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dalliancekay · 1 month

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Aziraphale does NOT need to suffer MORE

Can't believe I have to say this. TW: grief, mourning, death (sorry) I have, since falling into the fandom 6 months ago to escape real life, seen many takes on how Aziraphale needs to suffer in S3 to match Crowley's suffering. Mainly as the counterpart to the moment Crowley thinks he lost Aziraphale as he's looking for him desperately in the burning bookshop.

Then drinks, we suppose, to dull his pain, waiting for the Armageddon. Also, the way Crowley suffers at the bandstand argument, the 'I Forgive You' moments, which many people find utterly devastating and incredibly heartless from Aziraphale. Not to mention when he doesn't react in the 'right way' to Crowley's confession in the Final 15. And then on top of that, 'abandons' Crowley. Oh and also for, and I quote: "The smug and entitled way Aziraphale went around in S2 assuming Crowley would love and follow him everywhere." And for all this pain that Crowley endured for him, Aziraphale should suffer in S3, to I assume, even out the scores. Some people want to see him lose it, show his emotions, to cry or beg or otherwise show how much he misses Crowley and how very sorry he is for what he's done.

Now for the TW grief content I motioned above. You can skip to the next sentence in bold.

WE ALL SUFFER DIFFERENTLY I was on holiday late September last year, visiting my mum, stepfather and my two younger brothers. We went to a cousin's wedding. It was great. The day after, as I was hanging out reading a book my mum got a call. The kind of call every mother fears. My youngest brother (he was 27) died in an accident. We needed to speak to police and the coroner. She cried and cried. She's still crying. She asks questions. She gets no answers. I did not cry. I talked to the police. I googled a funeral home. I bought my brother his last set of clothes. He lived in a hoodie and torn black jeans. Mum wanted a suit. But he died in the one he bought for the wedding. I texted a lot of people. I bought snacks for the many friends who came to the funeral and wanted to speak to us after. My grief feels like a vice. I am not sad. I do not appear sad. Contrary to what people expect. But I am ANGRY. I am furious. But nobody can see this. I am not fine and I wish no one would ever* ask how I was again. TW/Personal content over. Since I was small (because I am weird like that) I genuinely wondered if, finding myself in danger, I could scream like people in films do. I don't think I could. I cope with hard situations, fear and stress and anxiety by shutting down, sometimes by retreating too, by furiously trying to find a way out. And I think Aziraphale does the same. And that's why I love him so much. And why I feel get him and understand that people sometimes can't tell how much he's actually feeling. I also express love the way Aziraphale does - by organising things for people I love, inviting them places, making plans. When Crowley said you call me for three things (and it's basically any old reason) I felt SO SEEN. This is what I would do with a friend who I know is feeling unmoored, sad, stuck. I'd text them with any old thing. I'd never actually say I love you, how can I help though, I would try to get them to talk, meet me, go somewhere. Aziraphale does not express emotions the same way as Crowley.

But his emotions are valid nonetheless. He is worried for Crowley from around 3 minutes into their acquaintanceship. And he NEVER stops worrying.

And are we quite sure he has never lost Crowley?

How many times did Aziraphale's heart freeze in horror when he realised Hell has taken Crowley and he had no idea if he'll ever come back and what is happening to him?

Why else would he be so worried about working on the Arrangement? Was he worried just for himself? Do we really think that?

Crowley thinks he lost Aziraphale, yes, we saw that, but do they ever talk about what happened to the angel then? Do we?

That he got blown into atoms which I bet wasn't pleasant and when he arrives in Heaven he limps? Why is he hurt? Why is he quickly pretending he isn't? Why is he always hiding how he feels? Also, he immediately deserts, wants no part in the Holy War and quickly finds an extremely unconventional way to get back. It's not a grand gesture, there's no pomp around it, he thinks this and then does it. No hesitation.

Is this coming from an angel who just can't leave Heaven behind and longs to be a part of it? Who loves to follow rules? And let's not forget in those moments Aziraphale thought Crowley was gone. That he very likely left for Alpha Centauri. Last he heard from him he was told he was talking to an old friend and had no time for him. Why we NEVER talk about how that might have felt for Aziraphale?

Things are not as simple as Aziraphale has been supressing his emotions and lying to himself about how he feels and he should get over it and become free. That's not how this works. His trauma and his personality are deeply intertwined and he'd never be the kind of person who is open in showing their grief or stress. He will learn to be more open, with his love especially, we see him reaching for and touching his demon in S2. Openly being with him, looking at him without guarding himself. That's HUGE. He's trying. So. Just because Aziraphale is not crying and screaming and I dunno, tearing his hair out or whatever some people would have him do, does not mean he isn't overflowing with pain, fear, uncertainty, doubts, worries, and so much anxiety that if he let it all out, half of the solar system would turn to ashes.

Aziraphale does not need to suffer in S3 to level out Crowley's suffering. They are, unfortunately, equal in their pain as they are in love. If there is one thing Crowley would never abide, it'd be this take from the fandom. * A note on grief (obviously from my personal experience) As initiated by @anthony-crowleys-left-nut in a comment

It's not that I mind to know people care and worry etc, but asking how I am can only end in me lying (fine, thank you) and both of us knowing it's not really true and feeling awkward or not lying (I feel like shit, mostly cos I can't sleep and think the world is a stupid unfair place) and both of us feeling awkward anyway. Does that make sense? I wish I could tell friends/colleagues to ask what I've been up to or something similar instead. What I've been reading (um, AO3, but I'll make something up), watching, do I want to go see some spring flowers bloom (I do).

#aziraphale #good omens #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #neil gaiman #ineffable divorce #aziraphale my beloved #good omens thoughts #aziraphale defense squad #suffering in silence #grief #tw grief #dealing with grief #loss #tw death #kaypost

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avocado-writing · 9 months

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For nightingale, aziraphale, and Crowley, could you write something with them going on holiday or honeymoon to a museum or historical site, and remembering old times together? Maybe they discover one of them in the background of a historic photo or they’re mentioned in a piece of writing or turn up in a painting or a statue? I just need more of those 3 so whatever you feel like, dealers choice <3

aziraphale x reader x crowley (good omens)

third chapter of this. kissing you on the lips anon for requesting it.

rated M for light smut.

1.5k words.

if you like what I do, here’s my ko-fi!

Your marriage is a quiet little affair.

It has to be, really. Can’t have a big crowd wondering how three people are able to all wed each other. It’s hard enough miracling the registrar to not notice anything out of the ordinary, let alone worrying about having a bunch of guests second-guessing the technical legality of the thing.

Luckily, it all goes reasonably smoothly. The registry office isn’t busy on a Thursday afternoon, it doesn’t take long to get in and out. Yes, all three of you sign these documents, that’s absolutely fine. Congratulations and I hope you have a happy future together.

Rings on fingers, plain gold wedding bands binding the three of you to each other. Chaste, meaningful kisses and wide smiles.

Being married to them doesn’t feel any different, but then again you suppose it wouldn’t. You’ve been together for longer than any human has ever been alive. You were all practically married anyway, getting the paperwork done was just… the cherry on top.

“Well, now what do we do?” you ask, stepping out onto the busy London street. Aziraphale and Crowley take a moment to consider this question, as if they hadn’t really thought about it either.

“Lunch?” the angel says, just as the demon replies “bed?”

You laugh, and the three of you end up doing one and then the other.

Crowley kisses you both hard the moment that the bookshop door shuts, pausing only to flip the sign firmly to ‘very closed’. You trap Aziraphale between your bodies, knowing how much he loves to be showered with attention, and strip off as you retreat through the nonfiction section to the well-loved sofa in the break room.

It feels like there isn’t time to go upstairs. It’s time to consummate this marriage here, now.

“Come on, angel,” you hum as Crowley sheathes himself inside him, making Aziraphale’s eyes roll in pleasure, “like Geoff wrote, ‘In wyfhode I wol use myn instrument as frely as my Makere hath it sent’.”

Despite the overstimulation as you sink down on him, Aziraphale laughs. Crowley cocks an eyebrow.

“What on earth are you going on about?”

“Inside joke, I suppose,” you reply wickedly, before silencing any further questioning with a kiss across Aziraphale’s shoulder.

When you’re done breaking in the marriage bed - after you finish breaking in the marriage couch and then the marriage kitchen counter - the three of you lie together, limbs tangled, the two of them feeling you breathe.

“You know what we should do?” you eventually pipe up, lost between twisting your fingers in Aziraphale’s curls and running your hand up the length of Crowley’s thigh.

“Look, I’m happy to go again, just give me ten minutes,” Crowley murmurs. You almost get caught up in it as the angel plants a kiss on your bare shoulder, but snap yourself back to reality before they can delay your train of thought further.

“No! - I mean, yes, but also, we should go on a honeymoon.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale says, lighting up, “That’s a wonderful idea. I can’t remember the last time the three of us took a holiday together. One where we didn’t have to also do some work, anyway.”

“It was Stockholm, nineteen-seventy-five,” Crowley states without missing a beat. The two of you both look at him, and it clicks.

“Oh god, it was, wasn’t it?” you laugh. Of course. Was it that long ago?

“The Eurovision final! Goodness, how on earth did we forget?”

“Repressing painful memories?” the demon suggests. It was one of those trips he’d clearly not been very pleased about, but insisted his chaperoning was better than the alternative of letting you and Aziraphale run wild around Sweden.

“I can’t believe you had a perm for that whole decade,” you say to Crowley, who just groans and slings his arm over his face to hide.

“I thought it was very fetching,” Aziraphale reassures, squeezing his husband’s - husband’s! - hand.

“Well, why don’t we go somewhere a bit closer to home?” you suggest. “Somewhere like, I don’t know, Edinburgh?”

“I like Edinburgh. Well, apart from one statue, but we don’t have to go and see it I suppose,” Aziraphale agrees. The two of you look over to Crowley. He lifts his arm just enough for you to see the sparkle in his yellow eyes.

You set off a couple of days later in the Bentley, boot packed up tight with suitcases (none Crowley’s, one belonging to you, the rest Aziraphale’s; he insisted he needed to bring at least twenty books ‘just in case’). With Crowley’s driving the eight hour journey takes about five, and soon you’re at your little bnb planning how you’re going to spend the week.

And it’s lovely. You do all the touristy things, the guided tours, the hidden gems, and slowly making your way around what feels like every pub in the city. You and Aziraphale eat a quite astonishing number of lunchtime finger sandwiches, and Crowley takes you out dancing to a little hole-in-the-wall joint he had a hand in founding a couple of decades ago. Your heart is full and you realise over and over again just how lucky you are to be able to spend your life with the two people you love most in this universe.

On the last day, you finally do the big one: Edinburgh Castle. You’ve been in there but only once, and that was a couple of hundred years ago. It’s changed but not as much as you thought: it’s nice to see the conservation work people are doing in old places like these. Saving little pieces of the past.

You’re walking through one of the little side corridors - a place you’re probably not meant to actually be on the tour, but one of your husbands has a way of making locked doors open and the other is very good at getting people to forgive you if you’re found going through them.

Up ahead they’re bickering. About what you can’t say. You’ve learnt to tune it out unless it’s about something actually important. Despite that you almost miss it, walk right past the bloody thing - but then you catch the flash of paint out of the corner of your eye and do a double-take.

Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god. You two, come here and take a look at this!”

Aziraphale and Crowley halt their quibbles and double back to stand at your side. They’re both as shocked as you are.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gasps.

“Huh,” Crowley mutters.

“It’s us,” you state.

It is. An oil painting, ancient. The only description is a tiny plaque which sits beneath it in tiny lettering: a portrait of a gentleman and two ladies, c 1665. No more information is given, which is clearly why it’s been delegated to a back room rather than hung in somewhere more important.

But there’s no mistaking it: Aziraphale in his white jerkin and doublet, Crowley in a black dress with his hair down, and you in the middle. Dressed in rich colours, heavy jewellery hanging off you. Your lovers hold either one of your hands in theirs, the three of you looking out serenely towards the viewer.

“We commissioned this for your birthday in sixteen-sixty-five. Do you remember, Nightingale?”

You nod. Yes, you remember the two of them trying to surreptitiously get you to pose while someone caught your likeness in a sketch to transfer later to canvas. Portrait sittings were an exhausting thing and there was no way they were going to trick you into believing anything else was going on.

“I thought it was destroyed,” you whisper, gobsmacked. The three of you had lived in a little London townhouse around the time, when your relationship was still young. And yes, a birthday present it was: right before the great fire of London had broken out. You’d had to evacuate the city as quickly as you could, no time to save anything as unwieldy as a painting.

But clearly it hadn’t burned. Someone had saved it - or nicked it, more likely, before the blaze got to it - and now it ended up here. In this corridor. Where the three of you had just happened to trespass to find it.

“Miraculous,” Aziraphale breathes, and you can only agree.

“Should we try to get it back?” Crowley asks. “I’m sure there’s someone I can blackmail in this castle.”

“No. No, let’s leave it. I quite like it here. A little piece of us somewhere, preserved in time, you know? It’s lovely. Besides,” you turn to your husbands, “I get to have the two of you every day now.”

The three of you take a moment to let the idea soak in; and then you kiss in the quiet of the castle corridor. Happy. Looking forward to the future you’re now allowed to live.

“Now,” you announce after a beat, “I think we’d better get some lunch and then I’m going to go and graffiti that statue of Gabriel. You’re welcome to join me.”

“Oh absolutely,” says Crowley just as Aziraphale tuts “certainly not!”

You talk him round though, and by that evening, he’s doodled a moustache on the smug archangel’s marble face with a sharpie.

#request #crowley x reader x aziraphale #crowley x reader #aziraphale x reader #fic: the light the dark and the spaces inbetween #ineffable husbands x reader #good omens x reader

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book-place · 3 months

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Tea Before Slumber

Warnings: insomnia, let me know if I missed any :)

Pairings: Crowley x reader platonic, Aziraphale x reader platonic

Request: Hello! May I please request an ineffable husbands x reader where reader has trouble sleeping because of insomnia or anxiety or both, and everyone’s favourite angel and demon help them fall asleep? (It’s almost 3am as I type this, oh no)

Request by: Anon

*not my gif*

Summary: You have trouble falling asleep, but Crowley and Aziraphale help you out

A/N: Ineffable husbands>>>

Please don’t plagiarize my work, you may reblog if you like but I’m asking that you don’t steal my hard work

You let out a loud huff, throwing your blanket and pillow down onto the couch before plopping down on it, turning on the television.

It had proven to be yet another sleepless night for you- side effects of insomnia- and you were beyond frustrated and tired right now.

All you wanted to do was sleep. But, of course, that was the only thing you couldn’t do.

“What’re you doing up?”

Your eyes lifted from the screen to where Crowley sauntered into the room, a glass of water in hand. Clearly he had gotten up for it, but had fully intended on retreating back to his room right afterwards, stopping himself when he came upon you.

“Can’t sleep again.” You grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Would you like tea?” Aziraphale seemed to have been awoken by the voices as he padded into the room, eyes soft and concern floating through them.

You shrugged one shoulder, “Would it help?”

The angel beamed at you, “I’ve never made a cup of tea that couldn’t put someone right to sleep.”

“You spike the tea?” The alarmed question came from Crowley as he looked at him with wide eyes.

Aziraphale only rolled his eyes playfully as you let out a quiet chuckle and he made his way to the kitchen.

As he went, Crowley fell onto the cushion beside you, “You know,” He drawled, “Watching these isn’t going to help you sleep. It’ll only keep you more awake.”

With another huff of irritation, you clicked off the screen.

You were grouchy by now.

The demon lolled his head to face you, “Need me to sing you a lullaby?” He asked sarcastically.

You snorted out a laugh just as Aziraphale came back into the room, tea in hand and smiling brightly at you despite the late hour of the night.

“Everything can be fixed with a good cup of tea,” He promised as he handed you the cup.

You took it with a grateful smile and began sipping it, chatting softly with Aziraphale and Crowley while you finished it.

“-and then the bookstores owner told me-“

“Angel.” Crowley interrupted his story softly, “Look.”

Aziraphale turned to where you were, head resting against the couch pillows and empty cup laying at your side.

Both of them smiled softly as they looked at you for a moment before Crowley pushed himself up and gently picked you up bridal style, being careful not to wake you.

The angel trailed behind as Crowley brought you back to your bed and laid you down gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he did so.

“Good night,” Aziraphale whispered to your sleeping form before he and the demon shut the door securely behind them.

Ineffable Husbands 😇- @popfishjr @etanordoesbullsh1t

#platonic #platonic imagine #x reader #good omens x reader #good omens #crowley x reader #crowley #crowley x reader platonic #aziraphale #aziraphale x reader #aziraphale x reader platonic

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rhosmeinir · 6 months

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Fictober 2023 #19

Prompt #19 - "What if we're wrong?"

Fanfiction: Good Omens

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Pairing: Ineffable Husbands/Aziracrow

Other Notes: In which Aziraphale and Crowley watch Our Flag Means Death. Which means that, weirdly enough, this entry contains SPOILERS for OFMD season 2. If you aren't caught up through episode 7, maybe skip this one. 496 words!

“But what if we’re wrong??”

“We are not wrong, Angel, trust me,” Crowley insisted, throwing a hand out towards the television, “Those two old men are going to kiss. And not just kiss, but you know,” the demon made a rude gesture involving thrusting one finger repeatedly through a circle made by two others. Aziraphale squealed and batted Crowley’s hands down.

“Don’t be crude.”

“What? They’re pirates!”

Like the rest of Whickber street, whose meetings had become much less about business and more about analyzing every possible detail of the romance between two middle-aged pirates, Aziraphale and Crowley had been waiting obsessively for the release of the latest episodes of Our Flag Means Death, and had just settled onto the sofa to watch them.

“Just because they’re pirates doesn’t mean they can’t have a soft, romantic story. I mean, look at us!” Crowley swiveled his head around to look at Aziraphale.

“You think we’re soft and romantic?” The angel reddened and adjusted his posture.

“Press play please.” Crowley obliged.

When Ed and Stede kissed in the moonlight, the demon nearly lost his fingers to Aziraphale’s sudden, vicelike grip of excitement as he bounced up and down in his seat. He deflated somewhat when Ed asked to take things slow, and buried his face in his hands when Crowley muttered, “You go to fast for me, Bonnet,” in a passable imitation of Blackbeard’s voice. Crowley cackled.

When Stede shoved Ed up against the wall, both angel and demon gasped and clutched each other’s arm, leaning towards the screen intently. They gave simultaneous squeaks when Ed pulled Stede to him in a vicelike grip, and slumped back against each other on the couch at the shot of Stede pulling shut the bedcurtains with Ed looking on, for all the world like the innocent lover in a torrid romance novel.

“Whew!” Aziraphale said, fanning himself as the credits rolled, “So much for taking it slow. At least they’re together and happy now.”

“Hmm,” Crowley replied as he raised the remote to begin the last episode, not wanting to dampen his angel’s enthusiasm, but not nearly as confident that things were going to remain stable.

When Ed was encouraging Stede in his newfound piratical infamy, Crowley thought that maybe he’d been mistaken. He allowed himself to be taken in by Stede’s happiness and laugh along with him as his notoriety grew, and to believe that all was well despite the obvious warning signs. So, when Ed declared I’m leaving, both angel and demon let out identical screams of protest. And when Stede shouted You’re a coward! At Ed’s retreating back, Crowley flopped back with a groan of despair, head hanging over the back of the sofa, while Aziraphale collapsed in on himself and slithered to the floor, sobbing.

At length, after much fish flailing and muttered ranting, Crowley uncrooked his neck and sat up.

“Uuugh. Well,” he said, utterly nonplussed, leaning forward to pat Aziraphale’s still-shaking shoulder, “we weren’t wrong.”

#fictober23 #fictober #good omens #gomens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale #crowley #our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd season 2 spoilers #fanfic #fanfiction

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esthermitchell-author · 5 days

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It Begins!

So, I'm in the final steps. Just reading through to make sure there aren't any obvious spelling, etc errors... but hopefully by the end of this week, I'll be starting the upload of the *Explicit* version of BORN OF STARLIGHT, as well as an updated version of the non-explicit version.

In the meantime, below the cut is one of the added scenes that will be available in both versions...

Aziraphale watched his husband prowl restlessly through the shop. Worry knotted in the Archangel's chest at the waves of anxiety coming off Crowley and the tension radiating around him like ozone just before a lightning strike. The atmosphere surrounding his husband had been like that ever since Crowley returned from wherever he'd gone -- Mayfair, if Aziraphale had to hazard a guess, given the electric hum of hellfire and Crowley's generally anxious and irritable demeanor since the demon's return. Not that he thought Crowley would ever let lightning loose in their home, but it was clear the demon was stressed.

Aziraphale frowned in concern. It was about time he did something about this, before all of Crowley's anxiety woke Jem again.

Rising to his feet, he waited patiently for Crowley to stalk through the sitting area again, and stepped quite deliberately into his husband's path. The demon pulled himself up short of running into the angel, his expression confused as he muttered, "Angel? Wot the–?"

"Shh," Aziraphale shushed him softly, laying his left hand gently over Crowley's racing heart and feeling the beats gradually slow beneath his touch. With his right hand, he reached up to glide his fingers around Crowley's neck and up through the shoulder-length strands the demon kept tied back from his face as he drew Crowley to him, until their foreheads rested against each other. He saw the flicker of relief in his demon's golden eyes before they fell shut, heard the quiet sigh Crowley didn't bother to mask, and felt tension draining from Crowley's body.

"Better?" The angel asked quietly, offering his husband a gentle smile and leaning up to brush a loving kiss over the demon's lips.

Crowley's eyes opened and he lifted one hand to press against the side of Aziraphale's neck. "Yeah. Thanks, angel."

"Always, my love. Want to talk about it?"

Crowley winced slightly, shaking his head as he straightened. "Nah. Not just yet."

Aziraphale released his hold, making sure his smile was in place as he nodded and stepped away. It wouldn't do to stress Crowley with his ridiculous feelings, just now. "Well, you know where to find me, when you're ready."

"Oi." The strong, slim fingers of Crowley's hand caught the Archangel's wrist as he turned away, halting his retreat. "It's not like that, angel. There's just something I gotta do, and I don't want you worrying."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're being silly, again. I'll always worry about you, Anthony. I always have."

"Angel..."

"I also trust you to be careful. The two aren't mutually exclusive." The Archangel glanced down at where Crowley had a light grip on his wrist, then up to his husband with one lifted eyebrow as he made his position very clear. "And neither of which means I won't personally turn Hell upside down to drag you back here -- should you get yourself caught -- so you can explain to our daughter how whatever you're up to is important enough to risk her happiness and safety."

Crowley stared at him for a long moment, then huffed a quiet laugh. "Fuck, angel. How do I manage to forget just how much of a bastard you can be if you put your mind to it?"

"No idea. In this case, I'm serious, Crowley." He waited until he was sure he had the demon's complete attention before quietly demanding, "Promise me you're not going to break her heart. Or mine."

He watched Crowley swallow, saw the fear and pain in his husband's eyes, and knew his point was made, even before the demon lifted his captive hand, kissed the wedding band there, and rasped, "I thought I already did."

Aziraphale sighed when he saw the demon glance at his watch. Pulling away, he shooed his husband toward the door. "Go, already. I know you have things to do, whatever they are."

Crowley looked deeply conflicted for a long moment, then nodded, his expression going harder than Aziraphale had seen it since 1862. Knowing what he now knew about that time, the Archangel suppressed the clutch of fear in his chest. He was right, then -- whatever Crowley intended to do was dangerous.

As if aware of Aziraphale's fear -- which his demon probably was, at that -- Crowley offered him the flicker of what he no doubt meant as a reassuring smile, and muttered, "I'll be back tomorrow night. Give Jemmy a hug and a kiss for me, and let her know I'm not gone long, yeah?"

"Of course." Aziraphale knew, with sinking certainty, this was how Crowley always felt whenever he had to go to Heaven for something. Only, Heaven wasn't dangerous. Not anymore. If Crowley ended up in Hell... The Archangel's breath caught on a quick burst of panic as his husband turned toward the back door of the shop. His hand instinctively lifted to stop Crowley from leaving, then fell back to his side, trembling, as he whispered, "I love you, Anothony J. Crowley. Remember that."

Crowley turned, covered the handful of steps between them, and crushed the angel's mouth beneath a desperate kiss that was all too short, before pulling away to mutter, "I love you, too, angel. I will be back, and I'll be careful. I promise."

Aziraphale nodded, clenching his trembling hands into fists at his side as he watched the love of his life disappear through the bookshop's back door, then heard the muted sound of the Bentley starting. If there was one certainty the Archangel held onto, it was that Crowley was his. If he had to drown Hell in Holy Water and destroy Satan Himself to get his husband back, there wasn't a question in Aziraphale's mind that's what he'd do.

"Don't make me have to rescue you," he whispered, certain Crowley could feel the words, even if the demon couldn't hear them.

#good omens #good omens fandom #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #crowley #azicrow #ineffable spouses #fanfic #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #gomens fanfic #go fanfic #gomens

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jadevalentine-writes · 4 months

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WIP Wednesday - Living in Sin - Chapter 7 Teaser

Tagging a few folks who may be interested: @subtlybrilliant @prommethium

After spending over six-thousand years with humanity, an immortal being could be expected to pick up a few favorite mortal activities along the way.

For Crowley, it was sleeping, drinking, and driving (though never the last two at the same time - but Hell got all of the credit for the deadly combination). For Aziraphale, it was eating, reading, listening to music on vinyl, and going to a barbershop when he could just as easily force his hair to stop growing.

Crowley also loved showering. It was an ingenious invention, one he wished he could have taken credit for, but the simulation of standing in the rain was so painfully human he could not in good conscience claim the idea as his own. It was bad enough Hell had tampered with the invention by creating low-water pressure and the scalding consequences of flushing a toilet while in use after Crowley had praised the invention.

Crowley had missed the large bathroom in his flat though not nearly as much as sleeping in a bed. It took him a full week of living above the bookshop before he remembered the flat even had a bathroom, hidden away as it was behind a closed door. One morning after pastries and caffeine, Crowley retreated upstairs to investigate.

The closed door made him nervous. Aziraphale had no use for a bathroom and Crowley feared what horrors would lay beyond. He grimaced as he pushed the door open gently but relaxed when the worst he was met with was a thick layer of dust and a long outdated style.

The large clawfoot tub he would keep, as he learned long ago that they were the only modern tub that could hold his lanky corporation. The only thing it needed was to be outfitted with a shower. Everything else would just need to be tweaked to his liking.

One solid snap and a century’s worth of dust dissolved. Cracked tile was replaced with smooth grey stone and peeled wallpaper was replaced with walls of green. A large copper shower head manifested over the center of the tub along with a full ringed curtain in black. The garish vanity lights dimmed to the warm glow of Edison bulbs.

Crowley sighed and shut the door. Dark and warm, like a garden he used to know. A perfect place to unwind, sometimes literally.

After purging the pipes of rust, Crowley set the temperature to just south of searing, stripped, and stepped inside. He let out a hiss of pleasure as the hot water cascaded down his back. He groaned as he dipped his head under the spray. As he rotated in and out of the spray, the only thing he missed was cold tile walls to lean against. He quite loved the temperature contrast in his old bathroom, but homeless demons could not be too particular.

Crowley stayed under the spray until the water started to cool. He could miracle the water hot for an eternity, but knew Aziraphale would not take kindly to the large bill. Reluctantly, he turned it off. He pulled back the curtain and miracled a fluffy black towel to dry himself off.

Crowley felt brand new, like he had just shed his skin after a couple of millenia. After hanging up the towel, he stretched in the lingering steam of the bathroom and sighed. A good night’s sleep, six shots of espresso coursing through his veins, and a boiling shower. He felt like he could perform a world-wide humanity-saving miracle and not even flinch.

Crowley sighed contentedly as he opened the bathroom door, the cool air of the flat hitting his still bare corporation. He always walked across his flat naked, from bathroom to bedroom. There was nothing worse than trying to shimmy into skinny jeans while being damp and the extra steps from one room to the other helped him dry fully. He didn’t think anything of it, because his flatmates were only ever plants, and they never so much as cocked a leaf in his direction when he was nude.

Of course, he did not consider that he now had a living, very angelic flatmate now.

#wip wednesday #living in sin

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sylvanfreckles · 2 years

Text

No.19: Enough Is Enough

Fandom: Supernatural Rating: G Warnings: Mild body horror, seizures Summary: It was there, face-to-face with the devil, while Lucifer stared at him out of Cas's blue eyes, that Dean finally realized the truth. Maybe they weren't so different…and maybe that was the real problem.

(Alternate scene for s11e18: Hell's Angel) (Read on AO3)

This couldn’t be happening. They’d planned it out, to the last detail…the ritual to summon Lucifer, the spell circle to trap him, the command to conjure out Castiel…it really should have worked.

Instead, the devil was advancing toward Dean with his smile all over Cas’s face. “I think he likes our current arrangement,” Lucifer said. The floor shook beneath him, the binding sigil flaring as it burned.

“Cas!” Dean stood right at the edge of the circle, only vaguely aware that Sammy had retreated a few steps and Rowena was out of sight.

“Cas!” Lucifer mocked. Dean almost took a step back at the perversion of hearing that voice out of Castiel’s mouth. “Come on, boys. I told you, he’s happy with what we’ve got going on in here.”

Lucifer laid a hand over his heart and took another step, the warding burning beneath him as it failed to contain his power. “I mean, it’s not like he’s any good on his own. He really needs someone to, y’know, rein him in and keep him focused.”

“Shut your mouth.” Dean narrowed his eyes, barely holding himself back from crossing the fiery barrier to throw down with the devil.

“Oh, what? Did I hurt your feelings?”

“You don’t get to say that kind of stuff, not about Cas.”

Lucifer threw his head back and laughed. It was an odd, discordant sound, all the more terrible for coming from Castiel’s throat. He wrapped an arm around his stomach theatrically and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “What, and you do? Come on, Dean-o, we all know you’ve said so much worse to poor little Castiel than I ever could. I mean, that’s probably the reason why he accepted my help, you know?” He took another step, now barely an arm’s length from Dean, and looked him dead in the eye. “So maybe we should be thanking you now.”

Dean’s heart pounded. Guilt flushed hot up his neck, and in the devil’s mad eyes he could see a reflection of everything he’d ever done or said that tore Cas down. The unjustified blame, the insults, the abandonment…all of it.

He swallowed hard. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s the problem.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Not your turn.” Dean cleared his throat. “Cas? You in there?”

With another theatrical roll of the eyes, Lucifer rocked back on one leg and folded his arms. “Oh, he can hear every word we’re saying. He just doesn’t need to talk to you.”

“Then he can listen,” Dean snapped. “Cas, you know…I know I’ve done you wrong, man. So many times. I haven’t been there for you, haven’t listened to you, I’ve pushed you off and torn you down, over and over. I don’t deserve for you to come back.”

Lucifer was watching him, face twisted in a simpering smirk. Dean could feel the flush crawling up his neck into his cheeks, knowing Crowley was just a few feet behind him and Sammy, too. Everyone was here to listen to him pour his heart out like this, but he couldn’t think about that.

He needed one person to hear it, and he just prayed Cas was actually listening.

“Man, I…I messed up. With you. I didn’t have your back when you were fighting Raphael, then I just left you in that hospital after you cleared Sammy’s head. And in Purgatory…” He swallowed again. It was hard to meet Cas’s eyes, especially with the devil behind them. “I know you said that wasn’t my fault, but I, I should have done something. I should have known something was up when you came back, but I just wrote it off. I let you down, and I did…with the Mark….”

Dean couldn’t even look up now. He closed his eyes, but tried to keep talking, even as his own shame and guilt threatened to overwhelm him.

“I kicked you out when you lost your Grace, and I didn’t even help you get on your feet. The only person I’ve let down more in my life is Sammy, and God only knows why he’s still here. I should have…I should have been there. And I wasn’t.”

He forced himself to meet the devil’s eyes, ignoring the sick amusement on Cas’s face. “You needed me, and I wasn’t man enough to help you. And for that I am sorry.”

Something seemed to break inside him, and he dropped his head as tears flooded his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cas.” It was almost more a prayer than anything else; a prayer to the only one who’d ever really answered his call.

Someone was clapping. Dean lifted his head up to see Lucifer, still smirking, bringing his hands together in mocking applause. “Very sweet,” the devil cooed. “But I don’t think he wants to…ugh.”

The devil shuddered. “Not now, Castiel,” he hissed. “The grown-ups are talking.”

“Cas?” Dean felt Sam join him at his side. “Cas, is that you?”

“He’s indisposed,” Lucifer sneered, taking a few steps back as his body spasmed again. “He can’t—no, dammit, we had a deal!”

“Cas!” Sam had a hand on Dean’s shoulder and leaned closer to the flames. “Cas, you can cast him out! Let him go!”

“He won’t!” Lucifer brought a hand up to his face and dragged his nails down, carving deep furrows in the skin. “He’s not strong enough to resist me.”

“You can do it, Cas!” Dean called. “We’re right here, we got you!”

“No!” the devil shook, clawing at his face and throat. “You’ll never be rid of me.”

Something crashed behind the brothers, and Dean turned around in time to see Crowley’s meatsuit collapse onto one of the pews as red smoke spiraled out of its mouth. The smoke streamed across the room and down into Lucifer’s open mouth as the devil screamed.

“Keep calling him,” Sam said, jostling Dean’s arm. “Cas?”

“Castiel!”

Lucifer screamed. The windows shattered, the rune on the floor flared and burned out, and a wave of invisible force knocked the Winchesters off their feet. Dean managed to roll with it and crawl up to his knees, staring at the runic circle in horror. Cas was on the ground, seizing, as bloody lesions began appearing on his face and neck and the exposed skin of his wrists. The lesions split open and blinding white light streamed out. His mouth was open in a rough, guttural wail that had him coughing up blood as he screamed and screamed and screamed.

Dean surged forward but Sam caught his arm. “He’s gonna kill him,” he shot over his shoulder at his brother. Sam stared at him, wild-eyed, but shook his head.

“There’s nothing we can do.”

He didn’t even bother answering but broke away from his brother and charged into the center of the turmoil. Just in time to watch Cas’s back arch away from the floor as brilliant, burning white light erupted from his open mouth.

Dean ducked back, shielding his eyes, as the devil’s essence streamed away through the broken windows. Cas lay still, in the center of the burned-out runes, eyes staring blankly at Dean.

“Cas?” he dropped to his knees next to the still body and slid a hand under Cas’s head. “Come on, man…Cas?”

Cas coughed and glared up at Dean. “Mind giving me a second to get out of here before you get all sentimental?”

“Crowley?” Dean shook his head and leaned back as Sam arrived on Cas’s other side. The body between them twitched, sucked in a deep breath, then red smoke began to stream out of his mouth. Dean leaned back over Cas as soon as Crowley had exited, cupping his face with both hands. “You in there, buddy?”

Cas was still, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above them. Sam picked up one of his hands and sucked in a breath at the open wound that remained. “He isn’t healing.”

“I can see that,” Dean replied quietly. Cas’s face was still pretty torn up, and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. Dean gently thumbed that away, heart sinking when the angel didn’t respond.

“It’s no simple task to eject the devil,” Crowley commented from behind them. He was back in his meatsuit, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with studied nonchalance. “Feathers is alive in there, but his true form has been torn to shreds. It’s gonna be a while before your boys can take your little pet out to play again.”

“He’s not our pet,” Dean snapped. He ignored Crowley’s scoff and leaned over Cas, trying to tilt him so he could look into those vacant blue eyes. “Come on, man, come back to us. We’ve got…I’ve got to tell you something.”

One of Cas’s eyes gave a minute twitch. Encouraged, Dean moved a hand under Cas’s neck and lifted him up enough to transfer his head into Dean’s lap. “We need you, Cas.”

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was gentle, but Dean shook his head.

“He’s coming back.”

“We should get going. Lucifer could come back.”

“Give him a minute, Sammy.”

Sam stood up, said something about loading the car, and Dean could vaguely hear him and Crowley bickering as they started sorting through the wreckage around them.

“C’mon, man,” Dean pleaded. “Come back to us.”

It was barely there, but he caught a slight tick in Cas’s cheek. Then his throat moved, like he was trying to swallow, and finally his eyes focused and Dean was sure Cas was seeing him again.

“You in there, man?” he asked gently. Cas looked exhausted, worse than he had after Rowena’s mad dog spell. Worse even than when he’d sucked up the souls of Purgatory and damn near ruptured from all that power.

Cas coughed, rolling his head toward Dean so that blood splattered the hunter’s shirt. “…’lo, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas.” Even with how rough and painful Cas’s voice sounded, most likely because his throat had been torn to shreds, Dean couldn’t help but smile. Cas was back. He hurried on, before he lost his nerve. “Hey, uh…I’ve got somethings to tell you. If you have the time.”

Blue eyes blinked up at him. Cas shifted a little and managed to raise an arm enough to catch Dean’s sleeve above his elbow. “Heard you.”

“No, man, I just…I need to tell you. Not second-hand through the devil.” He wet his lips. “Something…something you should have heard. From me. A long time ago.”

He couldn’t resist it anymore, and scooped Cas up into a gentle embrace. He felt the angel hook his chin over his shoulder, and then after a long moment Cas’s arm wrapped around his back. “Dean?”

Well. Start at the beginning. “You’ve done so much for us, Cas. And I…I haven’t treated you the way you deserve….”

...

And then Dean tucked Cas up in a fleecy blanket and made him as many cheeseburgers as he could eat while Sam helped him pick out things to decorate his new permanent room in the Bunker. And this inspired them to suggest family therapy for Chuck and Amara and the world was saved and they all lived happily ever after.

…and if you're a Destiel fan, Dean and Cas also made out while Sam drove them all home.

#whumptober2022 #no.19 #enough is enough #supernatural #fic #body horror #seizures #castiel #lucifer #dean winchester #sam winchester #angst and hurt/comfort #possessed castiel #casifer #dean winchester actually apologizes #episode fixit #s11e18 #hell's angel #hurt castiel

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sofreddie · 3 years

Text

Serendipitous Souls 12

Summary: It's all one big accident. Where do they go from here?

Characters: Dean x OC!Reader, Sam

Warnings: Angst, Feels

Word Count: 1,430

A/N: It's important to note that I think I'm hilarious. 😊

“We’re not gonna kill you,” Dean said, taking a step closer to her, “You’re gonna go and find some brothel or club to hold up in where you can feed off all the energy you want without killing anyone,” he explained.

“What?” she gasped, looking between them in shock, “B-but…why?”

“Your accident might be a gift, so we’re just returning the favor,” Dean shrugged one shoulder lightly, “Go, before we change our mind.”

She glanced between them again before that beaming grin took over her face once more.

“I knew you were my favorites for a reason-”

“Go!” They shouted at her and she jumped and squeaked before hastily retreating from the suite.

“You think it’s Y/N,” Sam said after a long beat of silence had passed. Dean nodded, running a hand over his mouth as he thought over everything they’d just learned.

“It was all an accident,” Dean mumbled.

“Dean,” Sam sighed, his arms dropping to his sides, “You two have a good thing-”

“No, I know,” Dean interrupted him, “We do, it’s great,” he admitted, “But it was all by accident,” he huffed a laugh, “And that might be the best thing that ever happened to us.”

“Wait, what?” Sam said, turning to face his brother straight on, his face twisted in confusion and surprise, “How do you figure that?”

“Because we don’t work like all the other Sams and Deans. And it’s because The Caretaker broke us,” he explained manically, “Which has, so far, been a blessing in disguise, even though Chuck keeps coming at us with weirder and weirder shit,” Dean continued, more to himself than actually talking to Sam. “And Y/N exists because of her-”

“Shit, Y/N,” Sam said, the two of them locking eyes before silently agreeing to check that she was okay. They dashed down the stairs, not wanting to wait on the elevator when it was only a couple of floors anyway. They ran down the hall and burst into the suite they’d left her with urgency.

“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Y/N asked. She was sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed in a comfy hotel robe, watching TV. A room service cart sat nearby, loaded with different foods and snacks, “I ordered dinner,” she smiled at them, her brow furrowing as she saw how sweaty, worried, and out-of-breath they were.

She pouted, turning off the TV and coming to stand in front of them, “What’s going on?”

“You’re okay,” Dean breathed out, hugging her tightly and kissing her temple, “We were just worried.”

“Case is done,” Sam cut in with a reassuring smile, “Dean just worries, you know,” he tried to play off with a chuckle.

“I’d believe you if you didn’t look so worried too,” she said to Sam with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not allowed to worry?” Sam defended with a scoff, “You’re family, a Winchester,” he exclaimed, “Of course I’m gonna worry,” he laughed, but it seemed disingenuous, even to his own ears.

“It really is over though,” Dean said, turning her attention back to him and casting a side glance at Sam. With her back turned to him, Sam rolled his eyes at himself and let out a quiet breath. He mouthed ‘sorry’ to Dean and Dean knew they all needed to talk, and soon.

“Okay,” she relented, even though she knew something was up, “You wanna eat or take a shower?” she offered.

“Yeah,” Dean smiled at her, pecking her cheek before moving past her to the food cart, “I’m starving.” he began digging in and Sam took the chance to grab his bag and hurry into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Y/N took a seat next to Dean at the end of the bed, silently observing him as he stuffed different bits of food from the plates into his mouth. She suddenly realized why Crowley always called him Squirrel.

“So, just so we’re on the same page,” Y/N said, clearing her throat, “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you and Sam or is this gonna be one of those things we sweep under the carpet and pretend never happened?”

She spoke so calmly and sweetly Dean had to blink several times. He just stared at her silently gaping before returning to stuffing his face. Y/N sighed and nodded, assuming they were going with the latter.

Sam came out after finishing a quick shower, changing into a V-neck tee and track pants. He found Dean and Y/N, silently staring at whatever was playing on TV and slowly nibbling on all the food.

“Help yourself,” Dean gestured vaguely to the cart, his eyes glued to the screen. Sam looked over the various offerings before looking over at Y/N. Her eyes were trailing down his body, before coming back up, biting her lip before she met his eyes. Her eyes widened briefly as she realized she’d been caught and she hurriedly looked away, pretending to focus on the TV. Sam smirked to himself, enjoying the attention.

Sam grabbed an armchair and moved it to the other side of the cart. He sat in the chair, taking a few nibbles and leaning back, studying Dean and Y/N.

Dean was stubbornly focused on the TV screen. Y/N was busying herself with eating and pretending she didn’t notice Sam watching her like a hawk.

“So are we not gonna talk about it then?” Sam finally asked. Dean groaned and dropped his head. Y/N's gaze shot to Sam, then over to Dean. She smacked him on his arm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“I knew there was an ‘it’,” she announced.

“I didn’t say anything,” Dean defended.

“Yeah, you didn’t say anything,” she emphasized with a huff. She turned to Sam then, “So, what happened? I knew something was off with you two.”

Sam and Dean did their silent communication and Y/N rolled her eyes, waiting for the two of them to decide how Sam was gonna answer her.

That shit was gonna get annoying real quick.

Sam leaned forward in his chair and proceeded to recount to Y/N everything they’d learned and what had happened. She was silent and listening the whole time, but her body language depicted what she didn’t express. He suddenly realized how much had been dropped on her shoulders in such a short amount of time. Her entire existence altered - multiple times - within that short time period.

Dean could feel it. That grief and panic bubbling up inside of her. That feeling he got a few times before, like she could bolt at any minute. She hadn’t yet, but he somehow felt this might be the last straw.

She stood suddenly, silently pacing and the brothers watched with growing concern. She stopped and took a deep breath, “So my whole existence is an accident,” she spoke, “And I’m literally trash,” she huffed a laugh that turned into a chuckle before morphing into stifled sobs.

Dean was quick to his feet, coming to her and cupping her face in his hands, “No,” he promised, pecking her lips sweetly as he wiped at her tears with his thumbs, “Just means you’re ours, and we’re yours,” he whispered against her lips, pecking her again and again. She sniffled back her tears and shook her head, pulling back from Dean.

“It’s too much,” she admitted with a heaving breath, “I can’t,” she whined, turning quickly to dash - anywhere, somewhere, the bathroom maybe? - before being stopped dead, running right into Sam’s broad chest. His hands held her upper arms, enough to brace her and keep her planted, but not to hurt. He guided her to sit back in her place on the bed, Sam and Dean returning to theirs in turn.

“I’m thinking we should all head back to the Bunker 'til we get this sorted out,” Dean suggested with a heavy sigh. Y/N and Sam silently nodded, dropping their heads. Dean was pissed. Everything was going so well, and now this. Though he supposed that’s the way things always went for him.

But he wasn’t mad about the Sam part of it all. Sam deserved to be happy and Y/N was his soulmate too. Though he wasn’t too thrilled that he might have to - will have to - share her with his brother. They all silently agreed to head to bed for the night, putting off the newest change to their lives for another day. Dean clung to her a little tighter that night while Sam tossed and turned on the pull-out.

Forevers:

@sis-tafics

@lyarr24

@calaofnoldor

@hobby27

@spnbaby-67

Dean Winchester:

@akshi8278

@jerkbitchidjitassbutt

Serendipitous Souls:

@brilovesdeanwinchester

@xhannahbananax03

@440mxs-wife

@crist1216

@deans-baby-momma

#serendipitous souls #dean x reader #dean winchester #dean x oc!reader #oc!reader #reader insert #sam winchester #supernatural #spn #angst

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toomuchofabastard · 3 years

Text

O Unhappy Dagger

Fandom: Good Omens (TV)

Rating: T for violence and language

Warnings: Major Character Death, tragedy, violence, mind control, implied suicide, bonus happy ending available in linked post

Word count: 3,711 (+ 760)

Fic Summary: Crowley should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

This is my fic for @darkomenszine Vol 1! Vol 2 will be available soon if Good Omens darkfic is your thing 😈

READ ON AO3

___

The sign on the door of the bookshop read ‘closed’, but that didn’t stop Crowley.

Of course, it wouldn’t under normal circumstances, but this time was different. Rather than sauntering up to the threshold with a subtle spring in his step and a ready grin for his angel, Crowley’s heart pounded with terror as he approached the entrance to A. Z. Fell & Co. He felt as though some phantom hand had a grip around his throat, applying a pressure so crushing that he couldn’t speak and could barely breathe. What breaths he could draw were rapid with panic. His footsteps rang out against the flagstones as he strode forward – except that they weren’t his footsteps. Oh, it was his body, drawing closer and closer to the familiar doorway. But Hell’s footsteps. Hell’s oppressive malice invading every corner of his mind, and Hell making him grip the object behind his back so tightly that his knuckles hurt.

He should have known they’d find some other way to punish him. He’d hoped – naïvely, it seemed – that they didn’t have the creativity, the almost-uniquely human sadism, to think up something like this. To realise the one vulnerability that he’d kept nestled in his heart, hidden from view.

Tucked behind him, the flames continued to burn. Gripped in his hand back there was a dagger, a dark, cruel-looking thing, not just viciously sharp on its own, but also wreathed in infernal flame. The billows were gnawing away at his back, leaving his rather expensive jacket charred and ragged – not that Hell would give a blessèd fuck about that. In this moment, he didn’t either. There was only a single, dreadful thought clawing at his brain.

Infernal flame could be meant for only one thing. Aziraphale. The only thing that could kill an angel.

Crowley shuddered inwardly with revulsion at the thought. He could actually feel Hell’s evil intent coursing through him, as he ascended the steps and watched his own hand reach for the door handle. Hell’s control had overtaken him so suddenly that he hadn’t even had a chance to fight back. He kept trying to, struggling with every fibre of his being, but to no avail. He could hardly even feel his own corporation, let alone exert control, and seeing it moving against his will was intensely disturbing – violating, even. It was Hell’s way of proving that they could take whatever they wanted from him, just use him as their puppet and then discard him. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t even do that. He felt himself push the door handle down.

Crowley stepped through the threshold and into the quiet of the bookshop. It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the cosy dimness, but then the mountains and spires of books and papers revealed themselves.

Aziraphale stood in the hollow underneath the eastern archway, facing away from Crowley. He looked completely in his element, humming distractedly to himself as he leafed through some old volume. He turned as he heard Crowley shutting the door behind himself.

“Crowley!”

The angel beamed at him, and suddenly the whole room seemed lit up from within, like the sun itself had appeared in their midst. For a brief second, the panic and revulsion in Crowley’s chest was forgotten as the luminosity of Aziraphale’s smile dazzled him. That smile – especially when meant for him – never failed to take his breath away.

Aziraphale’s gaze drifted downwards as he noticed Crowley’s hand tucked behind his back, and the angel’s eyes twinkled, creases forming at their corners as his smile grew even wider. Crowley’s heart lurched again, and the panic returned. He guessed Aziraphale was probably anticipating another box of chocolates, or a nice bottle of wine for them both to share – the sort of surprise Crowley might often reveal with a sly smile, to be met by a paroxysm of delighted wiggles. He was painfully aware of how unlikely it was that Aziraphale would ever even suspect that what was really hidden there was not a doting treat, but a weapon of evil, meant specifically for him.

At his back, the flames had scorched their way through both layers of his jacket and shirt, and were beginning to lick painlessly against the bare skin along his spine. They didn’t leave any marks. Infernal flame could glance off of his corporation just like beads of water off a duck’s back – the perks of being demonic in nature – but Crowley knew it would be devastating to angelic flesh. That knowledge terrified him.

He felt his body start to slink loosely across the room towards the angel, the disobedient muscles and sinews of his legs dragging him involuntarily closer and closer. Run, angel! He tried to scream at Aziraphale, but the words choked in his throat, only echoing emptily inside his mind. His heart was clenched so tight with dread as he approached that he could swear it was no longer beating. Not that Hell needed it to be. Apparently they could twist and use his unwilling body however they liked now, whether it was still functioning or not.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows creased into a puzzled frown as Crowley moved nearer, the smile freezing slightly on his face. The real Crowley would have said something by now, or revealed the gift, or at least returned a crooked grin, rather than the blank expression he could feel was fixed on his face. He was almost surprised the angel couldn’t smell the burning coming from his clothes, but it seemed Aziraphale had eyes only for him.

“What’s wrong, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley drew near to him, a light note of concern in his voice.

Angel, it’s not me, Crowley responded desperately inside his head. He felt himself step close. Please run. Please get away from me. Aziraphale stayed where he was. Why wouldn’t he? His trust in Crowley had always been complete, whether Crowley felt he deserved that or not.

Behind his back, Crowley’s fingers flexed on the grip of the dagger and began to draw it out from its hiding place. No no no, Crowley thought. Don’t make me do this. He fought again to regain control of his own arm, but could only watch as it rose menacingly of its own accord.

“Crowley–?” Aziraphale began, sounding shocked, and he was suddenly cut off as Crowley slashed the blade forwards towards his neck.

The chorus of screams in Crowley’s head crescendoed. No!

Aziraphale stumbled backwards out of range – thank Satan – but Crowley found himself quickly attacking again, this time trying for a low, plunging blow to the angel’s stomach. Aziraphale managed to squirm out of the way and the knife sliced instead through the back of his coat, only missing his skin by a hair’s breadth. The acrid stench of burning filled Crowley’s nose again.

“Crowley! What are you doing?” Aziraphale’s voice was aghast as he tried to retreat from Crowley’s oncoming assault. Panic and confusion contorted his face, and he held his hands up in front of him, as if in surrender. “S–Stop!”

Crowley wanted nothing more, but apparently the powers controlling him weren’t going to take that for an answer. The awful marionette of his body continued its relentless advance, numb to his attempts to reassert control, as he pursued the angel speechlessly around the bookshop. He could barely sense anything except for the throbbing echo of his heart as it hammered inside him, and the all-encompassing reek of fire and burning and smoke. That smell sent him almost blind with fear as his worst associations with it invaded his mind. Burning, burning; everything burning. The bookshop was burning, and Aziraphale was lost forever. The world was ending, the ground shaking itself apart, flames spilling up from the cracks. Plummeting downwards through wings of fire. Visions of what infernal flame could do to flesh, the screaming and the sizzling… His own screams reverberated inside his skull.

Aziraphale continued to back away from him, dodging or shrinking from each attack, but Crowley knew – and Aziraphale must also – that he couldn’t evade forever.

He’d never seen Aziraphale look so afraid of him. It was horrific. Just as much as with terror, the angel’s gleaming eyes were wide with disbelief, desperately searching Crowley’s for understanding as he was backed into a corner, clearly unable to conceive that Crowley could do this to him. Even if he could have got them out, Crowley didn’t have the words to reassure him.

The blade in his hand swung up again and speared downwards towards Aziraphale’s face. This time, Aziraphale was able to grab Crowley’s wrist and stop its path, though the point hovered fearfully close to his tearful eyes. Crowley felt the angel’s considerable strength pushing back against him, but the determination he was being filled with was enough to match him. They grappled for a moment.

“Crowley, stop!” Aziraphale begged, his voice cracking with a sob. “Please, I–I don’t want to hurt you!”

Oh fuck, hurt me, angel, Crowley thought, do whatever, just don’t let me–!

His pleas were interrupted as his traitorous body shoved Aziraphale roughly away, freeing himself from the angel’s grip. Aziraphale staggered backwards, and then tripped on the corner of a stack of books and fell down heavily onto his backside. Crowley advanced. Aziraphale still held his hands up in front of him, the heels of his oxfords scraping vainly against the floorboards as he kept trying to shuffle away. Tears were running like dewdrops down his cheeks.

Crowley lunged down onto him and thrust the knife at his breast. Aziraphale caught it again and they struggled against each other, Crowley pressing his whole weight down as the tip hovered perilously above the angel’s chest. The flames from the blade flowed up Crowley’s straining arms until he could feel them licking monstrously at the edges of his cheekbones. His teeth were gritted together. Then, underneath the flicker of the flames, he began to feel a hum vibrating up through him from where Aziraphale’s hands gripped his wrists. His heart pounded harder as he recognised the feeling of divine power – the angel’s – flowing out from the place where they were connected and fusing into him. It stung, but it wasn’t enough yet to smite him – although if Aziraphale kept pressing, he knew it would be.

“Please,” Aziraphale whispered at him. He stared up, distraught, into Crowley’s eyes. Crowley could feel him holding back the full surge of what he was capable of.

Do it, angel!, he tried to yell. Goddammit, just do it!

I’d rather be dead than spill a drop of your blood anyway.

The knife-point inched dangerously closer to the angel’s chest. Aziraphale let out another sob, but his grip on Crowley’s wrists tightened, and then his watery blue irises slowly vanished as brilliant light began to pour out of his eyes.

Crowley felt the light build inside him; scorching hot and bitingly cold at the same time, blinding white. It hurt – fuck, it hurt – but the immense feeling of relief overwhelmed the pain. Hell’s power was ebbing away, banished back into the darkness and out of his body as the light invaded. It was going to be ok. Well, he was going to die now, or whatever the equivalent process was for demons, but that was ok. Dying at Aziraphale’s hands – and in order to protect him, even if from himself – wasn’t such a bad way to go.

Suddenly, an inhuman snarl cut through his thoughts. It took Crowley a moment to realise that it had come from somewhere inside of him. Aziraphale jolted with surprise at the sound and the light wavered for an instant. It was all Hell needed.

With fiery fury, Hell’s control rushed back into Crowley, throwing him almost into a spasm as it gripped his body again. His blood seemed to ignite as it ripped through him. As his mouth opened in a silent scream, the blade in his hands dropped downwards and pierced through the angel’s breast.

No.

A gurgled cry slipped from Aziraphale’s throat, and his eyes widened in shock, his grip on Crowley’s arm clenching.

No.

As quickly as Hell’s power had overtaken Crowley, it vanished, leaving him empty. Crowley thought he could hear a triumphant laugh echo in his head as it fled.

No.

The blinding light faded away from Aziraphale’s eyes, revealing again his blue irises; full of pain, the only light in them now the glimmer of his tears and the reflection of the cursed flames burning in his chest.

For a few moments, Crowley, petrified with shock, could only return his stare. Then suddenly, his senses rushed back to him and he noticed his hands still gripping the fiery blade which was buried in his angel’s body. He hastily ripped it out – causing Aziraphale to let out another strangled cry – and flung it aside.

“Oh shit,” he gasped, scrambling over to cradle Aziraphale in his arms. The angel jerked away as Crowley lifted him into his lap, though whether from the pain of the movement or from fear of him, Crowley didn’t know. He pulled Aziraphale close and cradled his head to him, one hand in the back of his blonde curls. Aziraphale gazed up at him, his expression heartbroken and disbelieving, as he tried to gasp for breath.

“Angel!” Crowley began, finally able to use his voice again. “Angel, I–I didn’t mean to– it–it wasn’t me, I didn’t–… oh, fuck.” His free hand fumbled aimlessly around the wound in Aziraphale’s chest, as if trying to close it up. Golden blood quickly coated his palm and smeared messily across Aziraphale’s waistcoat, but worse was the infernal glow that smouldered at the edges of the wound, slowly infecting its way into the angel’s being. Deep down, Crowley knew that the damage was already done. God, how could he have done this?

“I’m sorry,” he gasped at Aziraphale. “I’m so sorry. It–it wasn’t me!” He didn’t know how else to explain it. “Hell, they– I– … I’m so sorry, angel.”

Slowly, a flush of understanding dawned in Aziraphale’s eyes, and the horror faded, but then they quickly scrunched closed, his face twisting as another spasm of pain convulsed through him. Crowley could only hold him close until it had passed.

Aziraphale coughed weakly and his eyes opened again. “It–it’s alright,” he stuttered, and then reached a trembling hand up to caress the side of Crowley’s face. Crowley’s heart flipped as the angel’s fingertips brushed lightly against his cheek. “Crowley…” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was already growing distant, the light in his eyes beginning to dim.

“No, sshsssh, don’t… don’t try to talk,” Crowley gulped, absently stroking the angel’s forehead. He clasped Aziraphale’s hand in his and squeezed it tight. “It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok, just– just hold on, yeah?”

Would it? His heart pounding in his chest knew otherwise, and Aziraphale didn’t look fooled either.

The angel was suddenly seized with another fit of agony, and this time a few tiny shining flecks of blood appeared on his lips as he coughed and spluttered. A poorly-stifled groan left his mouth between the wheezing breaths.

Crowley cast his eyes around the room desperately as Aziraphale writhed in his arms, distractedly pressing the angel’s knuckles to his lips and rubbing his fingers with his thumb, as if that would do anything to ease his pain. There was a hole ripped in his chest, burning him up from the inside. Shitshitshit. There had to be something he could do. He could fix this. Somehow. He had to. Come on! He couldn’t lose him like this.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice drifted weakly up to him again. Crowley looked down and met his watery gaze. Despite the pain, a look of peace seemed to settle on the angel’s face. A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth and his eyes, fixed on Crowley, shone with affection, even as they dimmed further.

“I love you,” Aziraphale whispered tenderly up at him.

“No, angel, don’t say that,” Crowley hissed back. He didn’t like how final that sounded. “H–hold on, come on, you have to stay with me.” He shifted and clutched the angel closer.

Aziraphale blinked up at him like he hadn’t even heard. Then his face darkened as if in thought, his brow creasing briefly into a frown and his concerned gaze scanning Crowley’s face, before he spoke again.

“I forgive you.”

His voice, though shaky, was earnest and meaningful, full of empathy. A single tear overflowed from his eyes and slid down his still-smiling cheek.

Crowley could only shake his head, mouthing wordless no’s at the angel. He faintly felt matching tears streaming down his own face. Damn him. Dying in his arms, and he was still the one trying to offer comfort. Blessed, perceptive bastard. He knows I’ll always blame myself for this.

Even as Aziraphale’s eyes remained fixed on him, Crowley could see the focus in them wavering, dwindling away. The interval between each gasped breath the angel tried to draw in was growing longer. A precious few seconds seemed to pass like an entire lifetime, and then the gasps stopped altogether, and the light inside him finally faded away into nothing. Aziraphale went still.

“No, please,” Crowley begged. “Stay with me, angel.” Aziraphale didn’t respond.

“Come on! Aziraphale!” Crowley yelled, and shook him angrily, panting with the desperation for a response. Aziraphale’s body lolled limply. Crowley stared at the angel’s sightless eyes and something within him seemed to collapse, the anger fleeing as a wave of grief came crashing, tearing through him.

“Don’t go,” he whimpered, clasping at the side of Aziraphale’s face. His voice shook and he felt his lower lip begin to tremble uncontrollably. “Please don’t go.”

It’s too late. Crowley’s face screwed up with pain as the thought broke upon him, and he found himself crumpling, pressing his forehead close to the angel’s as choked sobs began to wrack his body. “Don’t leave me,” he snivelled quietly into him. No.

“Please!” He suddenly jolted upright and screamed up at the sky in anguish. “Don’t–…” He choked again, staring at the ceiling. Then he looked back down at Aziraphale’s body, slumped loosely in his arms, and his voice became terribly small, almost child-like. “Please don’t take him from me.”

Whatever reply he had been hoping for, none came. The bookshop was almost eerily silent around him, no sound but his own breaths echoing throughout the now empty and cold-seeming space. No one was listening to his calls, as ever. He was abandoned, cast out. There was only one person who had ever truly cared for him, and now… They’d made him kill the only person he’d ever… ever…

His eyes ran compulsively up and down the angel’s body and face again. He felt himself trembling and starting to hyperventilate, and a grief like something inside him was shattering, as he finally collapsed into Aziraphale, burying his face in his chest, and howled. He clutched brokenly at him, rocking himself through the pain, and squeezing so tight it was like he was trying to merge the angel into his own being. Wrenching, wretched sobs forced their way out of him, muffled by the angel’s breast, his whole body convulsing with the strain, and along with the cries came whimpered fragments of words; pleases and no’s and angels that tumbled feebly out of him. He had no other words left to say. He just wept – pressing his body against Aziraphale’s, with his hands gripping him close and his face burrowed into the side of his neck – until he could cry no more. And then he stayed that way for a long time.

◥|⧗|◤

Some weeks later, a dove managed to find its way into the bookshop – probably through an open window left forgotten – and flitted about in the upstairs rafters.

The fluttering of wings was enough to stir Crowley from his stupor. His closed eyelids slid sluggishly open, revealing serpentine irises dull with pain. He lay, unmoving, for several minutes on top of Aziraphale’s body. In his mind, he was trying to muster up something to think, but the grief was so crushing that it was as though all conscious thought had just been bled out of him into the dirt. He was nothing but pain.

Eventually, he slowly lifted his head and looked once more at Aziraphale’s face. In the time they’d lain there, a fine layer of dust had settled across the room, coating the angel’s body as well as his own. Aziraphale’s glazed eyes were shrouded underneath its grey film, staring up at the ceiling. It hurt to see.

It was just the husk, Crowley told himself. Only his Earthly corporation. Everything that had been his angel was long gone.

It still hurt.

Achingly, Crowley peeled himself off of Aziraphale and lurched to his knees. Looking down, he noticed the smears of golden blood – now dried to peeling flakes – all across his necktie, jacket and sleeves, mirroring the angel’s chest. His hands itched with it too. There wouldn’t be enough water in the world to wipe the feeling away.

He still had some holy water somewhere.

The thought registered suddenly, without prompting, and without emotion. Oh. Yeah. His ‘exit solution’. A way out… and maybe a way back to him.

Crowley considered that. It could be that there was no life after death for their kind, only emptiness and nothingness, but he realised that he didn’t much care either way anymore. He had a penance to pay. And he was ready to join Aziraphale, in whatever lay beyond. He nodded to himself. Yes. He’d made him wait long enough already.

Still feeling empty inside, he bent down close over Aziraphale.

“I’m coming, angel,” he whispered to him, his voice hoarse. “Wherever you are… I’m coming to you.”

He placed one final, soft-lipped, lingering kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. He paused against him for one final moment, eyes closed, taking shaky but even breaths. Then he straightened, and rose, and then turned and headed off, in search of a tartan thermos.

◥|⧗|◤

Need a happy ending? No prob, check out the bonus one here [tumblr link]. 💙

#my fanfiction #good omens #major character death #suicide tw #whump #aziraphale!whump #crowley!whump #angst #dark omens #long post

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Ineffable Holiday 2020 - “Schemes and Dreams and Kisses and Things” (Rated PG)

Summary: In the hopes of getting a first kiss from Crowley, Aziraphale hangs the largest ball of mistletoe he can find over his desk. And then ... he waits. (1514 words)

Notes: Written for the Ineffable Holiday 2020 prompt 'mistletoe'.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale looks up.

He looks up again.

He double-checks obsessively to see that it’s still there.

Why wouldn’t it be? He hung it up only a few hours ago. Then he checked on it – twice. He looks, on average, three times every five minutes.

His neck is beginning to smart.

He tacked it up good and tight. There's no reason for it to fall. Besides, if it falls, it would fall right on him. No need to keep checking.

That’s what he tells himself.

But a minute later, he checks again.

Aziraphale had waited until after the wine had been drunk, the cookies eaten, and a sated Crowley had retreated to the sofa in the bookshop's backroom before he hung the mistletoe directly above his desk chair, making sure it was in the perfect spot for Crowley to catch him sitting under it. It's the largest ball of mistletoe he could find - a massive floral bezoar wrapped in red velvet ribbon and adorned with a silver bell. Three poor birds have flown into his window already, attempting to get at the thing.

There should be no escaping this for either of them.

Aziraphale is determined.

He has every intention of sitting underneath the darned thing until Crowley gives him a kiss. On the lips, the forehead, the cheek - it doesn't matter. Just some combination of Crowley's mouth on his skin would be deemed acceptable.

Crowley and Aziraphale have been more than casual visitors in one another’s daily lives going on five months now. One might even say they’ve become closer to intendeds. In the traditional sense. Crowley drops by, they have tea, they talk, but that's the extent of it. To date, as far as securing a kiss is concerned, they haven't even come close.

Sadly, mistletoe is the best idea he’s had for getting one.

Of course, he should probably learn to say the words, “Crowley, I really wish you would kiss me,” before relying on props like this semi-parasitic shrub. Regardless, he’s going to sit there, book in hand, and wait for Crowley to notice. Because what’s the use of mistletoe if Aziraphale points it out? He might as well go up and kiss Crowley, right? If that’s the case, he should have done it months ago.

God, Aziraphale realizes with wide-eyed intensity, I should have kissed him months ago.

Aziraphale glances up again and sighs.

Yes, he should have. But when it comes to Crowley, Aziraphale can be a bit of a coward. He's not too proud to admit that.

He’s not going to push. He’s waited 6000 years. What’s another one? Or ten? Or hundred? Now that they’re together, he’s going to let things progress at their own speed.

Even if that speed is the excruciating crawl of another seventy-five human lifetimes.

A groan.

A mumble.

A curse.

A shuffle.

These are the sounds of a demon rising to greet the day.

Well ... the afternoon.

And Aziraphale’s brain stops working.

There had been several close calls when Aziraphale thought Crowley was getting out of bed, but he simply rolled over and fell back to sleep.

Not this time.

Aziraphale feels every step Crowley takes, the wood floor creaking as he navigates a path with eyes shut to Aziraphale's small kitchenette, putting on a pot of water for coffee. Aziraphale hears Crowley hum to himself - a mixture of an ear-worm Christmas tune and a song Aziraphale vaguely recognizes as being performed by the band Queen.

A love song to a velocipede, he thinks?

Aziraphale taps his toe anxiously as he waits ... waits ... waits, shifting positions, trying to figure out which version of him reading Faust seems more casual. With his elbow resting on his desktop? Or him reclining back in his chair?

Aziraphale pops bolt upright when he hears Crowley click off the stovetop and pour. He crosses his legs when Crowley's heavy footsteps head his way, then uncrosses them when Crowley finally emerges. He's dressed in the same clothes he fell asleep in - swanky black trousers and jacket, a grey silk shirt, his glasses fixed firmly onto the bridge of his nose. He miracled the wrinkles out of his clothes and his hair into a semblance of neat waves, but he still looks like he slept in the gutter outside. He walks in carrying two steaming mugs, raising one as an offering and a greeting.

“Uh, hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says, fighting with all his might not to glance upward.

Eyes half-lidded, Crowley sets one of the mugs in front of Aziraphale. “Hey, angel. Here ya go.”

“Oh. Thank you. That's very kind of you." Aziraphale toys with his mug, turning it left and right. The coffee is cloudy, but not with cream. A sniff tells him that Crowley topped off his mug with a generous dollop of Bailey's. Thank goodness! he thinks. Liquid courage. Even with this good fortune staring him in the face, Aziraphale doesn't lift his mug to drink. "Any plans for today, dear boy?"

"Hmm ... not really." Crowley yawns. "Thought I might just hang 'round here, bother you if you don't mind."

"I don't mind at all," Aziraphale says. "It's always wonderful having you around."

"Great. Oh, by the way, your book’s upside down."

"Uh ..." Aziraphale flips to the cover and discovers that yes, indeed, it's upside down. So much for casual. “Thank you.”

"Don't mention it. I'm headin' back to the sofa. You should join me, read your book there."

"Should I?"

"Mm-hmm." Crowley takes a sip from his mug. "How else am I to bother you if we're in two separate rooms?"

Aziraphale nods. "Yes. I see. Well, in that case, I'll be right in."

"Fantastic."

Aziraphale sighs as Crowley passes in front of him, staring into his cup, missing the mistletoe entirely.

That was a disaster, Aziraphale thinks. One for the record books.

Wasn't he determined to sit under the mistletoe until Crowley kissed him?

Yes, but he doesn't want to turn down an invitation to spend time together either.

Maybe he can bring the mistletoe with him into the backroom, sneakily set it up in there. Crowley probably wouldn't notice if he Aziraphale hung it not so sneakily. He looks like he has one foot stuck knee-deep into unconsciousness as is.

A step through the threshold, Crowley stops when he notices Aziraphale isn't following him. He takes a step back and looks at him - book closed around his index finger, cheeks pink, his lower lip pinched between his teeth, eyes aimed down at his feet. He looks embarrassed about something.

And disappointed.

It can't really be because Crowley interrupted his reading. Aziraphale has read that book thousands of times. Which is probably why he was reading it upside down. More of a challenge for him.

But Crowley didn't get up for coffee.

He got up to give Aziraphale his Christmas present.

Early.

Mostly because Crowley can't wait.

If he doesn't give Aziraphale his present now, Crowley will think up a dozen reasons why he should wait.

A dozen bullshite reasons.

"Aziraphale?" he strolls over to his angel, waking inch by inch with every step he takes, and sets his coffee mug on the desk.

"Yes, my dear?" Aziraphale looks up. "What is ...?"

With a sleepy but mischievous smile on his lips, Crowley puts a hand behind Aziraphale's neck and kisses him, drawing out the moment before, giving his angel all the opportunity in the world to tell him to stop.

But Aziraphale says no such thing.

Crowley’s mouth is soft and warm and tastes like Bailey’s, but what Aziraphale loves about this kiss is it’s in no way urgent, the way high-romance novels make people believe all kisses should be. According to the lovely publishers at Harlequin, first kisses must be desperate to be passionate, painfully so.

Crowley kisses Aziraphale as if he's claiming something that has always belonged to him, something he lost track of, and he wants to savor it. Crowley kisses Aziraphale as if they could stand there all morning long, all day long, and kiss, and Crowley would be perfectly content. This is where their Tuesday is going to begin and end - with Crowley kissing Aziraphale.

Crowley pulls away grinning, but Aziraphale looks dumbfounded, not a single word left in his head to express the thoughts sparking off one by one like fireworks.

"Wot?" Crowley asks, mildly self-conscious that his plan may have not gone off the way he'd hoped.

“Uh ... oh ... mistletoe?” Aziraphale asks, eyes darting up towards the obvious culprit behind this moment.

“No,” Crowley says. “I’ve wanted to do that for months now. I just never got the chance.”

"Oh."

"So ... you gonna let me bother you?" Crowley teases, and for the first time, Aziraphale catches on to the fact that bother in this context means kiss.

Perhaps more.

And yes, Aziraphale definitely wants that.

"That sounds ... lovely." He stands from his desk chair and takes Crowley's hand, leaving his ridiculous bundle of mistletoe, and their coffees, behind.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #Ineffable Holiday 2020 #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale #Crowley

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twsted-simp-writer · 4 years

Text

demon

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Songfic

The song I used is a Filipino song called Demonyo by Juan Karlos Labajo. I used the English translation in this one.

Did you know I wouldn't have liked you

If you had an ugly personality?

Days had passed since they left this world. Life continued on normally in Night Raven College. The students did their own things, attending classes, doing their work in their respective dorms.

It was as if he had gone back to those days. Shut inside his room playing games all day, rarely gaining contact towards other people except his little brother, Ortho. Isolated to the world, hiding from the reality present before him.

So dear, you don't have to wonder

Why I felt inlove with you

Standing beside the Headmaster who was carrying a cat, tied up with his so-called whip of love. He wasn't able to see you since his gadget is on his place, where his voice is live playing. By the time the Mirror of Darkness began to assess, it frowned. Their soul had no shape. Therefore, they do not belong to any dorms.

A human who can't use magic taken by the black carriage itself, to this academy. That was a first. He can understand the Headmaster's disbelief. The cat made a huge ruckus, almost setting the Mirror Hall on fire. Thankfully, Azul volunteered along with Riddle to catch the monster.

With the end of the entrance ceremony, he had guided the new freshmen to the Ignihyde Dorm for he was the Dorm Leader.

You are an angel who landed in hell

I'm the demon who will guide you

Back to heaven

In Idia's perspective, their first encounter was weirdly funny and awkward. He ran out of snack that night and decided to buy some wearing his lab coat.

Grim who lost in the rock, paper, scissors game had to buy drinks for the group. Being the worrywart you were, you soon went to help the monster in carrying the drinks. As the said monster walked down the dark hallway, he heard incoherent mumbling the end.

Idia who saw the monster wanted to touch him. He had no bad intentions bit seeing the intense look on his face Grim shrieked. The monster fell on the floor, unconscious. He fainted due to fright thinking he was the mad scientist whom Ace told from a horror story.

You heard Grim's frightened shriek and ran. Along the way, you bumped into him. Idia managed to catch you before you could fell on our butt. Deep inside, he was panicking. He didn't know what to do. His gaze landed on yours. His heart felt a thump as if he was hit by Eros' arrow at that moment.

Those eyes filled with curiosity as they take in his features. You gave their thanks before picking up the drinks and the unconscious monster. He watched your retreating figure while he held his chest. What was that he felt just now?

He met them once again at night where they first encountered. It was awkward at first and you are ended up separating ways without exchanging words. Idia wanted to slap himself. That was his chance yet he was too afraid he may scare them off.

While we're climbing

I fell inlove

With you

A certain robot noticed his brother's odd behavior, he was pacing back and forth talking to himself. He would occasionally shake his head before jumping to his bed and starts smiling like an idiot.

Ortho began to scan Idia and ran an analysis. So far from the results, it seems his brother is showing signs of being in love. Just the thought of that made this precious cinnamon almost want to leap in joy.

"Brother, are you perhaps in love?" His little brother's assumption made him froze and his smile fell. In love? With who? He suddenly thought of your smiling face.

Idia rolled his eyes. That can't be, Ortho must be overthinking things. He better check his system later.

"I'm not, Ortho. I might only be anxious because of something." And that something was you. He was still on denial. Every minute you would enter his mind out of nowhere.

"According to what I researched, when you're in love, you feel like it's not enough, you always think of them, you've been stressed lately" Ortho stated as he read the analysis displayed before him.

"Currently you're in the first stage of liking someone which is denial." Ortho happily announced as he clapped his hands. "I'm glad my brother is slowly opening up!"

Idia merely buried his face on his pillow. "Hmp noszh umn roub..."

The cute robot merely shook his head. His brother would realize it sooner or later.

What if you will suddenly be gone with me

When you give colors to my heart and feelings

He was intoxicated with everything about you. The way their eyes gleam in joy that was staring at his own, twiddling a part of their hair whenever they are nervous, shy or excited.

It seems Ortho may have been right, ever since he laid his eyes on you, he had his heart got stolen. He had gathered all of his courage to speak to you. After many days, you became close.

In his eyes, you were too perfect. Too perfect for him. They deserved someone better than him yet you were stuck with him. A shut-in who play games all day, not that popular, hates going out, not as handsome as the other students in this academy. Just what did you see in him?

Negative thoughts began to accumulate in his mind. Ortho seeing this became nervous. He may accumulate blot at this point. Yet you didn't care and fell in love with him. He felt like it was a dream when you two started dating.

Ortho was very happy by the news and called you sister-in-law which made Idia choke on his own spit.

It started slow but surely. Occasionally holding hands when you both find opportunity. At the end of their dates (mostly indoors), the two lovers would end up with red faces yet felt accomplished.

You are the princess that landed far away

I am the slave that will guide you

Back to the palace

That was the day he felt his whole world somehow stopped. The Headmaster had found a way for his lover to return back to their world. Of course, you would have to go back to your own world one day. He felt like someone took out his heart and shredded it into pieces.

On the day you would leave this world, you bid farewell to your fellow first year friends and acquaintances from the other dorms. Each dorm leaders gave you souvenirs as to remembrance and gave them thanks. With the exception of Leona who said he will not miss them but he gave you one. Even Malleus Draconia was also there to bid you farewell.

You were glancing at the doors of the hall, waiting for him. He was the last one who still hadn't talked to you. Meanwhile in Idia's thoughts as he hide behind the door, you were going to leave and the possibility of you returning in this world would be low.

Crowley tapped their shoulder and reminded them it was time to go. Casting a longing glance at the door, they manage to see him peeking behind the door along with Ortho who reveal himself and began pulling his brother.

You asked the Headmaster to just give them a moment. Without giving him a chance to respond, you ran to the door. Idia froze seeing this. Ortho who was waiting for the right moment, he pushed him. At the exact moment, you hugged him tightly. Idia slowly wrapped his arms around them.

Crowley watched this interaction with a doting smile. He began to mumble about how gracious he was, giving the two lovers their moment.

He held your hand staring at your eyes, desperate. Deep inside, they wanted to stay in this world permanently but they still have their family waiting for them back home.

You said something which Idia didn't manage to hear. He was too absorbed in his thoughts despite staring at them.

They glanced back to the waiting Headmaster who nodded. They shared a brief and chaste kiss before you slowly pulled away from him. He let your hands slipped away from his grasp as you ran back inside the hall.

He watched as you gave him a last glance before smiling, tears welling up in you eyes. Just seeing those eyes made his chest tighten. They went through the mirror swiftly. Idia silently prayed to the gods you would arrive to your world safely. Even though he is not that lucky, he hoped atleast they heard them.

While we're on our way

I felt inlove

Na-na-na, with you

With you

Oh!

"Brother! I have news!!!" Ortho crashed inside the room. He began waving his arms in the air as to catch his brother's attention from the screen. Idia just blankly stared at the screen as he played.

He pouted seeing his brother was too preoccupied in the game.

"I guess you don't want to see (Y/N) again, brother?"

His hands that were holding the controller paused. The character he was playing, died and huge words GAME OVER flashed at the screen.

Idia bit his lower lip as he hugged his knees close to his chest. Just the thought of you made his heart ache and stomach churn.

"They're not here, Ortho. They went back to their world." Idia bitterly said as he tried to hold in the tears. Barely a week just passed since you returned, he felt so lost and heartbroken.

Ortho was silent for a moment before he smiled. He let the person waiting outside the door to silently enter.

"Idia..." A familiar voice spoke up behind him. Fear and Hope surged throughout his body. Was that what he think it was? Did the Fates love to torture him?

Turning around, his eyes slowly widened and glistened. Standing there at the door frame was you, in a casual outfit. His heart stopped the moment his eyes met yours. His throat became dry, his legs were shaking

You are an angel who landed in hell

I'm the demon who will guide you

Back to heaven

Without a care, tears that well up began to flow down to his cheeks. He ran and wrapped his arms around them, wondering if this was a dream. If it was, he would never want to wake up from this.

You gently smiled seeing the tears, wiping them with their thumbs. You held his face, caressing his cheeks. Idia nuzzle his head close to their warmth.

"I missed you so much..." He broke down as he clutched your hand whimpering, as if they will disappear any moment. He felt like he would go crazy.

"Is this real? Am I hallucinating?" They chuckled seeing his cute antics, mumbling incoherent words. Wrapping their arms around his neck and leaning close, their lips met. They shared a long, gentle but full kiss

Ortho discreetly left the room with a huge grin in his face and quietly close the door. He knew both of them need privacy and make up the lost time.

"H-How?" Idia dumbfoundedly asked as he slowly calm down. His lover giggled before pouting.

"You weren't able to hear what I said back then, didn't you?" They said, poking Idia's cheeks. He began to reminisced that day.

"I promised I'll come back." Idia heard it back then but he was too caught up in his thoughts. They knew he was distracted that day. He didn't answer except he brought them close to his chest.

While we're climbing

I felt inlove

With you

Laying on his own bed, you stare at him with an apologetic expression on their face. "I'm sorry if it took too long..."

Idia held their cheeks as he absorbed their whole features. They had indeed matured a few years which made him think you had grown more beautiful/handsome in his eyes.

"I'll forgive you after you cuddle with me. Also, weeks had just passed..." He turned his head hiding his flustered face. Luckily, you were surprised at the difference on how time runs here and on your world.

"I guess the time flow is here is different from my world."

Idia brought their frame close to his chest. They were stunned but soon burst into fit of giggles. Staring at his eyes, filled with pure love, they pecked his lips and hugged him.

Idia lay his chin above their head in content. A soft smile crawl upon his dark lips. The Fates was somewhat merciful to him this time.

Mmm

With you

#tabby's fics☕#twst idia shroud x reader #idia shroud songfic #twst x reader songfic

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 3 years

Text

One Hundred Days - Good Omens Fic

Another ace Good Omens fic written for @bingokisses - this time, the prompts “Smiling Too Hard Kisses/Pam Massage or Tracing.” Also managed to squeeze in a bit of nose-kissing, since I actually filled that prompt with a drawing.

Full fic available on AO3.

Part 2: The Next Fifty Days

On the fifty-first night, Aziraphale followed Crowley upstairs again.

As before, they held hands up the stairs, a loose clasp of palm against palm. As before, Crowley miracled up a pair of pyjamas, kissed Aziraphale’s cheek, and climbed into bed with a sleepy, “Good night, Angel.”

Aziraphale fussed with the duvet a little longer, smoothing it over Crowley’s shoulder, then stooped, pushing back a fringe of bright red hair. He was right; the hair was thick with sweat after a day of working in the sun, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He leaned a little closer to smell the sweat and earth on Crowley’s brow and, before he could talk himself out of it, pressed a kiss just under Crowley’s hairline.

“G…good night,” Aziraphale managed in a rushed breath, turning to go.

On the fifty-second night, Aziraphale lingered for a few minutes, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. It was tangled, and he worried the knots would hurt Crowley, but the demon simply sighed and relaxed a little more heavily against the pillow.

On the fifty-third night, Crowley wriggled a bit as he climbed into bed, moving just a little towards the center. He didn’t say anything, or gesture, or call attention to the movement in any way.

Still, it took until the fifty-fifth night for Aziraphale to work up the courage to settle himself on the edge of the mattress, stroking Crowley’s hair until he fell asleep.

He marveled, for a little while, at how his demon looked, so still, so quiet, face relaxed, burrowed so deep under the blanket that very little remained to be seen. It was strange, all those long limbs, stilled and compacted and hidden under a thick down duvet. He imagined his own wing covering Crowley instead, and Aziraphale’s face suddenly burned with a pulsing heat, and he rushed from the room.

Crowley didn’t even stir.

Beginning on the fifty-sixth night, Aziraphale sat on the sofa. At the far end, with as much space between them as possible, but nevertheless on the sofa. Crowley smiled, shifted his feet so they took up less space, a more compact sprawl.

Starting on the fifty-seventh night, Crowley sat upright in the other corner of the sofa. He scrolled through his mobile as they chatted, right hand resting lightly on the cushions between them. Aziraphale thought about putting his own hand down as well. He thought about it quite a lot.

On the sixty-fourth night, Aziraphale began organising his music collection while Crowley slept, humming softly to himself. On the sixty-eighth, he started bringing in selected books.

Now and again, he’d pause in his work, to make sure Crowley was still asleep. Adjust his blanket. Push the hair away from his eyes.

More than once he caught himself simply standing there, staring.

But whenever he finished his task for the night, Aziraphale retreated back downstairs and waited with a cup of tea until Crowley rose again in the morning.

On the seventieth night, he took Crowley’s hand as they sat on the sofa, no longer at opposite ends, but not quite close enough for their shoulders to brush. He glanced out from under his eyelashes – is this alright? – and without looking up from his mobile phone, Crowley gave his fingers a warm squeeze.

After an hour or so, he lifted Crowley’s hand to rest on his book, nudging his fingers apart. Tracing his own fingertips up and down the lines of Crowley’s palm, memorising them, mesmerised by them.

Crowley didn’t say a word, except to point out a series of pictures he’d discovered on his mobile. He grinned expectantly.

“It appears to be a cartoon. No, two cartoons cut and glued together. Look, they altered the caption, terrible job.”

“It’s a meme, Angel. It’s a joke.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale squinted at the fancy telephone. “Is the joke that the cartoon no longer makes sense? Some sort of Dadaist nonsense?”

“Nnnnh, you aren’t wrong,” Crowley conceded, returning to whatever he’d been doing.

His hand hadn’t moved. Uncertainly, Aziraphale pressed his own palm to Crowley’s, and the long fingers curled up to interlock with his.

Aziraphale smiled and let their hands rest on the sofa between them.

He followed Crowley upstairs, fingers still twined, palms pressed tightly together so that surely Crowley could feel his heart racing.

This time, when Crowley climbed under the covers, Aziraphale selected a book from his now-filled bookcase, and tried to approach the bed, the right side of the bed, the one with tartan pillow still lying where he’d dropped it. Every step was slower than the one before, until trepidation froze him, half a meter shy of his goal.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley watched him, golden eyes as unreadable as the glasses he usually wore.

“I thought…I thought…this might be…more comfortable. I can…sit on this side. As you – as you fall asleep.” There. Words spoken. It was out in the world.

“It’s an awful lot for one day,” Crowley commented, still not stirring. “Don’t rush yourself.”

He commanded his feet to take another step forward. “I’ve put it off rather a long time already, haven’t I?” Another step, knees now just shy of the mattress. “I’ve…forced you to wait…”

“You haven’t forced me to do anything. You never have.” Aziraphale stared at the crooked pillow, the slightly rumpled line of the duvet. “Angel. Look at me.” He glanced up, and now Crowley’s eyes weren’t blank at all, and that made this even harder. “I’m not…not waiting for anything. There isn’t some, I don’t know, some destination we have to race towards. There isn’t any endgame here. There’s just you, and me. What we have…this life…it’s enough. Whatever you want, whatever you’re comfortable with, it’s enough. Don’t ever feel like you have to – to be anything other than what you are.”

“I just…” Aziraphale’s eyes fell on the bed, and he stared at it so long he wondered why it didn’t catch fire. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am. Aziraphale, I am already as happy as I know how to be.”

Blinking tears from his eyes, Aziraphale reached out. Took the pillow that he had dropped seventy days before. Shook it out and placed it neatly against the headboard.

Then he placed the book on the bed in front of it.

“There, that…that should keep…another day or two.” He bit his lip. “That’s…that’s quite enough for one night.”

He circled around the bed and felt a strange rush of relief to arrive on the left side again. To perch on the edge of the mattress, as he already had so many times. Crowley sat up to kiss his cheek, as always, but this time let his lips rest a moment longer, his nose brush the side of Aziraphale’s. “Good night,” he whispered, and for once it sounded almost like a promise, a blessing, inasmuch as a demon could bless. “Angel.”

Then he flopped back onto his pillow, as dramatic as ever.

“Good night, dear.” Aziraphale tugged the blankets smooth and ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

“Mmmh,” Crowley purred, leaning into his fingers, eyes drifting shut. “Hey, Aziraphale?”

“Y-yes?” They almost never spoke after saying good night.

“You want to tell me about your book?”

“What?” He glanced furtively at the other side of the bed. “The one I…”

But Crowley’s eyelids didn’t even flicker. “You read about twenty this week. Whichever you like.”

“Oh.” His fingers scratched a little deeper into the sweat-thick mane of hair. Aziraphale had decided he liked the way Crowley’s hair felt at the end of a day in the gardens. The texture. The smell. “Well. Er. I suppose. There is one you might like. Ah. It starts in the French Revolution—”

“Hang on.” The tiniest line of gold appeared in one eye. “Is someone gonna rescue someone else from the guillotine? Dramatically?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale tried to hide a smile. “Quite definitely.”

“Good. Proceed.”

“Where was I? Ah, yes. Paris. The teeming masses of humanity…”

On the seventy-third night, Aziraphale finally worked up the courage to slide onto the right side of the bed. Still fully dressed, still over the covers. Still a little awkward, as if he might change his mind and run.

He nearly did, when Crowley rose to kiss the side of his head. It seemed so much more alarming when done…well…in bed. But then he dropped down, red hair spilling across a black pillow, and wriggled under the blankets.

“Night, Angel,” he yawned, sounding even more tired than usual. They’d spent most of the afternoon exploring the paths through the woods and Aziraphale had – twice – briefly taken his hand.

“Good night, dear.” The words tumbled out without a thought. “Er. Crowley. Don’t you…usually sleep facing the door?”

Crowley blinked, which was rare enough, and glanced over his shoulder in confusion. When he turned back, his brow was furrowed. “Don’t be daft. I sleep facing you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that. “Oh.” Crowley had rolled over a few times, in previous weeks, as Aziraphale moved around the bedroom setting things up. He’d never thought anything of it, but, yes, Crowley had always turned to face the side of the room Aziraphale stood on, like a daisy tracking the sun. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Crowley mocked, but not cruelly. He closed his eyes and settled down. “What are you reading?”

“Ah.” Aziraphale glanced at the book he’d taken off the shelf several nights before. “Kinder- und Hausemärchen.”

“Uh…”

“The, ah, the Brothers Grimm.” He turned the pages idly. “Would you like me to…read it to you?”

A wide, toothy grin spread across his narrow face. “Only if you promise to do the voices.”

Smiling back, Aziraphale reached across and tucked some hair behind Crowley’s ear. “The first is the Frog Prince…”

That first night in bed, the seventy-third in the cottage, Aziraphale read a few stories, then quietly left once Crowley was asleep. He paused in the doorway and, sure enough, the demon turned over to face him without waking.

On the seventy-fifth night, he kept reading long after Crowley had fallen asleep.

On the seventy-ninth night, he stayed until after midnight.

On the eighty-third night (or very early on the eighty-fourth morning, but it was dark until well after breakfast this time of year), he put aside the book, and just watched Crowley sleep, without shyness, without fear.

On the eighty-seventh night, he noticed Crowley’s hand emerging from the blankets, and idly reached across to trace its lines once more. He tugged it towards him, thinking perhaps to hold it as he continued reading, but Crowley immediately moved, wriggling across the bed to press against Aziraphale’s hip.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called in alarm. “What are you…”

“Nrrgh,” Crowley muttered, and let out a noise almost like a snore.

This was most unusual. But it wasn’t bad.

That night, Aziraphale let Crowley press against him for almost an hour before gently disentangling himself and leaving.

On the eighty-eighth night, he let it go on a little longer.

On the ninety-fourth night, he lost all track of time, and barely slipped out of the room before Crowley woke up. It occurred to him, as he went down the stairs, that perhaps…perhaps he didn’t need to leave?

The ninety-fifth night in Aziraphale and Crowley’s cottage, winter arrived; perhaps not according to the calendar, but certainly by the weather. Warm jumpers emerged from nowhere, and Crowley grumbled that all his had tartan trim, then blushed to see Aziraphale’s embroidered with a tiny snake coiled into a heart.

Cold seeped in through the walls, but not in an unpleasant way. Aziraphale tried out a new soup recipe, and Crowley spent over an hour insisting he could light the fire the human way, before finally giving up and agreeing to a miracle.

That night, when Aziraphale tugged at his sleeping demon’s hand, Crowley looped an arm over his legs, pulling closer, seeking warmth.

When the angel finally convinced himself to slip away, he tucked his pillow under Crowley’s arm. He paused in the doorway to watch as Crowley rolled over to face towards him, chin still resting on the tartan pillow.

On the ninety-ninth night, the snow arrived. It was early; Crowley had complained all evening that he’d barely managed to get the garden settled for the winter; the greenhouse would have to wait until next year, and he seemed at a bit of a loss what to do with himself until the ground thawed. He shivered a bit – despite the warm fire – and Aziraphale squeezed his hand as they sat.

By the time they climbed into bed, the wind was roaring, whistling around the eaves and rattling the windowpanes. Aziraphale smoothed the blankets, settled atop them, then held out his arm indicating, somewhat indirectly, the space beside him.

“You, uh…you sure?”

“You’re cold, aren’t you?”

Crowley shrugged, but didn’t say anything.

Aziraphale smiled encouragingly. “Yes, dear. I’m sure.”

It was…not the same as when his demon pressed against him in the night. Crowley seemed to coil, twisting arms and legs, trying a hundred positions in a matter of seconds. Finally settled for having his head on Aziraphale’s lap, limbs twined all around him in an inextricable Gordian knot.

“S’good?”

It was almost perfect, except that somehow one of Aziraphale’s hands had become entwined with Crowley’s and the other was already burying itself in his hair. How was he ever supposed to hold a book like this?

But, it occurred to him, he didn’t actually want his book right now, not when the sight before him was so captivating.

“This is…yes. Jolly good. Ehem. Good night, Crowley dear.”

“G’night, Angel.” He wriggled even closer. Not wriggled. There was a word for this. Cuddled. It made Aziraphale’s heart flutter in his chest. “Nh. Aziraphale?” He sounded a little embarrassed.

“What is it?”

“Last couple mornings I’ve, uh…I woke up holding your pillow.”

“I…I know, dear.” Even if the actions were coming more easily, it was still so hard to put it into words. “The last, um, the last few nights you’ve been…reaching. For me. Moving closer. I felt, well, like you should…have something…when I left?”

“Mmrrrrrgh,” Crowley groaned, burying his face into Aziraphale’s thighs. “M’sorry.”

“What on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

“Didn’t ask.” He shrugged, a rather complicated gesture from this position. “’Nd. I told you I didn’t want anything more. Thought it was true. But I guess. Sometimes, it’s not?”

For the first time in ninety-nine nights, Aziraphale realised this might be as difficult for Crowley as it was for him. Of course he’d failed to notice. After all, he was a foolish, self-centred angel, hardly a thought for anyone but himself.

Instead of feeling guilty, though, Aziraphale felt…strangely relieved.

He leaned down to kiss the top of Crowley’s head. It was a bit of a stretch – he felt it in his back – but completely worth it. “Don’t worry about it, darling. Just sleep.”

On the hundredth morning, Aziraphale stood framed in the bedroom door, looking at the way Crowley held the tartan pillow, limbs in a complicated death grip that still managed to be extraordinarily gentle.

When the demon’s eyes fluttered open, Aziraphale lifted the mug he held, miracled to exactly the right temperature. “Coffee, dear?” he asked, heart throbbing in anticipation of the smile.

The snow had fallen more than knee-deep, and Crowley spent an hour clearing snow off the delicate branches of the saplings, shoveling the garden walkway, breath steaming in the wind, until Aziraphale emerged from the cottage and wrapped a black-and-red scarf around his neck, engulfing him from the bottom of his glasses to the top of his jacket.

“Let’s go for a walk, dear.”

“Can’t,” Crowley grunted. “Gotta make a path first.”

“No, you don’t.” Aziraphale stepped onto piled-up snow, and walked across the top of it, light as a cat.

“Well, not all of us are angels.” But Aziraphale could guess from the tone of his voice that the scarf hid a smile.

“You know, Crowley, if you hold my hand, you won’t sink either.”

This time, not even scarf and glasses could hide the way Crowley’s face lit up. His hand slipped into Aziraphale’s as naturally as if it had always belonged there, and together they walked out of the garden and into a forest altered into an exotic, white-puffed land.

“I think I was wrong,” Aziraphale said, looking at the branches of a towering oak, laden with snow and dripping with ice.

“Haven’t sunk yet.”

“No, ages ago. When you talked about getting trees, and I wasn’t sure if it was worth waiting ten years for the fruit. But I think…you don’t get a tree for the fruit.”

Crowley considered this, brow furrowed. “You do if you’re growing an orchard.”

“Are you? Growing an orchard?”

“No…” He tossed his head, hand flying up to catch his knitted hat before it fell off. “Gotta say, no idea where you’re going with this.”

“I mean, you don’t plant a tree because it might produce something you want, years down the road. You plant it because you want a tree. You want to see it bud in the spring, and sit in its shade in the summer, and watch the leaves change in the fall. You want to care for it, tend it as it grows, and then maybe – maybe – years later, you’ll also have apples to enjoy.”

“Hmmm.” Crowley swung their clasped hands with the next few steps. “Glad I didn’t wait for you to come around. It’s far too late to plant trees now.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Yes, I’m sure you knew that all along. That’s why you’re the gardener.”

“Better remember that if we ever need to infiltrate a mansion again.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said airily. “Next time, you can be the gardener, and I’ll be the driver.”

Crowley gasped, Aziraphale giggled, and they walked in silence a few more minutes.

“And you know,” the angel finally said, watching their feet pad across the snow without a trace. “It isn’t...wrong to, I don’t know, to want a bit more from a young tree. To imagine how the blossoms will look, to wish you could sit under the branches and read. I think, you know, part of caring for something is...is anticipating how it will grow and...helping it along.”

“It wouldn’t be...hurrying things?”

“No, I don’t think so. You can enjoy the moment without ignoring the past and...the future.”

The path turned towards what should be a little hollow between the trees, now filled to the brim like a bowl of snow.

“Speaking of...you know...the future.” Crowley said, glancing at the branches interlaced over them. “Future of trees. I mean. If you want something that just looks nice, you get flowers. Tulips. Really pretty, last about five minutes. But a tree, that’s...a commitment. Something you want to share your garden with for centuries.” He stopped walking, turning slowly towards Aziraphale, face still hidden between glasses and scarf. Aziraphale looked up at him, heart pounding. “You know. Never had a tree before. Didn’t work with my lifestyle. But now…here…”

Aziraphale reached with both hands to lower Crowley’s scarf.

Unfortunately, the instant he let go of Crowley’s hand, the demon collapsed, legs buckling at the sudden lack of support, until he lay on his back, buried up to his neck in snow.

“Oh, dear!” Aziraphale fought down a smile. “Oh, Crowley I—” No, it was no good. Watching the now snow-covered demon struggle to sit up doubled Aziraphale over with laughter.

“Funny, am I?”

Aziraphale scrubbed at the tears in his eyes. “Yes. No. It’s just—”

The snowball hit him square in the face before he ever saw it coming. Aziraphale toppled like a tree, sinking deep into the snowdrift.

“Angel!” The sound of Crowley scrambling to his feet. “Blast, I thought you’d—"

“Ah, I see how it is.” Aziraphale sat more slowly, scraping the snow from his cheeks. “You have declared war, Crowley.” He lifted his hands and piles of snow began to rise all around him, forming themselves into balls. “But I don’t think you’re truly prepared to face the wrath of the Guardian of Eden.”

That evening, they sat together on the sofa, Aziraphale’s head resting on Crowley’s shoulder. No books, no mobile phones, just a roaring fire, a thick blanket, and two cups of steaming hot chocolate.

Crowley had taken a hot shower after getting back inside, and Aziraphale was fascinated to see how his hair curled as it dried. Aziraphale had dithered a bit before miracling himself up a set of dry clothes – pyjamas, in fact, styled after Crowley’s, since the last time the angel had slept, loose nightgowns and caps had still been in fashion.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that,” Crowley whispered, turning his head slightly so his lips brushed across Aziraphale’s hair. “The way you did in the woods, I mean.”

“Nor I you.” He closed his eyes and tried to identify all the smells in Crowley’s bath soaps.

When the time came, Aziraphale was the first to stand.

He took his demon’s hand, led him up the stairs and to their bed. Walked around to his own side and lifted the blankets.

“Aziraphale…?”

“Yes, dear.” Everything inside him was bubbling, fluttering, rising up in his throat – but this was good. This was how Aziraphale wanted to feel.

He slid beneath the blankets and rested his head on the pillow.

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, lying on his side, their faces little more than a breath apart. His hand lay in the gap between them.

“I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

“Angel, I told you—”

Aziraphale surged forward, pressing his mouth to Crowley’s.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect. They’d kissed like this, once, long ago, a few days after the world had failed to end. Aziraphale couldn’t remember much, except that he’d been almost sick with nerves, and had pulled away almost immediately. This time was different.

Crowley’s lips were...softer like this than they were against his head or his cheek. And his mouth tingled so much more. In a good way. A very good way. Aziraphale was already starting on a second kiss, tipping his head slightly, when he realised Crowley still hadn’t moved.

Scrambling back - face burning - Aziraphale tugged at the duvet. “I...I’m sorry...did I...get it wrong? I thought…”

Before he could say another word, Crowley’s mouth covered his, warm and welcoming, Crowley’s hand slid up his arm, Crowley’s leg hooked over his knee. Aziraphale leaned into it, hands clutching the black pyjamas, until he was completely and utterly surrounded by Crowley.

This was it. This was home. This was the bliss, the acceptance, he’d never felt in Heaven, that had always been held just out of his reach, pulled away when he came close to grasping it, until he learned not to desire it at all…

Here, freely, openly given. Not just now, but over and over, every minute for a hundred days, for hundreds of years, and a promise of more, on and on, into a future he couldn’t even imagine…

Crowley’s thumb brushed his cheek and suddenly the kiss vanished.

“Nrfgk.” Crowley pulled away, struggling to untangle himself. “S-sorry!”

“Ah…” Aziraphale tried to catch his breath. “What do...sorry?”

“Should have asked.” He pulled back to his own pillow, tugging it forward as if to make a barrier. “Look, I’m just - do you need me to go? I can wait downstairs until…”

Aziraphale pressed fingers to his cheek, where it still burned from Crowley’s touch, and found it was wet. His blinked through tear-filled eyes at the narrow, panicked face across from him and laughed. The long, loud laughter of a being that only breathed for the joy of it.

“Erf. Aziraphale?”

“You...you silly...ridiculous demon!” He scrubbed at his face, still laughing. “You absurd creature!” Aziraphale reached across the bed until he found Crowley’s hands and drew him closer, as he had so often at night, each time he brought Crowley to nestle against him. He slid across now, wide-eyed and wondering, to lay nose-to-nose once more. “I’m crying because I’m happy. Because I’m not afraid, I’m not...holding myself back, and it feels...wonderful.”

“Oh.” Crowley fidgeted. “Ah. So. Um.” His eyes flicked up to meet Aziraphale’s. “So you liked it? The kiss?”

He felt himself turning pink again as a smile spread across his lips. “Yes, I rather think I did. Er. Did you?”

“Yeah.” The grin stretched straight across Crowley’s face. “I did, I really, really did. You, um,” he waggled his eyebrows in what was probably supposed to be a charming way. “You want to go again?”

“Oh, yes please.”

Aziraphale smiled so hard his cheeks hurt, which unfortunately made kissing quite difficult. They couldn’t push out their lips properly, or quite line up their mouths, their teeth managed to collide more than once. More laughter followed, and Aziraphale felt the strange, heady rush of Crowley’s laugh echoing in his own mouth, against his chest, filling him completely.

In the end they gave up on the kissing, and held each other, Aziraphale’s face buried in Crowley’s neck and shoulder, Crowley’s too-wide smile still pressing into curling silver hair.

The angel still felt embarrassed, but not ashamed, and the difference was marvelous. He didn’t regret his actions, he didn’t fear some unforeseen consequence. Here, in his demon’s embrace, he felt safe, confident. Very nearly sure of himself.

“So what, um…” Crowley’s mouth hovered by his ear. “What brought this on?”

“I don’t really know. It’s been coming on a long time. But…” Aziraphale wriggled back, just far enough to see Crowley’s face without leaving the circle of his arms. Somehow they’d managed to fit both their heads on the tartan pillow, though there was very little room to spare. Best to stay close. “Well. Partly it’s because of what you said last night.”

“Last night?” His brow furrowed in worry.

“About wanting more without knowing it. I...I rather think I’ve felt that way for centuries.” He tipped his head forward, until his brow rested against Crowley’s chin, and felt those lips press against his hairline. “And I realised...It’s not about you being patient with me, or me being brave for you, or anything of the kind. We’re...whatever we are, we’re learning it together. We’re here together, and that’s...that’s what I want. That’s everything I want.”

“That’s…” Crowley swallowed, cleared his throat. “Yeah. Me too.” Cleared his throat again. “So, ah...now what?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tilted his head back to give a sheepish grin. “I hadn’t really thought past, you know. The kissing.”

“Hmmmm.” Crowley lowered his head until their noses brushed. “I’m…actually not sure either.”

“You aren’t?” One more wriggle moved Aziraphale under Crowley’s chin, head resting against his heart. This felt right. Aziraphale tugged one of Crowley’s hands between them, running his fingers across the now-familiar lines and mounds. “Can we just…stay here for a bit?”

“Yeah. Sounds perfect, Angel.”

“And…in case it wasn’t clear…ah…I love you, Crowley.”

“Nk.” It was odd, to feel that tension – so familiar to Aziraphale – run through Crowley, to know exactly the way he must be panicking, stomach tight, heart shuddering. “I…glk…that’s…I…”

Aziraphale lifted their clasped hands and pressed his lips to Crowley’s fingers. “It’s alright, darling. Take as long as you need.”

Thank you again to everyone who read!

#good omens fanfiction #good omens fluff #asexual ineffable husbands #ace omens #good omens prime #south downs cottage #emotional h/c #anxious aziraphale #soft crowley #bed cuddles #hand holding #laughter #kisses #walks in the snow #all the good stuff #prompt fic #kisses bingo #ao3 link #my writing

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goodomensblog · 4 years

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Afterward - Part 13

A Good Omens Choose Your Own Adventure Fic

Here’s how it works:

I’ll write a scene.

At the end of each scene, you’ll be presented with 2-3 options for what the characters will choose to do next.

Comment or reblog to vote for your choice. I’ll count all votes after the first 24 hours after each update is posted.

Read: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12

(Another landslide winner! #2 was the clear favorite. Thank you for voting!)

Afterward - - - Part 13

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

“If you want to keep that hand, demon, you’ll release me. Now.”

Crowley, despite very much wanting to keep said hand, does not let go.

When Gabriel reaches over his shoulder, pulling his Heavenly sword from the aether, Crowley twists out of the way. “Woah, woah, woah - hey! Hold on. Just wait.”

“Just wait?” Gabriel snaps, voice dripping with incredulity. “Heaven is under attack, and you want me to just wait?”

“What about Beelzebub?”

“What about them? Maybe - just maybe it’s a bunch of demons who are fighting my angels right now!”

“That thing, whatever it was we felt - that was not demonic, you know it as well as I do.”

“Then what the fuck are my angels fighting?” Gabriel asks, his knuckles going white around the sword pulled halfway into existence.

From beyond the hall, the cries have grown louder, fiercer - more desperate. There is a static crackling in the air and the acrid, burnt smell of ozone.

Crowley, after risking a glance at the sword, releases Gabriel’s sleeve - and instead, grabs him by the wrist.

“Something,” Crowley hisses, “that was strong enough to bust into Heaven with one blow. Something that I’ve never encountered - and I once traveled all the universe hanging stars. Something that’s, by the sounds of it, carving through ranks of highly trained angelic warriors like butter.”

“That’s why,” Gabriel says, giving his arm a savage yank, “I need to-”

“That’s why you’re gonna want a bloody Lord of Hell in fighting shape!”

At that, Gabriel’s struggles momentarily cease. He blinks, scoffing, “You can’t seriously think-”

“I think that Beelzebub wants to live. And they - like Aziraphale and myself, are currently stuck in Heaven with you, a bunch of angels, and whatever the fuck that thing is. So be smart about this, you giant idiot. Save Beelzebub. Help us find out what they know. And maybe, just maybe we can all use Beelzebub, Lord of Hell, to help us get out of this god damned- er, blessed - augh - whatever! Predicament!” Crowley finishes, chest heaving.

It isn’t exactly a lie. While Crowley is certain Beelzebub, like a cornered cat, will indeed willingly fight whatever this thing is, he is not at all sure how battle ready old Beelzebub will be after just a handful of Hellfire.

But Gabriel doesn’t need to know that.

White knuckled fingers loosen their hold on the sword’s gleaming hilt. Gabriel sinks back. Running a hand up and over his face, he mutters to himself, and sharp, ugly curses fill the spaces between his breaths. When his eyes open, his razor-edge gaze zeroes in on Crowley’s hand. “Seriously. Stop touching me.”

Crowley’s hand snaps open.

“I won’t abandon my soldiers. Not now. Not when they need me,” Gabriel says, yanking his jacket straight. “So you’ll have to retrieve the Hellfire.”

Crowley, who had realistically expected this conversation to end with one of them flipping the middle finger and the other attempting to administer a beheading, takes a moment to process this development.

“I - wait - you want me to-?”

“Yes. Obviously. Shut up.”

“Right. Okay,” Crowley says, and shakes his head. “Wait, where-”

“Do you remember where the records are stored?”

Crowley pauses at that.

His memory of Heaven - it’s strange. In many ways, it blurs together, a mural of incandescent colors, textures, half-recalled musical notes, voices - that from up close, are nearly incomprehensible.

But there are moments of clarity. As if he has, for a second, stepped back a pace, and sees just a glimpse of the full thing; an expansive mural that his mosaic memories press together to create. He knows he hung the stars. And he knows, from some forgotten space in him mind, where in these white marble halls the records are kept.

“Yes,” Crowley says, because he can picture the room in his mind now: those twin pillars on either side of that tall, golden door.

“It’s stored on the highest level, in the silver chest,” Gabriel says, curt.

“Got it,” Crowley says, already retreating - because now that Gabriel has given him the information he needs, Crowley doesn’t want to go and give the archangel a chance to change his mind.

But Gabriel has already turned away. Black, polished shoes tapping smartly against white marble, the angel strolls down the hall and draws a gleaming sword out of the air.

Crowley is mentally mapping his route. He’ll need to take the first door on the right, then cross the atrium and -

Gabriel’s shout catches him before he can leave.

“By the way, I’m not an idiot, demon. I do know that a single jar of expired Hellfire’s not exactly going to do any demonic miracles.” Gabriel stands at the end of the hall, violet eyes bright in the half light. “And I know Beelzebub’s not going to help anyone anytime soon.”

Crowley stops, turning fully back.

Gabriel lifts the sword, jabbing the blade in Crowley’s direction. “After all this is done, I will be in touch. I expect Beelzebub to share the information they promised me.”

Crowley stares, baffled. “What are you-”

“No - nuh - shush!” Gabriel snaps, waving the sword. “In my room, there’s a passageway out of Heaven. It’s behind the tapestry. After you heal Beelzebub, take them and go.”

“Ohh-kay,” Crowley says, trying to wrap his mind around this second surprising development. “You - that’s - uh - huh. You know, that’s actually pretty nice of you, Gabriel.”

“Yeah, no - zip it,” Gabriel bites out, shifting with obvious discomfiture. “The last thing I need is anyone finding a couple of demons and a bad angel in my private rooms. Take Beelzebub and get out.” And with a final jab in Crowley’s direction, Gabriel spins the sword with a flourish and disappears into a beam of screaming light.

“What a nutcase,” Crowley says to the empty hallway.

He crosses the atrium at a sprint, keeping a careful eye out for angels - but the atrium and surrounding halls are empty. Heaven’s full forces have been mustered, then. It’s a sobering thought, and one that makes Crowley run just a little faster.

As he runs, he can’t help but think of Uriel and Gabriel’s conversation. God is….missing? Could it possibly be true? Crowley’s head tilts back, as if he might spy Her amongst the arched ceiling tiles stretching forlornly above.

She couldn’t be gone, right?

After all, where would She go?

The entrance to the Hall of Records is as abandoned as the rest of Heaven, and Crowley flings open it’s arched doors. The Records Room is - staggering. Crowley’s step slow as shelves and stairs rise up around him. His footsteps echo - from marble floors, between pillars, up winding stairs, and fading as they rise into the cavernous dome extending far, far above.

Crowley swears softly, and that echoes too.

As his shoe touches the first stair, he thinks of where he wants to be: the top floor; and when he reaches the second step, the domed ceiling is suddenly directly above him - and the top floor, bathed in gold, is before him, as though it had always been.

Crowley doesn’t have time for surprise or awe, so he focuses instead on the chest; which is sitting, unbothered, at the far side of the room.

He half expects some kind of booby trap, so when the silver lid slides unhesitatingly open, Crowley can’t help but flinch back.

Nothing happens.

Brows lifted, Crowley peers tentatively over the chest’s edge. There, at its center, sits a black jar. Sniffing the air, Crowley can just make out the slightest hints of sulfur.

Tensing, he reaches a hand in - and is relieved when his fingers close over the lid of the jar. He draws it out - and breathes a grateful sigh when no traps spring and no alarms blare.

Kneeling before the chest, he cracks the jar’s lid. When roaring heat surges forth, he snaps the lid back.

“Yep, that’s the stuff,” he says, and screws the lid tight.

Crowley takes the stairs at a run. On the first step, he thinks of the ground floor, and on the second step, he steps confidently into - a room stacked with scrolls.

“Huh,” he says, craning his head back to look at rich oak shelves and the layers of pale scrolls artfully piled upon them. “You’re not what I wanted.”

Deciding to try again, Crowley is turning back to the stairs when faded paint catches his eye.

He stops.

The mural is nearly entirely covered by shelves and scrolls. The visible section is a web of cracked paint and fading colors - a stark contrast to Heaven’s typically immaculate decor. But even faded as it is, Crowley can make out, clear as day, a Bentley - his Bentley, painted in peeling fresco.

Crowley blinks. Rubs his eyes. Squints, and blinks again.

“That’s....weird.”

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

Rushing back with the Hellfire, Crowley has stumbled upon an impossible oddity in the Hall of Records. When faced with this strange omen, Crowley will…

Investigate. He doesn’t have much time to spare, but he can’t leave without uncovering the other side of this mysterious mural.

Leave. The mural is strange, but time is of the essence. Crowley can’t risk the detour.

Please comment or reblog to vote! I can’t wait to see what you all choose :)

Part 14

#good omens #my writing #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #choose your own adventure fic #good omens choose your own adventure #aziraphale #crowely #aziraphale x crowley #good omens gabriel #good omens beelzebub

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29-pieces · 4 years

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Whumptober day 15 - Good Omens

Day 15: Possession Fandom/setting: Good Omens, post-Apocamissed-it-by-that-much Read on AO3 Read on FF.net

~*~

Please, please no, not like this...

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, waving the mug of hot chocolate to waft the enticing aroma in his direction. "You're sure I can't tempt you? But you always want some cocoa, are you not feeling well, my dear?"

Crowley grinned and licked his lips. "Alright then, just a small bit. I do love hot chocolate after all."

No, no, no... I'll do anything, anything you want. Please just stop this, I'm begging you.

"Right away," Aziraphale beamed, bustling back into the kitchen to find another mug.

Crowley settled back, watching him go, then snickered softly. "Beg all you want," he muttered under his breath. "It won't save the angel. Nothing will save him. He's going to die, Crowley, and you're going to watch him. You're going to watch your own hands around his throat, choking the life from him. And then when he's too weak to move, when he looks up at you and pleads for you not to kill him..." He felt for the demonic blade still tucked into his boot. His grin widened. "You're going to watch yourself slit his throat."

Please... What do you want? You can have me, you've already GOT me! We can make a deal. I'll come back to Hell, I'll be a proper demon again, I'll do all the tempting and spreading evil that you want, only let Aziraphale go.

"It's too late for that, Crowley. You know what I want. It's this. Now shut up in there. You really don't want to make this worse for him."

No, don't DO THIS!

"Too late. Here he comes. I think we've gone on with this charade long enough, don't you?"

Aziraphale beamed, setting a second steaming mug of cocoa down in front of the demon. "There you are, my dear, exactly the way you like it."

"You know me," Crowley chuckled, picking up the mug and tossing his dark glasses carelessly to the table. He raised the cup to his lips, making a show of blowing on the hot liquid.

"Yes," Aziraphale agreed, taking a sip of his own cocoa and watching the demon. "And you really ought to have thought of that. Forgive me, my dear."

"Hmm?" Crowley took a long draught as Aziraphale's expression turned cool.

"Crowley hates cocoa."

The holy water in the hot chocolate scorched like fire in his throat, diluted enough so as not to kill, but potent enough for the demon to leap to his feet with a screech of rage and agony. "You BASTARD angel-"

Aziraphale was already on his feet, smile gone as he drew an angelic blade he'd had on hand, curse him. He raised the weapon to point at Crowley with not even a tremor of doubt.

"Six thousand years I've known him, did you really think I wouldn't realize you've been wrong for days now?" the angel coolly demanded. "I only needed enough time to be sure. Now, I don't know who you are, but if you've harmed Crowley in any way, I promise you you'll regret it. Get out of him now, peacefully, and we'll let the matter drop. I won't ask nicely a second time."

"Harmed him?" he gargled out, clutching his throat. "I haven't begun to harm him! You should hear your precious demon, weeping in fear, knowing how long I'm going to take killing you!"

"Hastur?" Aziraphale checked, narrowing his eyes. "Is it you in there?"

"Think bigger, you cretin!" He leaned over, hacking and spitting up gobs of blood, wiping it on the back of Crowley's hand, yanking the demon blade free on his way back up.

Aziraphale eyed the blade warily but didn't retreat. His brow furrowed. "...Beelzebub? You've nothing better to do than-"

"Think bigger!" He flung out a hand and the fat, infuriating angel was knocked off his feet into a pile of books that collapsed beneath him. He was gratified to see the shocked expression shifting slowly into utter terror. It seemed the angel was catching on.

"Not...?" Aziraphale whispered, eyes wide as he tried to crawl back on the floor.

Lucifer stormed towards him, grabbing the angel by the throat and hauling him up. He slammed him against the wall until the angel's sword clattered to the ground, then he leaned in with a furious smile. "That's right. I don't care how strong you've convinced yourselves you are, stopping my son from doing his job, but I can promise you you aren't stronger than me."

It wasn't him! It was me, it was all me, I'm the one who told Adam what to do, Aziraphale had nothing to do with-

"Shut up!" Lucifer raged. "Don't worry, Crowley, when I'm done with the angel, there'll be an eternity to settle my score with you."

"It won't change anything," Aziraphale choked out, clutching at the bruising fingers tightening around his throat. "Even if you kill us... you still lost. God was never going to let you win."

"Still the ever faithful servant?" Lucifer sneered, pressing the tip of Crowley's dagger into Aziraphale's cheek. "The angels turned on you, in case you've forgotten. If I left your dead body at their door, they would thank me. What do you say, Crowley, are you ready to kill your only friend?"

"No!" Crowley cried out, his consciousness thrust to the forefront though he was still unable to control his body. "No, no, no, Aziraphale, I'm sorry! I- I can't- I can't stop him!"

"No, but I can." Aziraphale twisted to the side, leaving enough room between them that he was able to land a solid punch straight to Crowley's diaphragm. Taken by surprise, Lucifer gasped for breath and reflexively released the angel. Aziraphale dove for the angelic weapon he had dropped, scooping it up and then leaping on Crowley's back. "I'm sorry, my dear!"

Lucifer and Crowley both screamed in pain as the blade plunged into their shoulder, thrashing in an attempt to throw the angel off of them. Aziraphale clung on, though, starting to recite an exorcism.

"You can't get rid of me without getting rid of him!" Lucifer raged. He twitched, body already trying to reject him from the power of the exorcism. "I'll take him with me to Hell and you'll never see him again! Never!"

Aziraphale didn't answer, only clutched tighter to Crowley and the blade that physically anchored him to the demon. When the line came in the exorcism to call for the removal of demons, he instead simply slipped Lucifer's name into the Latin, freeing Crowley from its power. Lucifer screamed and thrashed and bellowed, but the words were of an ancient magic that had been given to the humans by God Herself and he could no more resist it than he could reverse the Fall. With one last howl, the devil erupted from the body he had taken, a pillar of fire and smog and evil intent, as Aziraphale finished the exorcism and cast him back into Hell with every remaining ounce of power he had.

Then both Aziraphale and Crowley collapsed.

When Aziraphale awoke, he'd been covered with a blanket. He blinked, lifting his head to see Crowley sitting close by on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest and head drooping dismally on his arms. He'd managed to get a bandage around his shoulder but it was clumsily done and would need attention. Aziraphale sighed and painfully pushed himself up to seated.

Crowley didn't twitch or look his way.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asked softly. The demon only buried his head deeper into his arms, tensing.

Hesitating, not sure how welcome any touch would be at the moment, Aziraphale scooted closer and set a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you... alright? It worked, didn't it? He's gone? I- I'm sorry for stabbing you, I feel perfectly awful about it-"

"No, 'm not alright," Crowley muttered into his arms. "Almost killed you."

Aziraphale nodded, wincing against the soreness of his body. "You didn't, though. Counts for something, doesn't it?"

"Couldn't stop him. You didn't hear him, everything he said he would-" Crowley cut off with a shudder and tilted his head the other direction. "Can't forgive myself..."

"But, my dear boy, you didn't do anything wrong. It was him. It was all him. And I'm fit as a fiddle." He coughed, then amended, "A, ah... rather battered fiddle. Oh my dear, if anyone should be apologizing, it's me. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't think how to remove one of you but not the other, not until I knew which demon had taken you so I could adjust the exorcism. And I fear he was tormenting you all the while, oh, I'm so sorry, Crowley. It was ever so obvious you'd been possessed-"

"Then you should have killed me!" Crowley snapped, lifting his head at last to meet Aziraphale's gaze with pain in his reptilian eyes. "What if it hadn't worked, huh? Better to kill me and that bastard than to get yourself hurt!"

Aziraphale drew himself up in shock and dismay, gasping. "Well, I never! Better to kill you? And then what? Live out my life knowing I had killed the only friend I ever-" He cut off, swallowing. "Absolutely not, dear boy. As long as I'm around, that'll be a last resort, and I still had a few other resorts to go through. Now then... I don't know about you, but I could use something quite strong to drink. Join me? And I'll have a look at that shoulder? Oh, I truly am sorry for that."

Crowley huffed, but relented, scooting closer. "Don't be, it'll be fine in a day or so. S'pose I could do with a drop. No miracles though, I'll get something from your cabinet." He paused, then looked at Aziraphale. "You really knew all that time that it wasn't me?"

"How long have we been friends? Of course I knew. Really, Crowley, you must give me some amount of credit. Now then, about that wine. Unless... you'd prefer cocoa..."

The demon glowered at him and snapped, "No, angel, I would not."

Aziraphale smiled and took his friend's hand, giving it an apologetic squeeze.

"Well then. Thank heavens for that."

#whumptober2020 #no.15 #possessed #good omens #fanfiction #possessed crowley #protective aziraphale #crowley/aziraphale friendship

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ileolai · 5 years

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[this context is probably important so i reccommend reading it first.]

More thoughts about the differences in Aziraphale / Crowley's personal spaces in the book vs the show, because the way they are both illustrated serves different purposes in their journeys, I think.

and of course

so In the book, Aziraphale is outwardly polite but aggressively gaurds his little sanctum of misprinted Bibles and what-not from human people. If he absolutely has to, he'll reluctantly sell the books. ''Second hand book dealer'' is explicitly described as a cover-- an external image-- and the bookshop is mostly a big vault to store his valuable informations. This is, I suppose, how you would illustrate a celestial analogy for a Cold War rogue agent.

But in the tv show, Aziraphale’s story is less about that and more specifically about his emotional relationship to Crowley, to which his humanity, and his aspiration to be more human [previous meta] is a core factor. So the bookshop is more like a home, it's domestic and cozy, and the place he is absolutely at peace, his personal refuge.

and it's not just a disguise, or a vault, the bookshop IS Aziraphale, yes? A sort of outward reflection of himself and his internal world. All those scattered books and papers, the artwork that is ¡specifically! depicting the temptation of Eve, etc-- those are his memories he chooses to keep, his experiences, little pieces of himself. Same with Crowley -- in the book his apartment is about how he constructs his external self-image, it's mostly full of Real Actual Cool Person Stuff that he doesn't actually care about or even interact with, aside from the plants. But in the tv show it's about his internal world, and it's large and cold and spare and hardly a-real-human-persons’-apartment-like. Apart from being these Jungian reflections of their internal selves, the bookshop and the apartment are also the liminal spaces where their important decisions to move forward are made. Aziraphale finally severs his connection to Heaven completely in the bookshop, and Crowley in his ep. 4 extended panic attack repeatedly retreats to and emerges from his apartment, first deciding to run away, and then to murder Hastur and Ligur, etc. But I wanna focus on Crowley here, i’ve wrote reams about Aziraphale already- So Crowley's internal world, very unlike Aziraphale's, is all very boxed in and inaccessible-- the Garden Of Re-traumatizing Myself is in one concrete shrouded box, and the Probably A Wank Fantasy statue is in another box, and the bird statue is in its own little box, and they're all walled off from each other with little to no direct line of sight. And they’re sentimental objects or things specific to Crowley’s character, as opposed to Really Cool Actual Human Person stuff. And there appears to be no visible door in at first [until Hastur kicks it in], unlike Aziraphale’s shop. it just looks like a bunch of transitional hallways and no actual rooms. There’s almost nowhere to settle and say, appreciate your Wank Fantasy Statue, it’s just in this dimly lit claustrophobic little space. A good analogy for Crowley’s fractured / wandering thinking, these hallways.

everything is drawn and shuttered and closed off and dark, but especially during his extended freak-out episode when he is hurt by Aziraphale / having an existential crisis / having some kind of emotional flashback to the Fall / yelling at God all at once [because... shoving your emotions in little boxes doesn’t really... work... ever...]

So here’s one of my favourite little things and a good illustration of how this thing is laid out like a palatial memory space, i think. Immediately after his first attempt at dragging Aziraphale away fails, they break up, and he is considering abandoning the place on his own and hollering at God about it all, the Remember When We Killed Some Nazis In A Church bird statue is sort of hovering there in the background, just out of sight.

But the second time he goes back to his apartment-- which is when he decides to murder someone for his and Aziraphale’s sake again-- it’s looming right over him, and he enters from that space.

Ooh.

Back to his existential Why God Why freak out for a moment-- here he’s looking at the globe, but he’s not actually seeing anything of the actual world outside, right? He’s shut off, shut down and angry. And he bats this thing away-- but it returns, like an annoying thought-- bc as I talked abt in my previous meta, he is much more ambivalent to the Earth than Aziraphale.

Until. UNTIL. This is important! He opens the safe on the second round.

NOW those shutters are open again, and the place is lit up.

Because this is abt opening the most locked-down and guarded part of himself... and the thing which represents Aziraphale's committment to him... opens up everything else, yes? And what he is doing in that moment, is making the commitment to go back to Aziraphale again, even though he was hurt twice-- and in a way he can never walk back from again, bc he’s about to murder someone to do it.

So there's a whole lot more I could go into about why murdering Ligur but failing to kill Hastur is specifically important, why making this tremendous effort at vulnerability and being thwarted by the bookshop burning is what pushes him to the edge of giving up where book!Crowley didn't, etc. but the point I wanna get to is this--

It is only -after- all this, opening the shutters on his internal world and accessing that memory of Aziraphale's committment to him, going back to him, and finding his humanity and value for the world, that Crowley invites Aziraphale back to his apartment for the first time. Shows him all of himself that he keeps locked away, which is essential for them to pull off the swap at the end. He has apparently kept himself walled off and emotionally inaccessible since 1967, until he blurted it all out with ‘’we can run away together?’’ and spent the rest of the episode in frantic damage control.

So I would say it's not Aziraphale who needs to learn how to emotionally reciprocate, yes? Aziraphale made his can’t-walk-this-back committment in 1967 when he stole what is, effectively, the celestial equivalent of weapons grade plutonium. And his own world is always open to Crowley-- Crowley knows the bookshop intimately, and is more comfortable being there than in his own head.

Crowley is kind and generous and loving-- and it’s not that he doesn’t know how he feels-- but returning that level of vulnerability and Being Known is terrifying for him, I think, and he has to face down that terror before he can, has to know he can survive it.

#gettin jungian in this hizzy #good omens #meta #crowley #long post

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