#why does AZ even LIKE Earth? just because its shiny and tastes good

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

unironically the first post is how I feel about Aziraphale

the only reason this does not apply to the second post/rb is bc yall are ATTACHED to him for some reason

more modern viewers rly needs to learn the thousands years old tradition of “hes a cunt and a menace but i want to see what he does next”

[potteresque-ire]

Happy 30th Birthday Good Omens!

... and here’s a quick ficlet as a present! Aziraphale/Crowley, fluff, based on the Good Omens Lockdown video released today. 😇❤️😈Given the rewards of burglarizing one bookshop in Soho and no one would ever equate burglary with socializing, it is only logical for one demon to slither in and test his luck, as a rather noodly burglar.

ETA: Crowley, I mean, the noodly burglar, mentions Hamburglar in the story. For those who’re too young (or who eat too healthily) to remember Hamburglar, he was a character from McDonald's and here’s his image: https://mcdonalds.fandom.com/wiki/Hamburglar.

=====

That night, AZ Fell & Co had its second break-in in a week. The burglar was transcendentally professional in his burglarizing, donning the black-and-white-striped attire as required by the human thieving tradition and complete with a face-covering (in accordance with both the tradition and NHS guidelines). He didn’t forget, either, about The Big Money Bag with its Big Dollar Sign that signalled intent. The bag got a drinkable inside because burglary was thirsty business, and because the thirst of this one burglar was particularly, (un)fortunately undeniable.

The burglar was, of course, caught red-handed (and -bellied) by the owner of the bookshop. Mr Fell had, rather curiously, been baking a Kirschtorte in the middle of the night. A bowl of miracled, brandy-soaked cherries sat on the cash box that had somehow been transported to the kitchen.

One could almost suspect that Mr Fell had been expecting a crime.

Almost.

“Wily old serpent,” admonished Mr Fell, picking up the burglar by the neck with his plump hands, floured white and smelling of butter and sugar. He narrowed his eyes at the pair peeking out from the cut holes of the burglar’s face covering. “I should’ve known there’s no rest for the wicked, even during a lockdown.” 

The burglar, who, indeed, fine, was a snake (and his black-and-white-striped attire a tube sock; now please shut up and mind your own business), half-heartedly wiggled to try to set himself free. Half-heartedly, because cool criminals never wiggled. 

The burglar was also presenting his burglaree a placard from his money bag. 

“Give me your cashbox,” the placard said. “I’m burglar-ing.”

“Burglarizing,” corrected Mr Fell, acting quite gay for a burglaree. Couldn’t blame him,  for even the burglar had to admit the kitchen smelled good. “You can talk in human as a snake. Why don’t you?” The interrogation would’ve gone on if not for the ding! from the oven. Perhaps this was why Mr Fell’s question lacked the surprise warranted by the situation, per the customs of Earth and its humans. Perhaps this was also why the burglar found himself dropped on the cherries (and the cash box), in not so much a I-shall-fling-you-to-a-scaly-death way than a have-a-snack-if-you-want-while-you-wait way.

The burglar would later respond to the question with yet another placard. Yes, he got one ready. “Loose jaw, long tongue,” this placard said. “Tried fitting on masks that stop droplet transmission from talking. Didn’t work.” The burglar slithered out of the way for Mr Fell to move the cherries onto the freshly baked torte -- every cherry but for the one the burglar had coiled around, along its now alternatively glossy and pebbled circumference where the flesh had been licked and nibbled. Cherries or any food, really, were more palatable with alcohol -- ah, no, the correct term for alcohol tonight was disinfectant. Poison. Smuggled into the bookshop in the money bag also to lower Mr Fell’s guard, ensure the crime would go smoothly. As it would evilly. “Plus,” the placard admitted then, “going for the Hamburglar look.”

Mr Fell looked up, perplexed.

Another placard materialized (say what you want about the burglar, but he was prepared)(...and bored out of his wits at home)(...and really kinda missing someone enough to imagine the entire conversation). “* Sigh *” — yes, that was how this placard started — “Think of Hamburglar as Zorro. Designed by one occult but dashing entity. Tempted many children into coveting.”

“Ah.” Mr Fell looked demystified at the answer, as if any bookshop owner would concur that wearing a Hamburglar-Zorro look while burglar-ing  ... burglarizing on his property was perfectly reasonable. While being a snake. During a pandemic lockdown.

Either that, or because the presentation of the placards had revealed the bottle of drinkable in the money bag. “May I?” asked Mr Fell, already reaching inside. The label of the drinkable had been scrawled over. “Disinfectant,” tempted the writing in the same wild hand as seen on the placards. “Inject to fend off the plague!” Inject was underlined and the next sentence capitalised: “This label is not sarcastic”.

Mr Fell stared at the not-sarcastic-but-absolutely-wily temptation, and the burglar took the time to drag a set of silverware and a tumbler to his end of the table. Mr Fell, apparently abysmal at the maths, had retrieved two sets from his cabinet instead of one, and it was only reasonable, and suitably diabolic, for the burglar to covet his share. A look of epiphany soon crossed the bookseller’s cherubic features, perhaps inspired — very much inspired— by the rich amber liquid sloshing behind the label against its glass walls. “To thwart your wile, then,” Mr Fell spoke of his epiphany belatedly and thoughtfully, addressing more so to the disinfectant bottle than to the burglar, “to stop the occult work of a good-for-nothing burglar in its tracks, I shall have to drink this poison before you can ejaculate in me —”

CRASH.

A fork clattered on the floor. 

And the burglar had forgotten about his lack of mouth-covering too, along with the use of his tail for proper fork gripping and really, the use of his every other organ for every other grand, ineffable tasks God had possibly created them for. He ejaculated in human speech, no, not ejaculated, injaculated, no, wait, injected, ejected, oh oh oh interjected that’s right. “Inject, Angel, for Heaven’s—ugh—whatever’s sake! Inject!”

Mr Fell was remarkably unfazed by the rather human screeches, and more disturbingly, the accidental endearment from his serpentine burglar. Instead, he surveyed the damage done to the fork, the plate that’d tipper over and the burglar half spilled from it with his tongue a quarter tied (side effect of ... ejaculating in another species’ language). He did it all with a rather holier-than-thou flair, his chin so slightly raised, his gaze moving measuredly, majestically from one damage to the next. He did it all before a tiny twitch, no, no, a smirk, that’s what it was, no mistake about it, tugged the corners of his lips. 

“Inject, of course. Inject.” But he agreed solemnly, putting back on his usual air again of a tranquil if a bit stuffy professor, the type who’d give you an A if and only if you could quote from his favourite book. (”He was overcome by sleep; and as Paul continued speaking, he fell down from the third story and was taken up dead.” — Acts 20:9)  “What other unholy words could I possibly have spoken?” He placed an emphasis on unholy, his blue eyes widened and doe-like with innocence, but the hint of Kirschtorte in his tone more Schwarzwälder than Kirsche. 

At that, the quarter-tied tongue of the burglar could’ve won a scouting knot award. Mr Fell must have known it and his plump hands, miracled clean just to showcase just how buttery smooth and sweet and flawless they already were without the cooking stuff, proceeded to give the neck of the disinfectant bottle a long, loving stroke, and repeated doing that twice for good measure before uncorking the bottle. He swirled the liquid inside and gave it a sniff, all the while looking quite smug. 

Ngk. The burglar had been played.

The rest of the night has gone as well as it could. Mr Fell has enjoyed with his cake the disinfectant, smokey and as finely aged as expected from its year and origin. The burglar, meanwhile, has enjoyed, no, he’s endured, suffered greatly and painfully, the act of coiling up on the plate he’d dragged across the table and watching his burglaree eat. No social distancing rules have been compromised because one, criminal activities do not count as socializing, and two, what’s distancing anyway to a serpent who can social distance his tail and his head at will? And right now, that long, long tail of the burglar is in the shadows under the table where no angels or demons or God or NHS can see, curled around Mr Fell’s ankle and caressing that soft, soft skin under the sock because ... well, because Mr Fell, because this dangerous, book-hoarding, cash-box-toting being with a cake kink, has to be chained in place while his burglar is about to ransack his shop. Yes. The cashbox is no longer satisfying enough for a loot. The burglar will ransack. In a bit. After his tail gets a taste on Mr Fell’s calf, maybe, just a tiny lick, if Mr Fell is amenable to that. If the width of the leg hole of Mr Fell’s trousers is amenable to that. Or the burglar can do the ransacking tomorrow. Mr Fell mentioned he’ll be making angel’s food cake and at this moment, the burglar is very much for the idea of angels for food. His dips his tongue into his tumbler of disinfectant again to quench his unquenchable thirst, the tumbler under which still lies the placard that explains, while humans have transmitted the plague to their pets, there’s yet to be instances of pets transmitting the illness back to their favourite humans. 

“Pets, huh?” That was all Mr Fell has said about it, a breathy ask with an upward glance from under his long eyelashes. The burglar pulled out that placard as an act of courtesy, to assure his burglaree that while he’d be lighter on cash and heavier on disinfectants after the ordeal, he wouldn’t have to worry about catching the plague. And what gratitude was the burglar given for his niceness? That one, breathy huh?, followed by the sight of another one of those shiny, drunk cherries slipping into Mr Fell’s mouth, of his lips, red and just as plump as the cherry, following the fruit’s swollen curve and opening just enough to show a hint of his teeth, the delicate tip of his tongue. The closing of the mouth came with a small, wet smack, as Mr Fell’s lips pursed just a little ...

That’s it. That’s why AZ Fell & Co, The Bookshop from Hell — not that there’re bookshops, or books, or shops in Hell — deserves a break-in from a pet, no, a burglar every night. The burglar, specifically the one who was sent to this world to make trouble, will make sure of that. He’s got lots of placards at home and even more markers. And tube socks. And more importantly, fend-off-the-plague-injectable disinfectants from every year dating back at least a century, from every wine country of the present and the past. Mr Fell deserves to have his cash box forcibly removed from his shop every night because he’s an outright BASTARD — and one day, one day when this stupid pandemic is over and this stupider lockdown is a done thing, the burglar will have his real angel food, made of every blasted cherry being oh-so-daintily popped in the mouth across the table from him...

He’ll set his alarm for July — nuh-uh, June — to have it done.