”

***

Aziraphale had dragged Crowley out for a walk in the park to look at all the temporary art scultures from some festival. Begrudgingly, Crowley had agreed. He nearly regretted it until Aziraphale’s arm linked with his, sending warmth spreading throughout his body.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, removing his arm from Crowley’s to rub at his eyes.

“Angel?” Crowley turned back to face him.

“S-sorry dear boy, I believe I’m a-allergic to something.” He scrubs at his nose.

“Well, let’s turn around then, shall we?” Crowley guided Aziraphale’s arm, fingering the handkerchief in his pocket with his free hand.

“O-oh dear. Crowley?” Aziraphale pressed his palm to his twitching nose, features slackening.

“Hmm?” Crowley pretends to focus on the sculpture behind Aziraphale but he can’t tear his eyes from his struggling angel.

“Could I tr-ah…trouble y-you for a handkerc- Ishiew!” Aziraphale pitched forward, barley covering his face.

Crowley places the handkerchief in his palm as the fit continues. “Heshoo! 

H’ TSHU! Hitchiew…Hatchoo!”

Aziraphale blows his nose softly into the handkerchief before using the edge of it to wipe the allergic tears forming in his eyes. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Crowley.”

Crowley smiles. “I don’t know either, Angel.”

***

Crowley lightly shakes the mound of blankets until Aziraphale’s head appears. His eyes and nose red and he shivers harshly despite being smothered in blankets.

“I know you say my tea is rubbish but I’ve made you some anyways. Drink it, or don’t, whtever.” Crowley sets the steaming mug down on the bedside table. 

Aziraphale holds the mug close to his face, breathing in the steam the best he can with his blocked nose. He takes a sip before hastily placing it back on the table and cupping his hands over his nose and mouth. Ishiew! Hashiew! Hatchoo! H’TSHU!

Crowley hands him his handkerchief even though he knows that he could find a stack of them in Aziraphale’s bottom draw. There’s just something about being able to give Aziraphale something he needs that sets butterflies free in Crowley’s stomach.

Aziraphale groaned softly. “Sorry to be a burden.”

Crowley shook his head. “You’re never a burden, Angel.”

A slightly awkward silence settled over the two as Crowley stood. “Well I better go, let you get some rest and all that.” He turned towards the door.

“Wait, Crowley.” Aziraphale gripped his hand. “Stay... please.”

Crowley stared into Aziraphale’s pleading blue eyes and sat back down. Sliding his glasses off and placing on the table. He carefully brushed a blonde curl of Aziraphale’s warm forehead.

“Always, Angel.”

***

The street is illuminated by the setting sun when Crowley and Aziraphale leave, heading towards Aziraphale’s bookshop to turn in for the night. Not even half way down the street, an itch blooms in Crowley’s sinuses. He scrubs at his nose, annoyed when the tickle only grows. Before he even registers what’ shappening, his hands are flying up to cover his face.

“Ha’AESHUH! H’SHUH! It’SHAH!”

Aziraphale flinches at the sudden outburst, taking in Crowley’s twitching nose and streaming eyes. “Are you alright, dear boy?”

“ReSHAH! Ha’ESH! HaSHOO! Oh, Satan.” Crowley furiously scrubs at his eyes and nose.

“Bless you! Crowley, use your handkerchief, you always seem to have it and its much better manners.”

Crowley tries to shoot Aziraphale a look to convey that he doesn’t give a damn about trivial manners when he’s overcome again. “HISHUH! HAEASHUH!”

“My goodness, Crowley. What is setting you off?” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around searching for the culprit.

Crowley shrugs half-heartedly, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief and wipes his nose with it. The tickles blooms fiercely as they reach the street corner and the reason for Crowley’s sneezing becomes obvious. A man holds a bundle of burning sticks, waving them erratically.

“Church incense to banish the evil spirits! May God bless you all!” He chants.

As they pass, Crowley growls at the man. “I’ll show you an evil spirit, you mother-“

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chastises, dragging him by the arm.

As they drift further away, the itch subsides but it still lingers. Teasing Crowley with just one more sneeze.

“Ha’EASHUH!” Crowley sighs in relief as he blows his nose.

Aziraphale’s hand slides into his. “Bless you, Crowley.”

[xdsockmonkey]

The Best I’ve Been in A While

Pairing: Aziraphale x Reader (could be platonic or romantic), Crowley

Word Count: 1,653

Warnings: Mentions of a breakup, hurt comfort

Summary: Reader gets broken up with, Aziraphale helps

Notes: *I tried to make everything as gender-neutral as possible* This is based on @thependragonwritersguild​ prompt #11596 for @daryls-crossbow-carols-boots​ who asked for someone to write an Aziraphale fic and I finally got an idea

You had recently moved to London… well, not that recently. You had moved here over a year ago, got a relatively good job and two solid friends, but you still felt like something was missing. You had gotten a black kitten to keep you company—you loved Butters (the name was part of the reason you fell in love with her) but there was still something missing. Today was Saturday and you were fulfilling your tradition of going on a random adventure one day out of the week. Today you were wandering some streets you had never paid much attention to while sipping some coffee. So far you had discovered two pet stores, a donut shop, a pizza shop and a Christmas store. As you were walking down the street, looking at the colorful shops you were passing, you accidentally bumped shoulders with a stranger.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed. As your head turned to look at the stranger, you first noticed his dark sunglasses. But for a split second you could see behind them and you could see bright yellow-orange eyes. The stranger pauses for a second and stands up straight.

“No worries,” he quietly says, before walking away. As you continued to wander around you kept thinking about that man. He intrigued you and you felt an immediate urge to want to be his friend. Later that day, when you were home curled up on your bed with your cat you suddenly got a text.

“We scheduled too many people for tomorrow, you can have the day off,” your manager sent. Not putting too much thought into it, you turned off your alarms and decided to watch some TV while falling asleep.

When you awoke the next morning, you instantly thought of the man with the yellow eyes. Throughout the morning you continued to feel the strong urge to go back to the streets you wandered less than 24 hours ago. You ate a quick breakfast while watching TV then changed into some casual clothes. Once you felt ready to face the world, you grabbed your phone and earbuds and listened to some of your favorite music as you walked to the streets you wandered the day before. As you were nearing a corner, something made you stop—some kind of feeling, similar to daja vu. It made you feel as though you were walking toward something greater. Your feet began to move forward again, and before you knew what you were doing, you had entered a shop. The atmosphere of the building immediately brought you a sense of peace and you just knew you were in a book shop. It was incredibly quiet but some soft squeaks of old stairs told you someone was here.

“Hello?” asked a sweet voice. Instinctively, you stopped all movement and suddenly felt very out of place. Feeling unsure of yourself, you decided to turn around and exit the bookshop. Right as your hand touched the handle the stranger said “You don’t have to leave… if you don’t want to that is.” Something about the way he spoke made you take your hand off the door handle and turn around. What you didn’t know was that this day was the start of the best year of your life.

You began to hang out at the bookshop more. You learned that Aziraphale was the name of the man who ran the shop and that Crowley was the name of his friend (the man with the sunglasses that you had accidentally ran into). About six months after meeting them they told you they were an angel and a demon. Life was great. You had found these two amazing people that you spent most of your free time with, unless you were with Charlie. You had met Charlie two months after meeting Aziraphale and Crowley. Charlie had asked for your phone number, then immediately asked you on a date. Not having anything to lose, you agreed. Things were great in the beginning, they made you laugh and were incredibly respectful with any boundaries you set, but after two months of dating something in the relationship felt off. You tried to spend more time with them and to talk about what was going on but they would always change the subject, so you just dropped it.

Now, here you are, almost five months into the relationship and Charlie is coming to your apartment to “have a very serious talk.” You were sitting at your kitchen table trying to calm your shaking hands.

“They should be here by now,” you mumble to yourself. Not even a minute later an uneven knock comes from your door. Taking a deep breath you stood up and walked to your door. Gathering all your courage you opened the door.

“Hey!” you said, forcing a smile to your face. They looked nervous, but not a good kind of nervous like when you’re on a rollercoaster, it was a bad kind of nervous like when you have to take a test you didn’t study for.

“I’m just going to make this quick,” they start, not even looking you in the eye. “We’re over. I just can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry.” And with that, they were gone. You were left standing in the doorway completely flabbergasted. You slowly backed into your apartment and locked your door. Turning around you slid down the back of the door. You put your hand over to try and control your sobs. You sat against your door for an hour as sorrow overtook your body. Butters curled up between your legs and tried to lift your spirits. Eventually, the afternoon turned into the evening and you had to find the strength to stand up and get something to eat. Shuffling to your kitchen you grabbed a random snack and stumbled into your bedroom. You turned on the TV, not bothering to change the channel to something you’d actually like to watch and ate your snack. Feeling a tiny bit better you checked your phone. You had 20 unread texts from Crowley and 40 missed calls from Aziraphale. You felt bad for not answering but you didn’t have the emotional capacity to do that right now, so with the TV still on you rolled over and went to sleep (even though it wasn’t even 6 pm yet).

When you awoke the next day you felt a lot better. You weren’t at 100% yet, but you felt as though you could function. When you checked your phone you had even more missed texts and calls from Crowley and Aziraphale. You decided you better go visit them before they thought you were dead. Sighing, you got up and brushed your teeth then got dressed. You walked to a coffee shop and got a drink before continuing your walk to the bookshop. As you got closer you became more nervous and almost considered turning back, but you forced yourself to continue forward.

Your steps slowed as you walked up the steps of the old store. Slowly, you pushed open the door and walked inside. You didn’t even know what brought you here, you began to think that it would’ve been better if you started at home. You didn’t want to be a burden to them. Hearing the familiar creaking of the old stairs, you knew they were here and it was too late to turn back.

“Y/N! Darling, is everything alright? You weren’t answering your phone and I almost came over last night but Crowley convinced me to wait til tonight if we still hadn’t heard anything…” the Angel continued to ramble. Your feet pulled you forward and before you knew it, you had yourself wrapped around him in a warm hug. His train of thought halted and his arms were soon wrapped around you. You were trying so hard not to break down right there but a few tears escaped.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asked from behind Aziraphale. The Angel pulled away and gave you a concerned look while checking over your face. You suddenly felt very small under both of their strong gazes. Your eyes diverted to the ground as you began to fidget with your hands.

“Y/N, you know you can tell us anything,” Aziraphale said as you began to fight back tears. “We need to know what happened so we can help.”

“Umm… you remember Charlie right?” you quietly began.

“Of course,” the angel replied.

“About three months ago I felt something in our relationship change… oh my God, I’m so stupid of not doing anything about it sooner!” you cried. Suddenly feeling very weak on your feet, you felt yourself start to collapse. The angel and the demon leaped toward you and caught you; one on each arm.

“Let’s come have a seat on the sofa,” the angel mumbled. Slowly all three of you shuffled to the sofa as tears poured out your eyes. Once you were all settled on the sofa (Aziraphale on your left and Crowley on your right). Crowley had his hand resting on your shoulder while Aziraphale had you hand in both of his.

“Continue dear,” Aziraphale whispered. Taking a few moments to compose yourself, you regained your train of thought.

“Anyway, the main point is, they broke up with me yesterday. They didn’t say why th-they just said it was over.” Once again you crying your eyes out and your body was exhausted. Before you knew it, your body collapsed sideways onto Aziraphale as you continued to cry. His arms quickly wrapped around your body and held you close.

“It’s okay. Everything will be alright,” Aziraphale whispered into your hair. You hardly noticed Crowley leaving the two of you. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

And you did. That night you went back to your apartment to get Butters and her toys and food. You stayed at the bookshop for nearly three weeks. Your heart began to heal and before you knew it you were the best you had been in a long time.

[release-the-sheep]

Thanks to @curriebelle for the prompt, "masquerade ball". I did a bit of research for historical accuracy and proper Venetian-ness, but I make no promises. Also, there's a bit of Italian throughout this that I didn't bother to footnote, so you may want to have google translate open, or you could guess, you'll probably be fine, it's not very involved.

Venice, 1724

Ah, there he is.

A bit on the nose, perhaps, the devilish red Volto-style mask, complete with sculpted horns, but then Crowley has never been all that subtle. It's been said that Carnevale is where people show their deepest, truest selves, hearts on sleeves and all the rest of it. A shame, Aziraphale thinks, that humans need the security of a mask to hide behind before they'll let themselves be truly free. A shame, but entirely understandable to Aziraphale. Humanity is often cowardly when it comes to profound emotion, and he can certainly relate.

Which is why it has been nigh on a half hour since he showed his invitation at the door - addressed only to Il Putto in a quirk of charming and enticing secretiveness - and he has yet to take a single step forward since noticing Il Diavolo. Well, in all honesty, "noticing" was probably not the best word for it. He had been fairly struck by the sight of Crowley in his crisp red velvet coat with its black brocade and gleaming gold buttons, vest and breeches in sleek black silk, a jaunty but elegant black tricorne hat adorned with a plump red feather perched on his head, and the look finished with frankly outrageous varnished red shoes with massive gilded buckles. The vision had rooted Aziraphale to the spot. Ever the flash bastard, was his... counterpart. A waiter had soon come by with a tray of drinks, to which Aziraphale had almost unknowingly helped himself, and he had been standing there ever since, sipping from it and watching Crowley prance and twirl from dance partner to dance partner, temptation to temptation. The latest song ends and the dashing demon bows low to his latest conquest, snapping up at the waist just as the musicians lift their bows from their instruments in unison, before removing himself to the edge of the dancefloor and disappearing among the crowd of revellers.

Aziraphale's corporeal feet suddenly remember how to move and begin to carry him through the crowd, not toward Crowley, heavens no, but to somewhere he can hope to catch another glimpse of that impressive red mask, the bob of a scarlet feather. It seems the feet in question had grown restless during his prolonged motionlessness, and they pull him along rather more zealously than the rest of his body can handle. It is only a matter of a few steps before he tumbles headlong into the arms of a fellow partygoer, spilling his white wine and dignity all over the stranger. "Oh dear, terribly sorry- or ah, scusa..." He straightens and brushes himself off, then nearly jumps at the fearsome sight of the Medico della Peste before him. He manages to turn the fright into a respectable chuckle, though, remembering that certain individuals have in recent years taken to making a costume of the plague doctor's dark robes and odd, beaked mask. He had thought it rather tasteless initially, but confronted with one now, close-up, he has to confess that it is rather impressive; dark folds of heavy cloth envelop the man like a panel of thick, black, night sky, a cowl fully covering the head and neck, the odd flat hat and characteristic white beak painting up a singular silhouette. "Ottimo costume, signore," he says, remembering his Italian. A terse nod from the other, and silence. "Ah, where are my manners, I've spilt your drink, too. Cameriere!"

~~

Crowley is stunned.

He had come here off-duty, with no intention of inciting, aiding, or abetting any sort of sin, for a few reasons. Firstly, humans were rather good at doing all that themselves without him; doubly so with alcohol present, triply or more from behind the anonymity of masks. Secondly, while temptation could be fun, it had been a long year of wiling and he was uncharacteristically tired. Wiled-out. Wild-through. Wiled-thin (and if there was more to it than that, if it had been an awfully long time since two adversaries met on a misty battlefield and talked about war and peace and the fomenting thereof, and if he was starting to feel the weight of those years empty of a particular bright smile and endearingly questioning eyes, well he certainly wasn't going to admit it).

The third reason was that it was Carnevale, da- bless it, and if no one else had to work for these few merry weeks, then he certainly wasn't going to. That was just basic sloth, that. Straight out of Sin 101. Besides, Crowley rather enjoys simply watching people, and there are many to watch here in this city, at this time of year. He likes posting up in the corner of a crowded room and letting the full spectacle of human virtue and vice and everything in between unfold before him, as dramatically or discreetly as it pleases. There has always been something fascinating about humans, Crowley thinks. They are clever things. Ruthless and tender, full of contrasts. They never fail to put on an entertaining show, and now they are even dressed as performers.

This is why he had pulled the great black cloak on, donned the pointed mask, miracled up a party invitation for Il Dottore Peste and set up camp here in the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, where he can see widely without needing to be seen - though he is utterly unrecognizable in the doctor's guise. He likes this costume. It amuses him, somewhat morbidly. Humans had started to wear it to remind themselves that life was short, a message which fit seamlessly into the spirit of Carnevale. Crowley rather enjoys the irony of an eternal being walking around dressed in memento mori. Besides, it is warm. He is cold-blooded, and it is impossible to escape the way wind comes up off the water and snakes its way into your bones here, in this city of waterways. It is December for Hell's sake, he isn't about to go skipping about without a sturdy outer layer on.

So he had prepared, in a manner of speaking. But not for this. He had not prepared for Aziraphale to be there, let alone for the blasted angel to trip and fall literally into his arms like some tragicomedic heroine. And yet there he was, all wrapped up in soft pinks and blues, and a generous helping of cloud-white in the form of a flowing cravat and dainty tricorne. A white-feathered Colombina half-mask, too, which left his round little apple-red cheeks and soft-lipped pink mouth unhidden. Absolutely bloody cherubic.

Crowley had frozen in place at the sound of the familiar mortified voice, the scrambled apology threaded through two languages and pulled taut by fretting hands. Crowley had just had the time to blink a couple of times and ensure that he wasn't hallucinating when Aziraphale swept back around to face him again, brandishing two fresh glasses of wine, one of which he places in Crowley's gloved hand.

"There you are my dear fellow! Ancora scusa."

And with that he's gone, tottering off between the fine suits and frilly dresses, neck craned toward the dancefloor. Crowley's mouth opens behind the plague mask, then shuts. He didn't know it was me. He slumps back into the plush upholstery of the seat he's claimed, sprawls out over it as is his custom. Of course Aziraphale didn't recognize him like this. What would there be to recognize? His face? Mask. His hair? Cowl. The shape of his body? Cloak. His voice? He hadn't breathed a word. Crowley grits his teeth and scrunches his face up in a frightful expression of dissatisfaction, which no one sees. This is just as well, because it is entirely inwardly directed. He lets his gaze drift to the dancefloor, where bodies are beginning to gather once again, following the orchestra's quick break. A sea of masks filling up once more, white Bauta and black Moretta, the likenesses of Zanni, Arlecchino, Pantalone, and the rest of the cast of the Comedia dell'arte, old gossips and military captains and monsters and animals and - oh.

There, nearing the very centre of the dancefloor, is a dandy dressed in a vibrant red coat, with a blood-red devil mask to match. He is twirling and peacocking about in front of a row of ladies, an absolutely ridiculous puff of a plume lazily following his movements. What a prick, thinks Crowley bitterly. His eyes trace a line to the other side of the room where a cloud-white hat is poking up eagerly, angled directly toward the detestable man in red. Fuck. Now that will not do.

~~

Aziraphale has finally managed to push to the front of the crowd and get a clear few of the dancefloor. His eyes scan it for a moment before once more alighting on the vivid red shape of Il Diavolo. He jostles slightly, adjusting his position for prime Crowley-viewing, and prepares to drink his fill of the way the demon moves, the way the light plays on his flamboyant clothes. He finds himself wondering how long Crowley had been based in Venice; he seems to have picked up certain Italian idiosyncrasies since they last spoke, little locally inspired changes to his manner, new flutters of his hands. Aziraphale really has been away too long. He sips his wine and watches the show, keeping his hat low as if that would have any effect on Crowley's ability to recognize him should he happen to glance Aziraphale's way. There doesn't seem to be much of a chance of that happening anyway, frankly. Il Diavolo seems determined to dance the night away, and as such is quite distracted with his apparently endless parade of partners. At that thought, Aziraphale notices a suspiciously orderly row of people on the edge of the dancefloor behind Il Diavolo, and is that- it is! He's got them queuing up!

Demonic stamina, he marvels, surreptitiously shaking his head. What if he were to- no, no, certainly not. But after all... why not? It wouldn't be all that difficult to make his way around to the other side of the dancefloor, to join the queue. He'd continue to have a good view and in a while, he could take his own turn dancing with the demon. He wasn't usually one for dancing, but he hadn't known Crowley to be particularly either, and yet there he goes, nimble feet somehow managing not to tangle with those of the handsome Capitano now on his arm. Maybe it isn't so hard, he thinks. What does he have to lose?

He stifles a laugh. He has a great deal to lose. He has... missed Crowley, in a way, and he cannot allow their reunion to be marred by some clumsy, literal misstep. No, it would be foolish. Definitely foolish. He is happy to watch.

Il Diavolo's dance takes him across the dancefloor again, and again Aziraphale finds himself twisting his neck uncomfortably to see him clearly. He starts to shift back again the way he came, toward the silent plague doctor chap in his darkened corner.

~~

Crowley is propulsed out of his seat by the sudden pang of jealousy. And then, as soon as it came, the heat is gone.

What exactly would he have done, he asks himself as he settles yet again in his corner, body melting back against a cushion. Stormed over there and shouted at Aziraphale through the mask, something about "not him, me!", or pulled off his getup in the middle of the party to reveal himself, going against every unwritten code of Carnevale and drawing a mountain of unnecessary attention to the two of them, probably getting them both booted into a canal for the imposition? And even without considering the practical aspects of delivering such a message, what was the point of the message itself? Minutes ago he would have been perfectly content (well not quite, but never mind that) for the entire evening to pass without him seeing head nor tail of Aziraphale, and now here he is, scrambling to make himself known to the angel. What sense does that make?

No, he shall stay here, and let Aziraphale go on thinking whatever he thinks. He considers taking a drink from the glass in his hand, then remembers the mask. Just an accessory, then, this wine. Let Aziraphale have this, he thinks, he's clearly enjoying himself, watching the overstuffed fop put on his show.

It is an easy enough mistake to make, Crowley supposes. He is a bit hurt that Aziraphale could mistake him for such a- pompous, puffed up- arrogant- son of a- ahem. The point is, as much as it may hurt his demonic pride to admit, there could be said to be certain - minor, superficial, and only in a certain light - similarities between himself and the fellow in the red. Crowley knows he can scarcely be counted among the humble, that his style could certainly be described as showy, if not typically colourful, and he can even concede that there is something of his usual temptations in the way the man takes each new partner by the hand, as though he is about to show them a brand new world. But it's exaggerated and crass, almost a caricature of his own way of doing things, and he can't help but feel somewhat miffed in the face of Aziraphale's obsession with the bloke, obvious even from a room away. Or it was- at least, he was-

"You've got a good view of Il Diavolo from here, haven't you old chap? Ah, I mean, come si dice- oh bugger it all, it isn't as though you were much of a conversationalist earlier. I hope you'll excuse me, but the drink is rather impeding my ability to make myself understood in your language, and by no means do I wish to sober up at this time."

Aziraphale drops down into the seat next to Crowley, folding his hands in his lap as he turns his head back toward the blur of red controlling the dancefloor. Crowley forces himself to recover quickly from the minor shock of the angel appearing so suddenly again at his side.

"I know him," Aziraphale says, pointing, a proud little smile on his face. "I've worked with him before. He's a colleague."

Crowley tilts his head in what he hopes looks like an interested gesture.

Il Putto takes the encouragement. "Lovely fellow, really. A bit... stubborn, at times, but quite pleasant, deep down." Aziraphale looks to the dancefloor with wistful watery-blue eyes. "I quite like him."

Behind the safety of the mask, Crowley gulps. Is that so, then? He opens a gloved palm in a curious gesture. Go on.

Aziraphale's cherub cheeks darken further, and he chuckles. "Yes, I rather enjoy his company. It has been some time since we last spoke, and I was happier to see him than I had expected I would be, if you can believe it." At that he flexes one of his doughy hands, toys with a ruffle on his sleeve. "Do you know, I was considering going to line up for a dance with him? That must seem to you an odd thing to do, dancing with a work colleague at a masked ball. I'm not even much of a dancer really. Don't know where the idea came from." His eyes remain fixed ahead for a moment, and then steal sideways, to Crowley, briefly. For a moment Crowley is afraid the gig is up, that Aziraphale has worked it out and that he's going to have some uncomfortable explaining to do. But then he sees something in the heaven-blue eyes, a sort of question, a need for... is it assurance? Permission?

He drops his head to one side, letting the beak of his mask point toward the man in red, still dancing up a storm. Off you go, then.

Aziraphale lights up. "Do you really think so? It's not... silly? Foolish? You don't think he'll laugh?"

Don't push it, Angel, he thinks, but points his beak more sharply toward the dancefloor.

"No, you're right. You're absolutely right. It's Carnevale, after all, no inhibitions, all that business. Thank you my dear fellow!"

Aziraphale bounces off the seat and disappears back into the crowd in a cloud of pink and blue frills and ribbons. As soon as he is gone, Crowley drops his masked face into one gloved hand.

~~

Aziraphale is fairly buzzing with excitement. Here he is, at the edge of the dancefloor, next in line. And there is Crowley, twirling a young woman in a cat mask with his long, strong fingers, scarlet coat swishing behind him. At last, the furiously spinning pair approach the edge of the dancefloor as the music swells to its climax. He dips her on the final, sustained note, then draws her back up, kisses her hand, straightens his cravat and strides toward his next partner.

Which is Aziraphale. Il Putto steps forward, holds out a hand. "Posso avere questa danza?" he asks, and it comes out more sheepish than he intended by half.

"Beninteso," comes the reply and it's... wrong. This warm, rolling bass is not Crowley's. The hand reaching forward to take his is not Crowley's either. The curl of black hair slipping out around one ear and contrasting against the red of the mask is certainly not Crowley's.

Aziraphale stumbles back. "S-sor- ah, scusa," he manages, pulling away from the dancefloor and the stranger and back into the far more comforting press of bodies surrounding it.

Dazed, he makes his way back to where he was last. The plague doctor is still there, holding the same wineglass he was earlier. He welcomes Aziraphale back with a half-nod. For someone whose language Aziraphale hasn't been speaking this entire time, the fellow certainly does a good of job of seeming like he understands. Pretending, perhaps.

"It wasn't him," says Aziraphale quietly, mostly to himself. The plague doctor puts a comforting hand on his back and- Aziraphale tenses. Behind his eyes flash the brown dirt of Mesopotamia, the sands of Judah, the white tiles of Rome, the misty hills of England. A feeling of calm inspired by the soothing drag of black and red scales over soft skin. That touch... it couldn't be. His nerves calm, sensation returns to his muscles. He turns to face his adversary, his counterpart, his... friend.

There is no one there.

[zenlesszonezero]

Join Zenless Zone Zero with Tsukishiro Yanagi, the deputy leader of Hollow Special Operations Section 6! Beneath her ordinary office lady exterior lies a meticulous, emotionally intelligent big sister to the team.