#sparkofgoodness

[bastardworthliking]

‘  the problem is if there’s something that attacks us down here, i’m going to hit my head on the ceiling and my skull will smash.  ’

"your skull won't smash. you'll ... will it not to smash!"

they would get their heads smashed in in america, wouldn't they? it's not the first time they've been in a cellar, and he refuses to tell crowley he's right. on principle alone.

"the dresses aren't ideal, i'll admit." they don't have the same capacity for crouching that pants do. "nothing will attack us down here. you have my angelic presence to keep us safe." *

*arguably worse, if the thing crowley is imagining to attack the two of them would be attracted to an angelic presence.

[bastardworthliking]

sparkofgoodness​:

 [ text ] What about the bugs? They’re probably mating in there. Those spiders have got to come from somewhere. I don’t think YOU’RE doing it.

[ text ] No.

[ text ] What else would you expect? Would’ve made the wars easier, though. Could you imagine the whole Helen of Troy business going down in rival newspaper personal columns? One of those anonymous rumor ones gone well awry. Greek fire everywhere.

[ text ] Oh no, do you think? I don’t mind them. All God’s creatures, all that. They’re still terrible for the books. You know how much I value the books. 

[ text ] Mm. 

[ text ] I don’t think humanity needs anything to make war easier. You know how they are. Of course you can’t hide in a fake newspaper ad. 

[ text ] –– how many mouse parts fit in your mouth?

[ text ] I mean, I haven't counted, but I reckon I could fit more than one in there, entire. All at the same time. Been a while, though. I'd have to work my way back up to it.

[ text ] This form's not built for it, though. Too many little bones that get stuck in your craw. And the fur.

[ao3feed-ineffablehusbandz]

#summeromens

by bookmarksorganization

These prompts are from sparkofgoodness via her tumblr. Thanks for the prompts! <3

Words: 528, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Crowley and his loose following of human science, sometimes a conversation takes fifty years

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256437

[ao3feed-goodomens]

#summeromens

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3gZNZXs

by bookmarksorganization

These prompts are from sparkofgoodness via her tumblr. Thanks for the prompts! <3

Words: 528, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Crowley and his loose following of human science, sometimes a conversation takes fifty years

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3gZNZXs

[ao3feed-crowley]

#summeromens

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3gZNZXs

by bookmarksorganization

These prompts are from sparkofgoodness via her tumblr. Thanks for the prompts! <3

Words: 528, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)

Additional Tags: Crowley and his loose following of human science, sometimes a conversation takes fifty years

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/3gZNZXs

[bastardworthliking]

i wish you would not call me "my dear."

He freezes. He doesn't mean to freeze, or begin to slowly turn like a very large statue being turned by several men trying their very best, creaking noises and all.*

"But I call plenty of people 'dear'." It's not ... entirely true, is the thing. It's not a lie. He reserves his lies for very particular times, and this isn't one of them, entirely.

Aziraphale doesn't have plenty of people to talk to is all. Of course there's the humans he meets, and he's called plenty of them dear before. He goes out, he thwarts wiles, and he calls people dear while doing it.

But not. Well.

"It started in the thirteenth century. Humans calling other humans dear. I was there, actually."** He is staring somewhere past Crowley, so it looks like he's looking at him, but isn't really. He learned that one while helping out a young boy who got caught underneath a wheelbarrow, and it was no big thing because Aziraphale was there, fixing it, and they had an interesting talk that Aziraphale did not initiate.

"I think it might be a trifle weirder if I didn't call you my dear. People would hear me go about, calling everyone but you my dear."

And anyway, really, the crux of it, the part that sticks in his throat - he hadn't even realized he was doing it.

*Angel's bones don't make creaking noises. No idea where those came from.

** It's entirely possible he started it.

[bastardworthliking]

‘  due  to  unfortunate  circumstances ,  i  am  now  awake . 

He stills. visually, he appears to be a deer in headlights*, or at least a deer who was trying to politely tidy things up, and not wake anyone up at all. He's frozen with a hand above the dresser - in particular, above one of the plants, where he'd been about to leave one of the expensive plant food stakes he'd bought at one of the shops down the road. He tucks it up his sleeve. Nothing to see here! Perfectly normal. He wasn't feeding the plants, and furthermore, he certainly wasn't checking in on Crowley.

"No you're not. This is all a ..." he waves his hand up in the air, as if he's making a rainbow, "very strange dream, and you'll wake up soon," he drops the hand. The plant spike falls out of his sleeve and onto the ground. "Ah. Sorry."

*but a deer that knows it isn't in danger.

[bastardworthliking]

[ text ] –– new idea: space, but easier.

[ text ] Easier to what? To get to? [ text ] For us or for people? [ text ] You saw what happened when we made it easier for people to get to space. We got 1969.

[bastardworthliking]

[ text ] –– life is what you make it. i made this. it’s an ashtray, i think? or a small plate. or just a little decorative disc.

[ text ] You made that? [ text ] It's lovely. [ text ] You should display it! Your use of colors if phenomenal.

[bastardworthliking]

" talk to me.  ”

It's not something he's used to.

That's the problem, isn't it? they kept each other on their toes, sure, but six thousand years of keeping each other on their toes means sort of sticking in a rut. a rut he's enjoyed, mind - nearly every single interaction he had with Crowley over the years is one he's enjoyed in some manner of speaking.*

But they don't talk. Oh, sure, they do, they did - they talked and talked about Heaven and Hell and theories and the world, at large, but he knows - as he knew, then - that they never talked about themselves.

It was easier not to, or it was harder not to, and maybe that was the same thing. They couldn't, for so long - meeting alongside men and women in dark suits and fur coats and pretending that they weren't - and then they could, and they still didn't.

It's over now. It's over. He does know that.

It's hard to believe, though. Hard to keep that fact inside of him and believe it and all of what it means. Easier to keep in the same old rut, and keep these little things inside of him until it causes some manner of harm.

That's what got them here in the first place.

He fiddles with his hands.

"It wasn't nice," he says, after a moment, dredging the words up from somewhere near his feet, which he is also looking at. "It was nothing like here. I know that, I knew that. It's not as if I'd never been there. I've seen it. I knew - I thought I knew - why didn't you ever tell me?"

*He didn't particularly enjoy the ones that ended with Crowley getting reprimanded, as it meant he didn't see him for awhile - too long, and he feared what hell did, but even those had good memories attached.

[bastardworthliking]

[ REST ]  our muses lay on the ground together while it rains. 

Hands folded on top of his stomach, and face tilted up to the sky*. He watches the deluge, grateful he doesn't need to breathe, as he'd be taking in water like an ill-fated cruise ship. No, he's what the Titanic was meant to be - unsinkable.

"Turkeys can drown like this." He nods, once, twice. "I mean it, they look up to the rain once and," he snaps his fingers, "colonial dinners everywhere."**

The park is empty, because he wants it to be. Of people, at least - there's a red deer watching them somewhere from the forest, and a rabbit burrowing just yards away. No one scurries to get underneath umbrellas or out of the rain or under an awning.

It's just them.

"I am going to be very unattractive when we get back up from this," he warns. "I have clothes sticking in places I didn't know I had. Six thousand years, and I've never laid in the grass in the rain before?"

It's a shame, how long that's taken. What else hasn't he done? What else is there to discover, now that it's just them, now that he's not meant to worry?

One hand falls from its place atop his stomach, open palmed on the grass between them.

*Save for the parts of his face that are turned towards Crowley, not to watch but just to look - to gaze, even. it shouldn't be possible for him to look at both the rain and Crowley at once, but he's not human.

** It's not true. Not even a little. But does myth not shape reality?

[bastardworthliking]

[ text ] –– ship of fools, can of clairvoyants, plane of ghosts, tandem bike of wizards.

[ text ] Crowley, it's four in the morning. You sleep. You're the sleeping type, I've seen it.

He happens to be six hours into a first edition, signed, of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft. He has not moved for at least three of them.

He should probably start sleeping too. It seems nice, if not a bit inexplicable, but he's never got into the habit. And if he started sleeping, when would he have time for books? If he did sleep, though, he might not be awake for insane texts like this.

Another point for not sleeping, then.

[ text ] Are you taking a trip? Are we taking a trip? Is this something you're seeing?

[ text ] If we are taking the trip, can we do the plane of ghosts? I like those little roasted peanuts they give out. The planes, not the ghosts. Ghosts don't have hands. They do, sure, but they can't ... use them.

[bastardworthliking]

‘  why  don’t  birds  ever  shut  up ?  i  bet  they’re  talking  about  me .  ’

"You can't talk to birds?"

There's something smug about it, really - in the way he smiles and the set of his shoulders as he looks out of the corner of his eye at Crowley.

"They're not talking about you," he says, after he lets a moment pass. "They don't care about either of us at all. Ducks, those are a different story."

After several hundred years, ducks have evolved to naturally flock to the both of them - not just the ones in St. James' park. He is convinced he could go anywhere in the world and ducks would follow the both of them around like a children's story.

"They're in their own little world. It seems nice."

[bastardworthliking]

[ text ] –– it turns out there are turtles only part of the way down.

[ text ] In the oceans, or in ... you?

[ text ] After the mice conversation, I'm almost scared to ask.

[ text ] Why are you checking?

[bastardworthliking]

 you misspelled the word ‘rhythm’ 38 times - are you possessed?

"It's this new Siri," he tsks, "ever since I killed the old woman," spoken with a distinct air of the shame and regret of a man who really, truly, doesn't like killing helpless people who live in phones, and his own phone at that, "she's come back so much worse. She doesn't do anything I ask, and sometimes, late at night, I hear her laughing." He looks up. "I did swear off the possession, after the first time. Icky business."

[bastardworthliking]

you'll have to wear a beard for that one, of course.

"But I don't like beards. They're itchy. At least when they're the types you glue onto your face with all that -" his fingers wiggle, "glue, and they say it's skin safe but then it's illegal in the state of California. And you never really know what the hair is made out of. It could be plastic hair, or human hair - I don't want most people's hair on my mouth, and I do try to limit my plastic consumption to the books," he hasn't taken a breath in a minute, because he doesn't have to, "and if I grow a beard it'll take me too long. We'll all be dead by then. Well, they'll be dead, and I won't need a beard anymore. Don't tell me to miracle one, either. You know I don't like that."