#good omens 2 ficlet

[crowleys-hips]

i think it's really funny when people describe Crowley's hair as silky or soft or something along those lines in fics, because if you look at David Tennant closely, you can see they used like 50 hair products on his hair to sculpt that shit to perfection. it's probably hard as a rock or stickier than glue. i want a fic where it's like:

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale's chest, snuggling close. The angel smiles and raises his hand to stroke his hair, but once his fingers are buried in those shiny red locks, they're trapped in a crunchy sea of slick goop. The slimy texture sticks to his fingers like superglue. He tries to pull his hand back, but it's completely stuck. Not even three consecutive miracles can do the trick. He prays for salvation.

[sapphic-bats]

Warlock asks Nanny about it once.

She’s cutting apples for him, just the way he likes, and he’s gazing out of the window at the lush, green gardens that his mother so proudly upholds. Among the waxy leaves and spindly saplings, Brother Francis tends to the flora carefully, though Warlock’s quite sure he’s just taking certain leaves between his finger and his thumb, and studying them closely. But what did Warlock know about gardening?

He notices Nanny looking out those windows, too. Though she always gazes and stares with a deep intent, as if she only cares when she does, and it so happens that she never looks upon the garden empty.

What was that funny thing Nanny and Brother Francis had taught him? The thing that Nanny discouraged, to which Brother Francis promoted quite devoutly?

“Nanny, have you ever been married?”

Warlock knows what marriage is. After all, his parents are married, if you can call it that. They married, once, out of love. But it’s since faded. It’s more traditional, now. Out of convenience and a general apathy to trying again.

Nanny’s quick hand stills, blade edge flat against the cutting board. With her back turned to the young boy, he cannot make out her expression. He never can, what with her poised shades she wears pointedly upon her nose. But she speaks soon again.

“No,” she replies, simply.

Warlock considers this. “Do you ever want to be?”

Nanny, who had taken up the cutting again, pauses once more. She sets the knife against the board and tilts her chin towards Warlock. “Wherever have you learned such personal questions, dear?”

She’s not refusing to answer him. She never has. She just asks in true curiosity, and perhaps a slight avoidance. But Warlock’s eight, now, and he knows how to navigate her tricks.

“Where do you think?”

At that, she pauses, lips pursed with their consistent purple tint. The lipstick she wears, that faintly stains Warlock’s forehead when she kisses him goodnight and tucks him in after a bedtime story: often about a garden, or a bird that chirped too loudly, and was cast down to the ground by the other birds. One who became the kind bird of the grounds, and took in other reject birds that had fallen similarly.

She considers his answer a moment more, satisfied with the obvious influence she’s had on him. She turns back to the apple slices.

“Perhaps,” she answers.

There is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t mind, he’s grown up with Nanny at his side, and has become quite fond of the silence. It is where thoughts are made, she said once.

She finishes cutting the apples, and plates the sweet snack to serve to the boy. “What troubles you, dear? You seem awfully curious, all of the sudden.”

Not that she minds. Nanny never rejects curiosity.

“Nothing’s wrong, Nanny, it’s just—” he pauses, considers his next words and how to place them. “You look at Brother Francis a lot, and—”

Nanny interrupts him after an audible, suspicious gulp. “Who?”

He frowns, eyes boring into the back of her head. “You know Brother Francis.”

She seems quite comically nervous, like she’s pressed a wax-seal act over her true thoughts. “Oh, yes,” she decides, too much breath coming with her words. “The gardener.”

“You like him, Nanny.”

She turns, abruptly. “I most certainly do not!” Her voice comes out a tad shrill, though perhaps it’s just outrage and scandal.

Warlock narrows his eyes, perplexed. “But you look at him all of the time.”

“When has that ever had anything to do with- with love?” She struggles with the word.

The boy shrugs. “Mum and Dad don’t look at each other,” Warlock observes. “But Brother Francis looks for you, too.”

Nanny’s mouth, ready with a retort, or perhaps a counter-argument, flicks towards a different shape. One that might be, he does? Or perhaps Warlock is mistaken. She pauses, lips pursed again, and sets her teeth.

“I’m sure he does, love.”

The plate is set before him, and Warlock soon forgets his questions. He never asks Nanny again.

But he’s reminded of it when her eyes, barely visible in the light, flick towards the window into the dazzling garden.

Years later, Warlock is nearly sixteen, and has since let the thoughts from half his lifetime ago fade. They never die, just sort of… wait. Wait to be plucked again, notes of memory leaping from their tinny strings. Like a harp.

His mother takes him into town. Soho, where he has no interest in seeing, but his mother so desperately needs a new vinyl, a coffee, and though she never says it: a moment to get away from the house, or more specifically, her husband within it.

She agrees to let him wander. She trusts him, for all she hasn’t before. And perhaps, she says, the fresh, un-televised air could do him some good.

He’s only taken two steps out of the coffee shop, where his mother remains to await her tea, before he almost runs smack into two pedestrians, arm in arm. He takes a surprised jump back, tongue set with an angry scolding, when he gets a good look at them from behind.

“Nanny?”

They both freeze in unison, as if they both know the name, and the voice that has conjured it forth once more for the first time in five years. Warlock notices something else.

“Brother Francis?” He prods, shocked. “Izzat you?”

Both of the two now turn, and everything around the three fades into blurring colors and churning noises.

Warlock would be a rotten liar if he had said he hadn’t missed them dearly. He would also be a lousy boy if he didn’t recognize them by the backs of their heads alone, he thinks. Because he would know them anywhere. They’d always done a much better job at raising him than his own parents.

They both look different now. Brother Francis seems to have had dental work done, and has cleaned up quite nicely. Nanny, though, appears to have changed her style completely. Her- his? Their? Who knows. But she still sports a fine pair of shades upon the bridge of her nose.

The pair seem to stutter, splutter with a little awestruck surprise. It’s as if they’d never expected to see him again.

“Oh- Warlock,” Nanny Ashtoreth begins, feigning a cool-headed surprise. “How good to see you.”

She sounds different too. Less of a high strain on her voice, more natural.

But Warlock seems to finally feel a gear shift, and a puzzle piece clicks into place. He glances down to the space between the two, where their arms are linked.

In his dumbfounded state, he feels a smile split the trance.

They both see it at the same time, chins tilting to follow his gaze. When they catch where his eyes are, their stares mingle together in concern. It’s a look that wonders aloud whether or not they should be worried, or blatant.

Warlock looks back up to their faces. “I see now why you two left,” he adds, grinning wider.

He can’t help it. He was right all along.

Warlock remembers something, then. It takes all of his power not to burst out into a triumphant laugh.

“I’m sure he does,” he says, slyly.

Nanny’s eyes, illuminated from behind with daylight, widen. She remembers, too. Of course she does.

And she bites back a twinning smile.

[actual-changeling]

There is a man with fire-red hair running a bookshop in Soho.

He hasn't always been the original owner, as almost all residents on Whickber Street know, but it is a fact you never bring up with him. Hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and layers of rough sarcasm, he is a shadow moving silently between shelves and plants, the Bentley parked outside seemingly more for decoration than actual use.

Previously, there had been a white-haired man with gentle eyes and a favour up his sleeves living among his books, and while he barely sold any of them, he was a pillar of the community just like the building itself. When he disappeared, an unspoken vow to never discuss the subject matter in the vicinity of the shop was made.

There is a woman with fire-red hair sitting in St. James's Park.

She feeds frozen peas to the ducks and puts the fear of God into everyone who dares to offer them bread or attempts to scare them away. The bench is hers, always empty, awaiting her arrival; sometimes she brings a bottle of wine, other times she cradles a Polaroid in the palm of her hand, and even the dark shades cannot stop the occasional tear from dripping down her cheek.

Rumours of her companion and his absence spread quickly, yet no one dares to ask, and the spies scattered around the park form a mutual understanding to avoid her.

There is a person with fire-red hair wandering the streets of London, wearing sunglasses and no coat, no matter the weather or time.

Their head is tipped back, their eyes glued to the sky, and yet they navigate through the masses parting around them with an unnatural ease. No one stops them, no one dares to ask why, and even if they did, they wouldn't offer an answer, not when they are asking themself the very same question.

When it begins to rain, they stop moving, stretching out their hands in a weak imitation of a prayer and allowing the water to seep into their clothes until they're as dark as the wet concrete beneath them.

There is a man with blinding white hair stepping out of an elevator that does not exist, and the end of the world comes with him. If someone were to listen in, they would realise that the man with fire-red hair meets him in the middle of the street, the air thick with lightning that will never find a home.

As they talk, nightingales all over London begin to sing.

[very-normal-abt-this]

if Aziraphale allowed himself to say it (final 15 fix-it)

(after the kiss)

-I lo…I love you.

-Then don't leave.

-I don't want to leave you.

-Then don't!

-I don’t have a choice.

-Why?!

-Because I'll never forgive myself if I don't!

-Sure you will. I do it all the time. Just takes practice.

-No, you don't. You never forgive yourself.

-That why you keep doing it for me?

-Yes. You deserve peace and forgiveness.

-I don't want peace and forgiveness. That sounds boring. What I want is…You.

-Aren't…aren't you going to say it back?

-It bacK.

-Crowley!

-If I say it, will you stay?

-Crowley…

(pause)

-If you don't want to be an angel then…I don't have a choice but to go back. To protect you. To protect us.

-I don't need protection, Angel! I've been taking care of myself for years, in case you haven't noticed.

-Of course I noticed. I also noticed when you needed holy water to protect yourself. And I noticed when we had to switch bodies to protect ourselves. I noticed that the only reason you didn't receive extreme sanctions was that Beelzebub went rogue. They're never going to stop trying to destroy you, you know.  Your very existence is a threat to them.

-So what! I'll take my chances! 

-I can't take chances with your life.

-Ngk.... So you're going to abandon me here, and its "FoR mY oWn GoOd" ?

-Not…abandon. Just a temporary leave of absence. And it's for our own good. I'm doing this for me too, because I need you to be safe. And I'm doing this for the world because…it's our home. 

-(sigh) You'll never stop trying to do good, are you Angel?

-No, I suppose not. But isn't that why you love me?

-Hmm. And what makes you think I love you?

-Crowley! Don't be cruel.

-Like I told you before…I love you because you're just enough of a bastard to be worth loving. 

-That's not exactly what you said back then.

-It was what I thought.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54145684

[katiefrog217]

[Creation]

In a time before, when pestered, Aziraphale would tell many youths about the Starmaker - a great serpent with wings made of starlight. He would tell the those curious gazes about how the serpent would wind through the celestial planes beyond the skies, creating stars and star nurseries with every beat of his wings for those on Earth to marvel at. How the constellations came about because of his work. "He took great pride in his nebulae," Aziraphale would say fondly. When a curious child asked what happened to the Starmaker, he would give them a sad smile and respond, "Curiosity is best in moderation." After a time, when the story began to spread too far, Aziraphale stopped telling the story - least a certain demon caught wind of the tale. He carries it in his heart instead, and thinks of it often with a fond smile.

I wanted to do a little something for Snake Starmaker, but it got a little out of hand.

Support me on Ko-fi!

[sentientsky]

Do you think Crowley is ever driving through a tunnel at night, carving a path through the heart of London?

And do you think he watches the lights blur past like atoms colliding in the emptiness of a space before time or reason or the fear of a steep fall?

And do you think he blinks, and in that moment—with the road rushing beneath him and the staccato flicker of light against his closed eyelids—he remembers what it felt like to hold the universe between two palms?

To set the gyroscope spinning—to become both creator and divine witness, a hand print pressed into the rough edge of a cave wall (I was here and here I shall remain)?

Do you think he remembers it all?

And do you think he aches when he opens his eyes and finds nothing but chrome and fluorescence and the endless expanse of asphalt laid out before him?

[gaiaseyes451]

7 Days, 700 Words - Storm Break - 7/7 - Complete!

Storm Break (new part in blue)

The patter of rain on the clay shingled roof interrupts our peace. Soft and languid a moment ago, your breath quickens; the crackle of the fire in the hearth a foreshock of the quake amassing in the slate gray clouds. Yet it is I who flinches when lightning flashes, casting the cottage sitting room into sharp relief. Too bright, too cold, too familiar.

Our fingers intertwine and reflexively I curl beside you. Whether it is to soothe my own anxiety or bolster your resolve matters not; you pressed against me, cheek resting in my curls, is a balm all the same.

I count silently, one…two…three… anticipating the sound that follows the fury. Thunder cracks, rattling the glass so droplets spill like tears down window pane cheeks. Through the tempest the unseen sun sets in the churning sky, violet and gold and vermilion glowing on the horizon. There is so much beauty in this world—once our ward, now made home—even in the storms.

But your vision is shuttered, goldenrod irises barricaded against the aftershock of memories of more insidious foes. I run my fingers through your hair and conjure the first storm we weathered, sheltered together as the rain fell over Eden. 

Poor protection though they were, we huddled together as the cold drops beaded on  my wings and ran off in steady rivulets, watching the world change around us. I remember the heat of the sun warmed stones beneath our feet, the whip of the wind against my robes and through your hair. 

But most of all, I remember the colors. In the rain soaked light greens were more verdant, reds richer, blues shades of indigo in their saturation. 

Your eyes, a soul suspended in amber, beside me.

“Do you remember Eden,” I murmur against your temple, “after the first rain?”

You look at me, the same golden soul, no less cherished for finally being mine, and smile. “I do.” 

I stand, our fingers still interlaced, and together we journey toward the garden and into the storm. I leave you on the patio, behind the curtain falling from the eaves, and step into the rain soaked grass to spread my wings. 

Before I can call you are beside me, glistening ebony wings perched carefully overhead 

“The scent of it,” you sigh, darker thoughts replaced by the breath of this moment. “Of dirt and petrichor, flowers and fruit. Life and Earth. You.”

We stand here, vulnerable and exposed, clothes dripping, sodden ground cold beneath our feet. We could turn, return inside, the breeze having whisked away the last remnants of our unease. 

Instead, we stay. 

This is precisely where we belong. We dwell in the cottage, but it is not our shelter. Its walls offer protection, but it is not our refuge.

The rain replenishes the silver necklace streams that adorn the land. The storm breaks the heat of long summer days and nourishes the jasmine that perfumes humid nights. It cleanses souls and slakes thirsts.

We need not fear the rain.

We did not seek refuge on wooden boats as the seas rose and the sky fell. Our safety was not heralded by a dove and olive branch. The ribbon of color bursting across a brilliant blue sky proclaims the magnificence of physics, not a miracle of faith. 

Troubles will always follow and we will surely fret and worry. Until the time the rain comes—as gale or shower, storm or drizzle—and washes our troubles away. The rain falls over everything. Even us. We shall always emerge from it, renewed and reborn, on our side.

We have learned to welcome the storm.

With unspoken agreement, we lower our wings, letting the rain wash over us. The storm is an old friend, the oldest we have. With each deep rumble and brilliant flash it greets us, in every heavy drop it bids us farewell.

Safety is the squeeze of your arm around my waist. Peace is seeing your shining eyes, day in and day out. Home is at your side; just as it has always been. 

You dip down as I reach up to capture your lips in a smiling kiss. This, too, we know well. After all, we were the first to fall in love in the rain.

****

The prompt was provided by @crowleysgirl56 and comes from the poem Troubles Follow by @lickthecowhappy . The stanza used as the prompt:

but a cottage near the / sea cannot shelter / from every storm / as rain falls / over all

It's done! I will be doing this again, I'll start the next one in a couple of days. :)

Got a prompt you want me to use next time? Add a comment below! Want to be on a tag list? Follow #Storm Break or comment below. Feel free to adopt this idea yourself! If you do, tag me and I will give you a prompt!

[cannebady]

It's the future. How far into it, really, is of no matter here. The important bit is that they've finally reached some degree of an understanding.

There's an angel back in a bookshop in Soho, enthusiastic in his separation from the holy host and distinct lack of separation from the original tempter.

Well, he supposes lack of separation is a relative term.

Right before, well, before. Not Before of course, no, not that far back, but before their second, second chance he and Crowley were as close as they'd ever been. There were talks and walks and good lord the touching. They were so close then, right on the precipice before the Metatron and Aziraphale's most shameful cowardice yet.

Crowley had tried, of course he had. Brilliant, brave, honest Crowley throwing his heart into the ring in the final hour, a pleading hail Mary met only by an angel's repitious distance and foolish devotion to the wrong entity entirely.

Crowley does have reason to be vexed with him.

But that's behind them too, because they've always been stronger together and now, after all that's transpired (which shall be discussed at a later date), they've begun to establish a new normal.

And Aziraphale is grateful, well and truly, deeply grateful for the wellspring of forgiveness, or possibly acceptance, that proliferates in his dear demon. His best friend, the love of his life, a pure anomaly that Aziraphale had coveted since before he knew it was sinful to.

He certainly doesn't give a toss about the concept of sin now. Not now that his apology (a rather garish, lengthy spin on their apology dance that included no fewer than eleven doves, four streamers, twenty-seven individual steps, and one heartfelt apology made while holding the hand of a shell-shocked demon who looked nearly as relieved as he was conflicted) has been cautiously accepted.

They started small. Coffee once a week at Nina's shop to hash out their thoughts and catch up under the watchful eye of someone far wiser than them.

It was after the fifth coffee date (they're not dates, he keeps reminding himself, to little effect) is the first time it happens.

It, in this instance, is a moment of tension as one of them almost breaks the silence on the one piece of the Debacle they haven't bled out yet. They talked about the difference in their "exactlies" and how Aziraphale had always needed to fix things to feel worthy and how Crowley's loneliness had been nearly crushing, and that's really saying something for a demon.

But they hadn't talked about the kiss. About Crowley's desperate, last-ditch-attempt kiss meant to show Aziraphale what he could offer.

They hadn't talked about how it was almost enough to rip Aziraphale from his self-imposed duty. Or how he hadn't gone one day, not ever one hour, since without thinking about how wrong it was that he didn't kiss Crowley back with everything he was.

So upon the steps of the bookshop, after the fifth coffee not-date of the rest of their lives (part two), they prepare to say goodbye as the angel frets about whether it's too soon to invite his favorite demon inside (or to spend the rest of their lives together, either would be lovely). While preoccupied with invitations and proposals, he fumbles with the key to the shop door, enough so that Crowley reaches around him with a, "Let me get that for you, angel," in just enough time for Aziraphale to turn around and look him in his ochre eyes.

Time feels paused. Considering Crowley's abilities, it may have actually stopped. But Aziraphale can't think about that because they're so close, closer than they've been since before, and all he can think of is dragging those red lips down to his own and showing Crowley the depth of his devotion.

Crowley seems similarly caught in the liminal space of the moment, frozen on an event horizon that is as terrifying for him as it is exciting.

Aziraphale almost leans in, he's so close to it that it's almost an inevitability, but then he sees a trace of panic cross Crowley's features and time starts again instantly.

It's too soon. They haven't talked about it. Once they have, perhaps he'll be permitted a second go at tasting his demon, but he won't force Crowley across any more lines. It's his turn to match speed.

So he pulls back slowly, with a smile he hopes conveys his understanding and acceptance. Crowley looks uneasy for a moment, stuck in where they almost landed, before he too, pulls back.

They say a warm, if stilted, goodbye and Aziraphale locks himself in the shop for the rest of the day. They're working through it, but sometimes he can't believe his own stupidity. He left this behind and he can't even fathom why at this point.

---

It happens again because of course it does.

The next time they're coming back from Aziraphale's favorite sushi place, because they've graduated to a coffee not-date once a week and one dinner not-date in the same week and he's tickled about it.

Crowley has been his sparkling self all evening, funny and sharp and silly and Aziraphale's so ridiculously charmed by him he feels like there's glitter in his performative veins.

The Bentley stops outside of the bookshop and Aziraphale's heart aches for a time in the not-so-distant past when it would've been natural to ask Crowley in for a nightcap.

For now, he turns to thank him for a lovely meal, but when he shifts he sees that Crowley's staring at him in a way that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His gaze is locked on Aziraphale's mouth and he seems completely caught in his own mind. Aziraphale can only imagine he's remembering, because he's also remembering and good lord his self control is waning.

Suddenly, Crowley snaps out of it, turning his head sharply and grinding out, "Night angel, see you Wednesday," as Aziraphale takes his cue to get out of the car and head inside the shop. It's longing and abrupt, but they don't look at one another. Something in that breaks Aziraphale's chipped heart just a bit more.

It hurts, but he's brought it on himself for being a fool. He allows himself a cocoa, then a stiff glass of whiskey before he settles in with a copy of Persuasion and pointedly thinks of nothing.

---

Three months or so in, and it's happened so often that Aziraphale wonders if it's a cosmic joke or some kind of karmic backlash for his hallmark poor decision-making.

They've had so many almosts it's doing his head in.

There was the one at the drive in where they saw Casablanca and Crowley had looked so handsome limned by the screen light that Aziraphale almost lost his better judgment.

There was the pub where Aziraphale won a game of pool with a move so complicated and borderline impossible that Crowley looked like he may just swing him around and plant one on him in pride. Aziraphale wishes he would've. But that same shuttered (shattered) look crossed Crowley's features and Aziraphale found himself challenging Crowley to a second match to pull him out of his spiral.

Then there was the farmers market, and the duck pond, and the beach, and every other bloody place they went to and if the tension didn't break soon Aziraphale was concerned his patience just might.

But he doesn't complain because Crowley comes to the shop at his leisure now, walking in like he has a claim to it (he does, he does, he does) and that makes Aziraphale so happy he could almost lose consciousness.

But he's starting to wonder after his own ability to keep letting things go as, presently, they're both on the sofa in the room above the shop, in front of a roaring fireplace that came loaded with a divine miracle to keep it from burning or even singeing a single page, (a condition of Crowley's that Aziraphale was happy to acquiesce) and the exact right amount of wine in their systems to know better but not necessarily do better.

It's a dangerous combination because good lord does the firelight make Crowley incandescently beautiful (or possibly, it's Crowley doing so to the fire, as he's always beautiful) and Aziraphale is weak.

He realizes, after a moment, that it's quiet save for the crackling of the fire and last he'd remembered before getting lost in his head Crowley was talking but now, the air is thick with familiar tension and he can feel those serpent eyes on him.

He looks over and is caught in the softest, hungriest gaze he's ever seen directed his way. He can feel his own cheeks flush in sympathy and he watches Crowley notice, watches Crowley take in the click of his throat as he tries to swallow his want lest he tarnish this delicate balance of theirs, and watches as Crowley's hand comes to his own and trails upward, feels heat and goose flesh break out on his arm (his sleeve is rolled up, there's no barrier, oh fuck) in the wake of those elegant fingers as they travel higher, and loses his measured breathing as it traverses his bicep, his shoulder, dear lord his neck, then settles holding his cheek.

There is no mistaking it this time. No broken glances, no rage, just heat and static and love.

Oh, Aziraphale can feel the love pouring off of them both and it's like his thirst being slaked for the first time in ages.

"Crowley," he starts, and before he can continue he hears a rough, "Yes, angel. Just yes," and that's all he needs.

He grabs Crowley's lapels, a gentle mirror to before, and brings his lips to his beloved's and a moan rings out that both will blame on the other and both will be right to.

Crowley's lips are syrup sweet on his, his hands grasping with a whole different kind of desperation, the kind the screams "I love you, and I've loved you, and I'm going to continue to until the Sun burns out and then I'll find a way to love you some more", and Aziraphale is torn asunder by the heat building in his chest.

Crowley's breathing is a mess of gasps and low growls and Aziraphale answers with moans, and hums, and his arms wrapping around his perfect, brave serpent until the demon is in his lap, right where he belongs.

Ever the egalitarian, Crowley gives as good as he gets, cleverly licking into Aziraphale's mouth, biting his lip just to soothe it with his forked tongue, and Aziraphale has his hands lost in blood red hair and his mind lost in Crowley's blood hot embrace and he's crying but Crowley's crying too so it's alright.

They kiss for ages, allowing the second one to make up for the millions of times they should've done it before, until Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley's, stroking a thumb down his cheek to his jaw. Letting them catch their unneeded breath.

"I am terribly, irrevocably in love with you", Aziraphale whispers between them. It's about time he took the leap first.

Crowley's breath hitches and his eyes snap up to Aziraphale's. He looks into his blue eyes and Aziraphale lets him find what he needs reflected there.

"Angel," he starts before losing his breath again, "I never thought-" and fresh tears well on his lovely face.

"My dearest, you needn't say anything. Say what you will in your own time. I'll love you regardless," he jumps to reassure. Now is not the time for him to demand reciprocity. It will hurt and he will wait. It's alright.

The demon almost scoffs, but it's stopped by a small, sincere smile. "Of course I love you," Crowley replies, voice low and earnest, and impossibly steady. He says it as if it's an undeniable truth. It is.

Aziraphale makes his own desperate noise as he hears his devoted love returned to him and he's kissing Crowley again before he knows it.

They're finally here, in this world they've protected together. Finally on the same side and the same page.

As Crowley drifts off some time later, with his head on Aziraphale's shoulder and Aziraphale's lips to his temple, the angel allows himself to let their future take shape in his mind.

There will be peaks and valleys, he imagines, but it'll be perfect anyway.

[cristinaecho]

The Mug

Aziraphale had a ridiculous number of cups. Not because he liked them, not exactly.

It wasn't an obsession or anything... there was just something about cups.

He loved drinking tea and hot chocolate, and he seemed to have made it his mission to find the right cup for every hot beverage.

Now, although he was quite happy with his tea cups, he seemed to struggle to find a satisfactory cup for hot chocolate.

Crowley didn't understand it.

"Give it a rest, they are cups! One is just as good as the other." He would say.

"The right cup for the right drink contributes to the right level of comfort!" Aziraphale would argue.

Crowley would roll his eyes and change the subject.

He just didn't get it.

One winter's day in the early 1990s, Crowley was walking through the streets of London, thinking about what his next demonic act was going to be (a new kind of little sauce packets that wouldn't open properly seemed like a good idea), when something in the window of a small shop in Covent Garden caught his eye.

He stopped, considering for a few moments, then walked in.

When he went to the bookshop that evening, he deftly and nonchalantly snuck into the back room and made a small addition to the angel's collection of cups.

Aziraphale didn't notice; he retrieved his coat and they went out for a lovely dinner at the Ritz.

It was only a couple of days later that the angel noticed the new item on his shelf. It was a mug. An all-white mug with a handle in the shape of an angel's wings. Aziraphale stared at it for a few seconds, confused, flabbergasted. Where did it come from?

He picked it up and examined it carefully, then a soft smile appeared on his face.

There was only one explanation... Crowley.

The angel smiled more and held the mug closer to his chest, blushing a little, his eyes sparkling with joy.

That same night, Crowley went to the bookshop.

He was sprawled out on the sofa, lazily reading the entertainment section in the newspaper, when Aziraphale came out of the back room and sat down in his armchair, right in front of him. He was holding a steaming mug; not just any mug. It was The Mug.

The angel smiled to himself and took a sip, almost theatrically, letting out a soft but very deliberate moan of delight that immediately caught Crowley's attention.

The demon noticed the mug and stiffened for a moment, then went back to his usual nonchalance and looked back at the newspaper.

"New mug?" He asked, casually.

The smile on Aziraphale's face widened. He decided to play along.

"Yes... do you like it?"

Crowley flipped through the pages, continuing to act uninterested.

"I told you, angel... to me one is just as good as the other."

A pause, then the demon swallowed a little, suddenly looking slightly nervous.

"Do you... like it?" He asked, his eyes still fixed on the newspaper.

Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a warm feeling spreading through his chest.

"Yes..." he said. "I like it very much. In fact, I think it might be my favourite mug."

Crowley flipped through the pages.

"Good..." he said, his voice more feeble than he intended. He cleared his throat.

"Then hopefully I will never have to listen to your endless monologues about cups again." Continued the demon.

Aziraphale smiled affectionately.

"No... I guess you won't."

"Great."

Aziraphale just looked at him with infinite love, continuing to smile like a fool.

Crowley shot him a quick glance.

"What?" He said, forcing himself to sound annoyed.

Aziraphale smiled more.

"Thank you."

Crowley stiffened again and shifted a little on the sofa, looking uncomfortable.

"Ngk... just drink your stupid hot chocolate..."

Aziraphale chuckled lightly to himslef and took another sip.

Crowley, hidden behind the newspaper, allowed himself a small, satisfied smile.

[crowleys-hips]

Touch Forbidden

another Crowley pov poem

i have never known how to be human i watch them, and i mimic  try to replicate their gestures, the way they breathe, move, speak, love my hands itch for touch forbidden  so instead i’ll bury my hands in soil grow a garden in barren land watch plants starve  for light they have never known as they inch closer, closer, closer to the sun i’ll light flames from my fingertips  and paint the whole sky  until time crashes and all my creations explode in supernovas  i’ll stroke piano keys no, pummel them until i or the instrument bleed i’ll drown the silence in the violence of grieving sonatas let the black and white between my fingers blur into shades of gray  as i try not to think of how your hands would feel interlaced with mine instead i’ll write you love letters you will never read until my hand cramps and breaks until i run out of ink or my veins are drained i’ll sink to the bottom of endless bottles of liquor until the image of you is a cloudy haze until i can’t feel my skin anymore crying out for the touch of yours i’ll render my hands useless as i grip the wheel of my car and try to outrun my thoughts bolting out at lightspeed  going interstellar and try to find a home hidden among dead planets that have never known warmth i’ll dig myself a hole there and become rootbound maybe then my soiled hands will forget your shape my skin will dissolve and cry no more for touch forbidden

tag list under the cut:

@wibbly-wobbly-blog @phantomram-b00 @crowleys-bentley-and-plants @charlotte-zophie @crowleys-curl @quoththemaiden @thewibblylever @genderqueer-hippie @lickthecowhappy @halcyonnnn @celestialcrowley

if anyone wants to be added/removed let me know

[9ndreus]

Business Partners

(Inspired by this post by @nightgoodomens!)

Sometime after the events of season 2... Crowley storms into Heaven, carrying a folder of papers, looking very cross.

Aziraphale: [looking up from his desk] Oh! Crowley! you-

Crowley: [cheekily] No no. I'm just here to serve you your papers.

Crowley: [drops a folder of human legal documents on Aziraphale's desk]

Aziraphale: ...You came all the way, up here, to bring me some papers...

Crowley: Yes, and I also have a few choice words about them-

Aziraphale: [having a sudden suspicion about what kind of papers these might be]

Aziraphale: [angrily, and then... gently] Crowley... you know we can't actually get... ~divorced~ ... if we were never... ~married~ ... right?

Crowley: ...?

Crowley: No not that kind of- They're TAX papers angel.

Crowley: [flicks open the folder on the desk]

Aziraphale: Oh, I... I see... Is that all you-

Crowley: [crossly] Angel I am NOT doing your taxes for you even if you did, apparently, technically, list me as a bookshop co-owner. Which, by the way, you never actually told me we were legally business partners. Something legally binding like that really seems like something you should tell a person... So how exactly was I supposed to know-

Aziraphale: [Trying very hard and failing not to look flustered] Yes, well... I do have a perfectly good explanation for that... You see... I thought... Maybe we could... [Totally unprepared to have this conversation right now] Oh can't we do this later? I really have quite a lot of, um, very important records... Records! To be signing off on-

Crowley: [Dripping with sarcasm] Oh, later? Is the ~Supreme Archangel~ just going to pop on down to grace us with his divine presence whenever it's convenient-

Aziraphale: [Pursing his lips] Crowley there really is no need for-

...The two of them continue to bicker like the married/divorced couple they are...

Some 17th order scrivener, probably: [clutching a handful of records behind a nearby pillar] Oh my God they were business partners.

[actual-changeling]

Aziraphale sees Crowley standing next to his their car and he hesitates; this is his last chance, the last possible moment to change his mind about leaving.

Do you think he feels the sunshine on his hands, against his stomach, and remembers how warm Crowley had been in his arms? How warm he had felt beneath his palms even through several layers of fabric?

How for the first time in his existence his body had felt complete, like there was no longer something— someone missing?

Do you think he sees him standing in the sun, all shining fire-red and hidden golden eyes, and regrets not sliding his hand to the back of his neck, up into his hair? Do you think he regrets not taking the chance to feel it silken soft and familiar between his fingers?

Do you think he remembers all the times they enjoyed a warm, sunny day together and the way the star seems to remember that Crowley had put its siblings into the sky? Do you think he remembers rays of sunlight caressing his cheekbones and wishes it had been his fingertips instead?

'Anything you need?' the Metatron asks him, and he is still looking at Crowley with the sun on his skin.

I need you, he thinks, and even though his eyes are hidden away, he knows Crowley is looking at him.

Do you think Aziraphale remembers the kiss, remembers the love he could taste on his tongue, the six millennia of do that, please, kiss me, the slow, painful minute of do that again, please, right now?

(The realization that he won't.)

He almost stays. Almost. But the Metatron is already walking away, and he looks at Crowley again, looks past sunset conversations and sunrise breakfasts and the heart-shaped star in Crowley's chest, and feels his pain.

(Their pain.)

Do you think that's why he leaves anyway? Not just because heaven needs fixing but because all that pain, all the hurt they caused each other, can't have been for nothing?

I can't leave him— no, I don't want to leave him.

No.

No, I want to go back to him.

Do you think he takes his anger and holds onto it until it burns his palm because it is easier to be angry at Crowley, at himself, than to think about everything they just took from each other? Everything they just lost?

Everything they could have been?

Aziraphale takes the memory of sunshine on his skin (Crowley's lips on his) and locks it away in a golden cage made out of faith; faith that Crowley will be there when he comes back.

Once he does (because he will, he will, he has to), there will be sunshine and warmth and Crowley, and they will finally be able to love each other with the sun and the whole universe as their witness.

No more shadows or shades of grey. Just the two of them in the light where they belong.

[very-normal-abt-this]

"During times when Aziraphale was able to disconnect from his analytical thoughts about the kiss, and focused only on how he felt during it - he recalled feeling surprised, shocked, and then…This overwhelming sense of longing, relief, love, and connection. The kind of connection he had never felt before, not with anyone else, and not even with Crowley. Something between them had shifted during it…Almost like the physical closeness left no room for anything else to exist between them in that moment. It pushed through the harsh words, it pushed through the misunderstandings and hurt egos. And then what was left in that small, almost non existent, space between them was.... just raw emotion. Love."

[shades-o-grey]

GOOD OMENS FICLET- The Origin of the Apology Dance

My headcanon for how the apology dance originated

It didn't start out as an apology, the content of the dance and the song don't come across that way, so my idea is that it started out as something else and was later used as a way to apologize (or rather get the other to accept an apology).

And so my idea is...

It started out as a silly bet,

Honestly, Aziraphale should've known better than to enter a wager with a demon. But the temptation of proving Crowley wrong was just too well... tempting

Not that an Angel can actually be tempted, it was purely for a moral and angelic reason, a feather on his wing, chalk one up for the side of angels, thwarting the wiles of the wicked sort of thing. I mean it was practically his job!

(Pay no attention to the fact that it is indeed his job, one that he tends forget or just not do)

The only trouble was... what did Aziraphale want Crowley to do once he'd won?

"And what should the winner demand of the loser then?"

Crowley asked staring into his 8th cup that he held loosely in his grasp.

"Buying lunch?"

Aziraphale suggested the first thing to pop in his head.

"No no we always do that, besides, I believe I s'still owe you from, from... I don't know such n' such and you had the thing"

He dismissed the absent recollection of when they'd last dined together with a wild gesture of his hand.

"Mmm"

Aziraphale nodded his head in drunken agreement, also remembering that they had indeed lunched together at some place, at some point, and that he did have - the thing.

They both sat silently for a moment pondering. Trying to think what exactly the penalty of their bet should be.

Suddenly Aziraphale shot up with excitement

"I've got it! The loser must demonstrate a grand gesture of defeat!"

He said with the triumph of someone who had just come up with a brilliant idea. Even though his suggestion was missing and important part.

The part where it provides an actual suggestion.

"n-Yeah - Obviously, that's the point of a bet -Angel. Win so you can recieve something from the defeated. Money, property, y'knoe those sorts of things, humans do it all the time"

"No no, you missed the point. A Grand Gesture, you know a gesture that-thats -gratuitous"

Said drunk Aziraphale who had confused the words Gratuitous and Grandiose

"Wot? You mean like the whole "prostrate yourself, kneel at the feet and beg for for absolution" sort of thing?"

Crowley continued, missing what Aziraphale had tried to say while somehow still wandering in the general direction of what Aziraphale had been attempting to suggest.

Aziraphale wrinkled his pert nose in distaste at the idea of what Crowley thought he might be suggesting.

"No, I don't think either of us would enjoy seeing that very much"

"No, WE- would not." -

Crowley paused, recalling someone who would enjoy such a display. He refocused back on Aziraphale.

-"Then what is it you are trying to suggest? Stand on my head and talk in a silly voice? Run around with you on my back like a mule?"

That made Aziraphale giggle

"hehe AHEM m-no. Not quite that either, but I think we're on the right track"

Crowley's suggestion (which was clearly meant to be a joke) gave Aziraphale an idea.

"Oh! I know! how about... a silly dance?"

"A wot?"

Crowley responded, confused as to how dancing had come into the conversation.

"A dance! You do know what dancing is don't you?"

"Nghk*-n-yeah...but, I thought angels don't dance?"

"Oh! It wouldn't even count as dancing, really it's just a *he waves his hand in the air* silly little... dance of sorts."

"Right, and what would this *he imitates Aziraphale's hand movement* silly little dance look like exactly?"

Azirpahale frowned in concentration,

When he'd made the suggestion, he hadn't thought he'd have to know what the "dance" looked like.

"Well...maybe something... something..."

He paced, gestured, and mapped out movements in his mind.

"-something like this!"

*Aziraphale began to sing a song with some footwork in small dance steps*

"🎶You we're right, you were right-🎶"

Crowley interrupts

"you didn't say anything about singing being a part of it?"

"-its part of it!"

Azirphale quipped back, annoyed at having his concentration interrupted

"Now let me start over"

*He starts the dance over again*

🎶"You were right, you were right"

"I was wrong"

"You were right!"🎶

Aziraphale finishes the song and dance for Crowley

"See? I think this will work splendidly, don't you?"

He gives a proud little wiggle.

Meanwhile, Crowley gets an idea...

"Could you do it again? I don't think I get it"

He asks, clearly up to something.

"Look, you'd have to go like this-"

Aziraphale demonstrates the dance a second time.

-"Now, I hope you were watching closely because I expect a perfect rendition from you once I win this wager, no half-ing it!"

He wiggled his finger at the demon, feeling quite plum and pleased at his cleverness. Seeing Crowley do the dance promised to be quite satisfying.

"Maybe give it another go. I really~ wanna make sure I know what I'm getting."

Crowley was laying it on thick, exaggerating his eagerness to "learn" this new dance while a smirk was desperate to escape his face.

Aziraphale goodnaturedly starts to demonstrate for a 3rd time.

"It really quite simple its-

He stops abruptly

Crowley is shaking with the force required to contain his mirth.

Aziraphale has a realization of what Crowley has been doing-

"CROWLEY!"

Azriaphale exclaimed, abashed- A dash of reproach added in his voice for good measure towards the wily demon.

*Crowley burst into a loud cackle*

"AAh hAhA  *snort* haha ha!"

"You were having me on weren't you!"

"hehe -You *snort* caught on a lot faster than *hehe* then I expected"

"Really now? You were just going to make me repeat the dance over and over!? It's supposed to be for the wager!"

"Oh come on Angel-"

"Well you're not getting me to do it again."

Crowley smirked, remembering something Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten.

"Well, once I win, you'll have to do another show of it"

Aziraphale began to pale, turning a similar shade of white to his hair.

Crowley leaned over so his citrine serpentine eyes peered over his dark lenses. His eyes crinkled in amusement at the flummoxed angel before him.

"I'm looking forward to the encore Angel~"

(It would come to pass that Aziraphale would demonstrate the dance many more times throughout their history, much to his chagrin and to Crowley's great pleasure)

FULL FIC ON AO3 HERE!!!

"The Little Dance"- (Origin of The Apology Dance)

VillianousAce (TheSleepParalysisDemon)

[sentientsky]

here, have a little angelfish ficlet (ft. lots of queer yearning. also. “be gay, do crime” vibes)

It's all the same; a slow, monotonous dragging of time through liminal space. There had never been room enough for shifting tides or changing winds—no room to stretch one's wings. Because Heaven, by its very nature, is antiseptic. Pure autoclave, all pressure and steam and the absence of touch. That's part of the deal. You want to keep the wings? The halo? Well, then, you have to learn to live under the fluorescent glare of a silent god.

It's all the same, save for the slippery red heat of Michael's heart hurling itself staccato against her breastbone. In truth, it’s a heart that doesn’t really need to beat—that doesn’t need to exist at all, save for her inclination to feel the heavy weight of it writhing in her chest. In a way she doesn’t quite yet understand, she wants proof. She wants to feel her pulse, feel it move in a way that leaves a mark, bruises flesh. 

She sits with her hands folded, one pressed over top of the other. From afar, it might even look as though she’s praying (it might look as though she’s holy, still held firm in the Mother's grasp). She breathes in. Slow, tentative—as though the air might carry unspoken words out and away from her. There’s a certain chilling numbness that creeps up on you when you’ve lived this way for so long; a buzzing static that burns from the base of your skull, all the way down to the backs of your knees, your calves—the place where your feet hit the ground running (always running, always dying to get out even as you lean into the punches). It’s the feeling of living in the hollowed-out limbs of a corpse, of walking around with waxen, rotting flesh and a smile that stretches slightly too far to be genuine. 

And yet, now, for once, her body is no longer whirring—no longer silently humming with agitation or the drive to propel herself forward and up, ever up. For once, she’s still, save for the thrashing in her throat. She breathes out. She rolls words around in her mouth: flashpoint, epiphany—whispers them like a prayer spoken to no one—lightning strike, catalyst. A thread pulled so taut, it cuts to marrow. Breathe in, breathe out. Keep the pace, hold the line. Adjust to the status quo. But the status quo has never looked so unappealing. Because, she realizes, if someone had asked her to paint the slope of a silver-blue throat, or the upturned palm of a scaled hand, she could do it with her eyes closed. She could do it in complete darkness, at the edge of existence. Of this she was nearly certain.

--- It had taken place in the corridors that stretch from one end of infinity to the next; a slicing wound driven between the ribs of the universe. And it had been innocuous, really—a passing glance, at first. And then an icy nod, the turn of a jaw towards the stale light. The brush of shoulders, and the ache that bloomed in her at the touch. Time wore on, kingdoms rose and fell. The sea drew towards the shore, Michael’s eyes drew towards a too-sharp mouth. In their own fragment of purgatory made heaven made something completely new, she and Dagon exchanged rasped whispers—hushed murmurings of a revolution.

The inferno in her gut grew, consumed, devoured. Years clawed past. It's important to note that angels, as imagined in most popular religious scripture, are exceptionally good at self-restraint. And for the most part, this is true. But those who wrote the holy texts never considered the canted slope of the devil’s mouth; they never imagined that the devil could be gentle, could press her palm to yours like a promise and speak new religion into being. And so, after what could have been eons or mere decades, they fell together, breath intermingling in the space that had become more sanctuary than abyss. Flashpoint, epiphany. It had been inevitable, really. Lightning strike, catalyst. They were two neutron stars collapsing in on themselves. Gravity, heat, the press of a sigh into her open mouth. The hunger that settled in the bottom of her gut. --- So when Gabriel walks into her office, head held high and grinning, Michael swallows it all down. She chokes it back, feels all the love she has for her demon lodge in her throat and stay there.

Of course, she could open her mouth now to speak and have it all tumble out onto the floor. She could Fall—had Fallen already, in a sense, the world pitching around her with the weight of all she wanted but could not have. The muscles of her back ached, wings flickering somewhere in the aether, thrashing like an augury. Like an omen. Let it ache, she thought. Let it wound me, infect me, take me down. If this is my destruction, so be it. Beneath the desk, the blade in her hand glittered like a piranha’s open mouth. Maybe Heaven needed a little shaking up, after all.

[2bearsinatrenchcoat]

Ineffable May!! Day 5: Retired

hope yall enjoy :)

(btw, if you see this twice please let me know!! tumblr just glitched out and didn’t post the first time)

Retired

Out in the garden, Crowley knelt down into the flowerbed, gloved hands seeping into the dirt.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t just use a trowel to dig, my dear.” Aziraphale said, walking over to observe his lovers work.

Crowley continued to make room for the new flowers with his hands, “When did you get so proper with gardening terminology?”

“I used to own a bookshop, Crowley. Plus, I’ve read thousands of books! You think I’ve yet to come across one that features a gardener?” The angel argued, although without much bite.

His hands stopped moving at that statement, taking in Aziraphale’s words. “Yeah, I guess that does, uhm, make sense,” Crowley stated, “I am sorry that you had to let the bookshop go yet again.”

Aziraphale gently turned Crowley’s head towards him by the chin, smiling. “I would’ve left anything behind if it meant being with you.”

And with that, Crowley abandoned the flowers he was so carefully planting in rows and stood to meet Aziraphale.

“Those are heavy words,” he mumbled, “I truly don’t deserve you, angel.”

As Crowley reached to put his hands on his angel’s hips, he was stopped. “First of all, I don’t appreciate you talking down on yourself like that.” Aziraphale started, “Secondly, take off those gloves before you touch me. I love you, but I am not getting these clothes all filthy.”

Taking off the gloves, Crowley couldn’t help but chuckle. He’d never been so happy in his 6000+ years on Earth, this is all he’d ever dreamed of.

“Okay, angel,” Crowley said, holding up his glove free hands, “Am I good to go now?”

Aziraphale had to restrain his eyes from rolling. “Yes, my dear.”

“And uhm, you know I’m trying to be better,” Crowley admitted, finally resting his hands on his love. “Being with Hell for so long just… makes it difficult.”

Frowning ever so slightly, Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together. “I know, love. But think about it this way; we’re retired now! We don’t need to listen to either of our old respective sides.”

“Retired…” Crowley said, pondering, “That’s a new word, it’s very..”

“Human?” Aziraphale finished.

“Yeah, angel.” Crowley barely whispered, before leaning down to put his lips on Aziraphale’s, just like how real people do.