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feralbutfluffy · 6 months

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62. Convergence

Chapter 62 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

It was patient urgency.

It was impatient restraint.

It was being in the eye of a hurricane; everything moving overwhelmingly fast and not at all.

Aziraphale had been stationed on Earth for thousands of years. He had existed for aeons. He had learned so much in that time, experienced so much in that time. He had lived, and felt, and enjoyed, and in the entirety of that duration, in all of those years, in everything he had felt, there had been nothing - nothing - like this.

And had he ever expected to be here?

No, of course not. An angel and a demon, hereditary enemies, digging a grave for their mandated conflict and burying it deep - six millennia under - beneath the comforting weight of friendship, and longing, and care, and love.

And had he ever dreamed of being here?

Yes. Oh, yes.

In private. In secret. Ever since the kiss in the bookshop he had dreamed of it, and he had folded and folded those dreams until they were hardened squares, folded them tiny and tight so he could tuck them away, wedge them between his memories, and pretend they were never there at all.

And now...

His focus was sharp with greed, his entire being overwhelmed by a hunger that yearned to taste the specifics of the moment, that longed to savour them, swallow them down, keep each one somewhere safe and secret and sacred, keep them guarded in his heart, in the back of his skull, in the marrow of his bones.

The damp hair curling against Crowley’s temple.

His pupils, fully dilated, obsidian surrounded by molten gold.

The pulse visibly drumming against his skin.

The sound of rasping breaths being dragged in and out, rough with want.

Aziraphale was pinned beneath Crowley’s angular frame but he felt as if he might be floating, actually, and his heart was in his throat, and he was vaguely aware that it shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be lodged in his airway making him feel like he might choke, like he might be smothered by the intensity of the love he was feeling, but he couldn’t do anything about it. It was stuck fast.

He pulled his hands from Crowley’s to place them tentatively on his waist, and ran them up his sides and over his back. Crowley shook and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead into the curve where Aziraphale’s neck met his shoulder, and Aziraphale lightly dragged his fingernails down and back up the former demon’s back, reveling in every twitch and shudder.

He wanted nothing more than to wrap Crowley in a tight embrace. He wanted to pull him in and hug him to his chest, cradle his head against his heartbeat, let him hear it repeated and repeated and repeated - I love you I love you I love you - until it sank into his skin, until the truth of it was a part of him, until it eased every harm he had ever done, soothed every hurt he had ever inflicted, as he stroked his hair and kissed his eyelids and drowned them both in the downpour of everything he had ever held back in his denial.

But he thought that would be too close to a feeling of restraint to be welcome, so he kept his arms loose and his hands soft and his touch gentle.

And he trembled with the effort of it.

A ferocious, rocketing need was burning through his body, his nerve endings sizzling and catching alight where Crowley’s fingers grazed his skin, and the small fragment of his mind that was still able to formulate thoughts was picturing the Rod of Asclepius.

It was picturing the Rod of Asclepius and wondering if - in some other telling, in some other rendering - the staff might perhaps have been a flaming sword.

****************************************

Crowley was… surprised.

He was surprised he wasn't smoking at the edges where his thighs pressed against Aziraphale's.

He was surprised at how easy it felt, this thing that had seemed impossible for so long.

He was surprised he hadn't discorporated from pure pleasure.

He was surprised to be here at all.

He was… surprised.

Aziraphale was touching him. Really, purposefully, intentionally touching him. He was touching his sides, running his nails lightly down his back, and Crowley felt the gentle rake of them like forked lightning down either side of his spine.

And had he ever expected to be here?

No, no. Fuck no, he hadn't expected it but-

And had he ever dreamt of being here?

Yes. No. Not here exactly. For a demon with a banked love that had spanned thousands and thousands of years, his dreams had been embarrassingly chaste. Usually, they were companionable silences; an angel and a demon enjoying a quiet evening together, one having a cup of tea, the other having a glass of wine, nothing to see here, only two peaceful beings and an appalling, enveloping love.

Sometimes they were alternate endings, rewrites of bitter memories or hurtful phrases, doors pried open by his imagination when in reality they'd been slammed shut. Dreams of-

"I don't even like you!"

"You dooooo!"

"....I do”

And dreams of-

“We could… I don't know. Go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.“

“I'll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

“... Alright. Take me to yours.”

And dreams of-

“I don't think my side would like that.”

“You don't have a side anymore. Neither of us do. We're on our own side.”

“... I like the sound of that, actually.”

And of course, dreams of-

“We can make a difference!”

“...You can't leave this bookshop.”

“Oh, Crowley… Perhaps I could leave the bookshop, but not you. Never you.”

… And other romantic, frothy nonsense concocted by a tired mind sick to the teeth of pretending; it had used his moments of rest to jettison futile thoughts in order to keep him moving, like sandbags thrown overboard to keep a balloon in the air. They never went anywhere, but they were enough. Sometimes, in his wildest dreams, Aziraphale might make a tiny move towards him, might tilt his body, might do something Crowley would interpret as intent, something that would lead him to think of leaning in for a kiss... And he would wake up instantly to find himself on the ceiling, sweaty, flustered, and too agitated to see the angel again for at least a couple of months.

So being here, now, was not exactly a dream come true.

He’d never been insolent enough to dream of this.

This was much, much more. Much more. He put both hands out for it, a prayer from a fervent believer. He was tongue-tied, words of devotion caught behind his teeth, and he had burned so many times - in sulfur, in hellfire, in the Bentley after speeding through a blazing M25 - but he had never burned like this.

This was a delicious, heavy smoulder. It made him want to melt into Aziraphale completely, made him want to wrap around him like a serpent basking on a rock, basking on his rock, and wasn’t that just the most romantic frothy nonsense? Only this was no dream, this was happening, wasn't it? This was real.

Aziraphale’s movements were careful, and gentle, and steady, and Crowley felt his touch and thought of reach out your hand and put it on my side.

He felt his kiss and thought of stop doubting and believe.

And he did.

****************************************

Aziraphale allowed Crowley to tug him to his feet.

“Feeling better then, are we?” He said, arching an eyebrow at Crowley’s improved stability.

“Much,” said Crowley, stealing a kiss.

“You could barely walk earlier-”

“Angelic kisses must have restorative properties,” said Crowley, grinning, and their feet tangled as they stumbled across the carpet, Crowley unbuttoning Aziraphale's shirt as they went, bending to press dutiful kisses at each point of skin revealed. Aziraphale sighed happily and allowed himself to be gently pushed back onto the bed, into a pile of blankets and pillows and cushions so deep he was almost buried in them. He laughed as he tossed some to the floor, the laugh dying in his throat as Crowley pulled off his top, the black one with the thin yellow stripes, and stood at the foot of the bed looking long and lean and angular.

Of course Crowley had been bare-chested after the rescue from Heaven, but everything had been so awful then, and there had been so much pain, so much hurt, it hadn’t mattered, hadn’t even been a consideration. But now…

He stood there, any lingering pain pushed aside, his torso marked with pale lines and raised carvings, his bruises splashes of indecent colour on an otherwise pale canvas. He looked brave. He looked alive. And, well, Aziraphale thought it was probably a good thing he’d been a demon really because he was spectacular, and it must be sinful to look quite so tempting.

Crowley dropped the black fabric on the floor and Aziraphale must have been doing something with his face because when Crowley looked up and caught his expression he froze, his pupils contracting slightly, his jaw tightening.

“What? Should I not have-?” There was uncertainty in his voice, fear that he had overstepped, a hollow echo of you go too fast for me hanging in the air between them, and his shoulders hunched inward, the hollows at his collarbones becoming more pronounced with the movement. He tilted his chin up in a gesture of defiance even as he looked down at Aziraphale with a chastened expression, an oxymoron made flesh.

Aziraphale propped himself up on his elbows and smiled at him, and he tried to pour everything into it - his admiration, his wonder, his desire, his fascination, his joy - and he hoped Crowley could see it, wondered if he could feel it radiating off him in helpless waves.

He certainly must have seen something, because his jaw and shoulders relaxed, and one corner of his mouth kicked up into a fraction of a smile, and he came forward to kneel on the edge of the bed, falling forward over Aziraphale, bracketing his shoulders with his arms. He looked down at him, his hair falling forward on his forehead, his eyes wide and imploring.

“Yeah?” Crowley said, and the word was almost-shy, packed dense with apprehension and hope.

Puppy dog eyes thought Aziraphale, and a hysterical giggle almost bubbled out around the heart in his throat. Not puppy dog eyes at all. Serpent eyes. Beautiful, adoring, hopeful serpent eyes.

He cupped Crowley’s face in his hands in such a gentle hold that he was barely touching him. “You are magnificent.”

Crowley didn’t flinch at the touch, but he flinched at the comment, a reflexive recoil, and his lips parted to form the shape of some denial, some interjection, but Aziraphale shook his head minutely and put two fingers to his mouth, staying the words.

Crowley stared at him, his breathing heavy, and Aziraphale was mesmerised by the rising and falling of his naked chest. Crowley flicked his tongue against Aziraphale's fingers and huffed with laughter when he pulled them away in shock. Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and retaliated by pushing up to trace Crowley’s collarbone with his lips. Crowley’s elbows almost gave out. He let out a long, shaky hiss, and then his pupils widened again, and Aziraphale felt positively wicked in the most wonderful way.

“Crowley, you are-”

“Lucky,” interrupted Crowley in a low, earnest voice. “So lucky.”

“Shhh don’t be silly,” he said, rubbing at a faint white mark that underlined how very unlucky he had been. “I’m blessed to know you,” Aziraphale said, and put his lips to a thin white scar that crossed Crowley’s chest.

"Blessed," Crowley repeated, his eyes half-closed with pleasure. He gave him a lopsided smile. “Blessed either way,” he said, prodding his chest with a finger, “...Angel.”

Aziraphale’s smile was crooked as he wondered if this would be the thing that pushed him over the edge into a Fall, if this was what would tip him over into something he had been afraid of for so long that the fear felt like an intrinsic part of him. He wondered if this was what would cleave him from Heaven, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the familiar icy terror, the asphyxiating guilt, the feeling of celestial duty stomping on his wants and needs in steel-toed boots, grinding them to dust.

But it didn’t come. There was something - a whisper of censure, a muffled shriek of outrage - but it was so far away as to be almost inaudible, and then Crowley kissed him again and it vanished completely.

There was no going back. He had tasted, for good or for ill, and it had awakened an appetite that couldn’t be ignored, and Aziraphale kissed Crowley back and thought, I’ll be damned.

And he remembered Crowley’s reply of it's not that bad when you get used to it and he thought that if it involved this, then he could get used to it.

Oh, he could definitely get used to this.

****************************************

Aziraphale was smiling up at him. His jacket was... somewhere (now with three fewer buttons), and his waistcoat had been removed and carefully folded (by one sheepish demon feeling guilty about possibly having ripped the jacket). His shirt was fully unbuttoned, hanging loose against his sides, exposing his torso. Crowley had unwrapped him like one of those chocolates Aziraphale liked so much, and now he was lying beneath him panting happily, looking as rumpled as he'd ever seen him, and he loved him, so much, so much, and he thought that if he could, he would reach into his chest and rip out his heart, press it into his hands, close his fingers over it, and he wouldn't feel a thing because after all hadn't it always been there?

And he sat up on his knees, curling two fingers of one hand into one of Aziraphale's belt loops as he used his other hand to drag black-tipped nails down Aziraphale's stomach, eyes creasing in happy satisfaction at the little sounds it elicited. He ran a fingertip along the skin just above his waistband and watched, fascinated, as the angel's skin leaped at his touch.

Aziraphale swallowed, and whimpered, and then said his name, but - unfortunately - it wasn't a mindless utterance spoken in pleasure, it was a question.

Crowley tilted his head and met his gaze.

"Do you-," the angel licked his lips and tried again. "Do you... Do you have an awful lot of experience with this sort of thing?"

Crowley stared at him.

"What?"

"How many times have you...?"

Crowley blushed. Properly blushed. "Er...."

"I just want to know how similar this is to temptations you might have done in the past-"

"You think I do this with-"? Crowley is so indignant he almost chokes. "A kiss, maybe, at most, and that's only if absolutely necessary!"

Aziraphale was the one staring now. "So you've never...?"

"No!" A moment of silence passed while he turned the question over in his head and a thought occurred to him. "Have you?"

"No! No of course not!" Aziraphale says hurriedly, and the quick stab of jealousy that had pierced Crowley's chest immediately disappeared.

"Oh. Right. Good. I mean, okay."

Although Aziraphale is rather pink, and he has been known to lie...

"Are you sure?" Crowley can't help it, he just blurts it out, this needy question, this desperate request for reassurance, for yes I'm sure, and yes you're the only one.

"Quite sure," Aziraphale frowns at him, but his cheeks are magenta.

"You're blushing, angel," he points out.

"Well, I may not have done it before, but I've read things..."

"... Of course you have," said Crowley dryly.

"... So I'm certainly familiar with the theory."

Crowley's eyebrows rose. "Right. The theory."

He nodded at Aziraphale, enchanted as usual, besotted like always. Here he was lying beneath him, struggling to draw breath, flushed with pleasure, and the blessed angel was trying to talk to him about theory.

"I can tell you about it," breathed Aziraphale, "I can tell you about- about- about erogenous zones."

Crowley groaned and buried his face in Aziraphale's neck.

"I could tell you about- about-" Aziraphale stuttered as Crowley nipped at his shoulder with teeth that were slightly sharper than they ought to have been. "... th-th-the different-"

"If you say erogenous zones again, I swear..." growled Crowley, pinching one of his nipples, making Aziraphale arch off the bed with an embarrassingly loud cry. "What do you take me for?"

As charming as he found Aziraphale's love of learning, Crowley didn't think this was the time to discuss theory. All he wanted to do was trust his intuition and keep experimenting and exploring until he discovered how to make Aziraphale see stars.

He would figure it out as he went. He was sure he would.

He always did.

****************************************

In the ensuing hours, Aziraphale and Crowley slowly explored an aspect of humanity they had long ignored.

They made an effort to indulge in human pleasures they had been denying themselves, and after that there were no more miracles.

There was no snapping of fingers, no shortcut taken, no instant gratification. They had waited for so long, wondered for so long. Reverent, trembling fingers explored creases and dips, curves and hollows, millimetre by millimetre.

There was an urgency that shook them both, powerful and electric, and it was the feeling of a door they’d been pushing against forever, shoulder to shoulder, suddenly opening so that they were tumbling through it and falling into each other.

They harnessed it. They channeled it into the gentle pressure of fingertips digging into sensitive skin, and unhurried, leisurely kisses, and deliberate, tender touch, and skin being revealed by degrees, and adoring hands, and worshipping mouths, and achingly slow strokes.

Words were exhaled by one to be inhaled by the other, and their names fell from their lips like prayers, and they were together, and they were inhabiting each others' hearts, and they were inhabiting each others' bodies. Angel, demon...

And neither of them exploded.

And both of them saw stars.

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knifeforkspooncup · 26 days

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Lord Knows it Would be the First Time

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Here's a tiny snippet of my current one shot wip. It's 1985 and Crowley is settling into what promises to be another afternoon of excessive drinking and banter at the bookshop. Both he and Aziraphale are getting back to a shaky semblance of normal after a century and a half of hurt feelings, renewed terror, and revelations about their relationship. But it's a fragile existence.

How ever will our heroes cope?

Ft. Wip of the cover art I'm making, because I'm feral for 80s Crowley in an oversized blazer and shoulder-length hair.

(No content warnings for the snippet below)

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A soft footstep falters close behind him, signaling he’s not alone. Aziraphale.

Crowley knows he should pull himself together, turn to the angel with an expectant smirk, wait for him to start their next round of banter on the merits of modern music.

Let himself be carried into the afternoon on a river of wine and good conversation, muffling the anger and longing under his friend’s gentle guidance. Follow Aziraphale’s cautious lead like he’d promised to 17 years ago, you go too fast for me, Crowley.

It was enough most days. It had to be.

But Crowley can smell the lavender and mint notes of his cologne, can picture his hands grasping the wine bottle at the neck, the soft way his waistcoat wrinkles when he sits. He’s not sure it’s enough today.

#I'm gonna level with you guys #i am TERRIFIED to post my writing #like #i just wrote what i wanted to read and maybe that's all it is lol #good omens fic #gomens fic #aziracrow fanfic #aziracrow #good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands

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roswellsmokingwoman · 2 months

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(Aziraphale x Crowley) Headlights - Chapter 5

Read Here - NOW COMPLETE!!! Good Omens Human AU with a divorced Crowley and Aziraphale finding love again and getting back together.

Soho, Present Day

Crowley is a coward, plain and simple. And so what if he is? His cowardice brings out Aziraphale’s bravery. After all, it was Aziraphale who called first after three years. It wasn’t that Crowley had been too stubborn to make the first move, and it wasn’t anger that stopped him from dialing the number of the bookshop. Only now, it isn’t the fear of rejection that stops him from proposing.

How does someone propose the second time around? There’s a shortage of articles on the subject of remarrying your once-spouse. He knows Aziraphale too well to doubt that Aziraphale’s expectations grow with each passing day. Because a ring would be too small and my physical heart too impossible, I gave him nothing and nothing was enough. Is that romantic or pitiful? Crowley wonders.

Now, with all of his grand plans, his ability to propose falls short. So, if he can’t take to one knee, he resorts to a course of action he knows Aziraphale will understand. He’s tried his pen at romance and never managed a convincing tale. The one he’s written now, to him is the essence of romance but to others, it must be a maddeningly ineffable tale of two idiots

The binder is thick and heavy between his hands, and he holds it awkwardly like a sandwich, presenting it to Aziraphale the way in which a child presents a drawing to a parent–clumsily, with both pride and embarrassment. Binders are new–he’s never put the pages of a book in a binder, but it’s helped him this time around to have the presentation. It’s a crude approximation of cloth-bound pages he’s used to, but it gives the image of a finished product.

Aziraphale eyes Crowley suspiciously, his brows furrowed. “What’s this?” he asks, but his heart thumps in his chest. Best not to assume , Aziraphale reminds himself. The memory plays over in his mind, and if it is what he thinks it is, then Crowley must be telling him he’s ready. His hand hovers near the binder, too afraid to take it.

Crowley thrusts it out to him. “I want you to read it,” he insists, handing off the binder with its hundreds of pages.

“Is it your book?” Aziraphale whispers.

Crowley nods.

Aziraphale isn’t prepared for this. He desired this so desperately, but he still hadn’t brought himself to buy a ring. He’d looked at several, comparing each to the platinum band with a crimson stone that Crowley once wore. None ever came close to it. You don’t need a ring to ask , Aziraphale tries to tell himself.

“Could we read it together?” Aziraphale asks instead.

Crowley miscalculated. He hadn’t accounted for those moments when Aziraphale chose cowardice, too. And then he would pass off the helm to Crowley, eagerly awaiting his savior. He’s smiling so innocently, the bastard, Crowley stews.

But Crowley agrees and sits down with Aziraphale on the couch, sharing a thin tartan blanket. It’s supposed to be Aziraphale’s reading hour, and the room is already set–a candle with wooden wick flickers, infusing the room with warmth. The lights are dimmed except for those nearest to the couch, for ambience.

Crowley clears his throat, shifting as Aziraphale lays his head on Crowley’s shoulder. He begins reading, inflecting as he’d imagined the pages should be read. Aziraphale smiles, mesmerized by Crowley’s cadence and the gentle rasp of his voice.

He had the patience of Job. The nameless man lives in the dark. It isn’t the kind of dark that eyes can adjust to, forming dim and blurry shapes. The darkness is perfect and impenetrable. The man walks through the void, measuring days on his watch that never stops running, the sole light that reveals nothing in the darkness. He knows time, just as he knows he’s spent one thousand one hundred and eighty-two days here.

And while he doesn’t remember his name, he might as well be called Job because, against reason, he believes the darkness will abate. Job had been left here, all those many days ago, to wait. How and who had left him, he doesn’t know. But he remembers a flit of blond and the smell of a good bookshop. He remembers the pleasant voice of a man, reading from Chaucer at his desk. Job remembers love, vivid and bright, that carries him through the pitch blackness of this place.

“Too bad it won’t be published,” Crowley states wistfully, interrupting the flow of the novel.

“It’s too beautiful not to publish,” Aziraphlae argues. He thumbs over the pages fondly, smiling at Crowley. It’s a smile that Crowley struggles to argue with, blinding and beautiful and sincere.

“It’s you and me,” Crowley reminds him, nevertheless.

“I wasn’t reading Chaucer when we met,” Aziraphale notes. “So is it really?”

“Creative liberties, angel.”

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oatmealaddiction · 5 months

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Chapter Three of my Fanfiction is out! Stay tuned for an epilogue which should hopefully be posted later tonight! :)

Also for my follow up sequel: Muriel and Crowley Get Fucked Up in Vegas.

Thanks so much for all the love and comments I got this week. I love this little fic and I'm so happy to see other people enjoying it.

#Good omens #gomens #gomens fic #Good omens fic #Good omens fanfiction #gomens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #muriel

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shades-o-grey · 2 months

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GOOD OMENS FICLET- The Origin of the Apology Dance

My headcanon for how the apology dance originated

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

And so my idea is...

It started out as a silly bet,

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Buying lunch?"

Aziraphale suggested the first thing to pop in his head.

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

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

"Mmm"

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

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

Suddenly Aziraphale shot up with excitement

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

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

The part where it provides an actual suggestion.

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

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

Said drunk Aziraphale who had confused the words Gratuitous and Grandiose

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

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

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

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

"No, WE- would not." -

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

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

That made Aziraphale giggle

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

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

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

"A wot?"

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

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

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

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

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

Azirpahale frowned in concentration,

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

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

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

"-something like this!"

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

"🎶You we're right, you were right-🎶"

Crowley interrupts

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

"-its part of it!"

Azirphale quipped back, annoyed at having his concentration interrupted

"Now let me start over"

*He starts the dance over again*

🎶"You were right, you were right"

"I was wrong"

"You were right!"🎶

Aziraphale finishes the song and dance for Crowley

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

He gives a proud little wiggle.

Meanwhile, Crowley gets an idea...

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

He asks, clearly up to something.

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

Aziraphale demonstrates the dance a second time.

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

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

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

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

Aziraphale goodnaturedly starts to demonstrate for a 3rd time.

"It really quite simple its-

He stops abruptly

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

Aziraphale has a realization of what Crowley has been doing-

"CROWLEY!"

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

*Crowley burst into a loud cackle*

"AAh hAhA *snort* haha ha!"

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

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

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

"Oh come on Angel-"

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

Crowley smirked, remembering something Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten.

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

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

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

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

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

FULL FIC ON AO3 HERE!!!

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

VillianousAce (TheSleepParalysisDemon)

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foolishlovers · 1 month

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hi, i’m going through it with uni right now (finals season rip) and was wondering if you have any recs for some really soft, tender fics that will remind me of the good in the world 😭 maybe with some soft smut too, preferably over 20k if they’re out there and i’m happy with non au or au whatever. just need something comforting yknow. hope you’re doing well :)

oh hello love, i feel your struggle and am sending you lots of strength!!

here are some of my favourite softer good omens fics:

[You can request more fic recs here.]

Caramel Delight by AJ_Constantine (E, 16k) After years of enduring hellish neighbours, Crowley is delighted when they finally move out, and even more delighted when their replacement is easy going, friendly, doesn’t leave his bins on the kerb for weeks, and… attractive in a way that causes a fluttering in Crowley’s midsection like a battalion of butterflies attempting to form ranks. Crowley knows that hooking up with the person who lives next door to him is a Bad Idea. But a jar of his Nan’s famous caramel sauce as a ‘welcome to the neighbourhood’ gesture couldn’t hurt. And what’s he supposed to do when Aziraphale continues to show up at Crowley’s door with an irresistible smile, asking for more?

Liquid Gold by smolalienbee, Tarek_giverofcookies, Sodium_Azide, fashioncriminal (T, 36k) Goth beekeeper Crowley starts a new life in the countryside, in a suitably gothic house, with suitably goth furniture, tombstones, and bees. One day Crowley finds a surprise singing to the bees. And Crowley's suitably goth life changes. A gentle cottagecore human AU, featuring a bit of a bastard, a bit of a soft touch, and many many bees.

First Class (Hons) Christmas, University of Tadfield. by heloluv (M, 41k) Dr. A.Z. Fell is a renowned literature tutor at the prestigious University of Tadfield. December is upon the University, and Dr. Fell is leading the Christmas Charity Drive. He needs volunteers. Dr. A.J. Crowley is a skilled plant ecologist who recently began his tenure at UoT. He can't stand Christmas, and nothing at all could ever possibly convince him to partake in "festivities". Until a certain literary expert catches his eye. A Christmas and New Years fic, in which Aziraphale teaches Crowley how to enjoy the most wonderful time of the year. Lavender Apiary Of Your Honey Eyes by snek_of_eden (E, 62k) The first thing Aziraphale registered was fiery red hair matted with sweat. The second thing was the man’s face, sharp and intelligent and a little guarded, sunlight dappling a spray of freckles. Upon seeing this, two contradictory thoughts crossed his mind: ‘Gosh, he’s pretty’, and ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a man use that many expletives in the space of a minute’. “Oh,” he said, swallowing hard. “Hello, then.” When Aziraphale inherits a small, cosy cottage in the countryside, he finds unexpected company in a gardener he didn't even know he had. Crowley is sweet, and strange, and about as foul-mouthed as you can get. Before he knows it, he's falling pretty goddamn hard for a man whose friendship he's terrified of risking. Ah, the foils of love. (To the surprise of no one, they're both pining extraordinarily hard for each other)

and now all of my garden is grown in lavender by ilikeblue (E, 70k, WIP) Popular queer romance author, A.Z. Fell, has been lying about having a husband and a happy marriage for years. Longing to escape a string of failed relationships and looking for a fresh start, Aziraphale moves into the cottage left to him by his Great Aunt Agnes. When a TV adaptation of one of his books leads to sudden popularity and throws him into the limelight, his fans (and the press) are eager to catch a glimpse of Aziraphale's own mysterious leading man. Unfortunately, he still has to cast someone for that role. Enter the handsome gardener… Under Crowley's meticulous care the cottage's neglected garden slowly comes back to life, and Aziraphale finds himself writing the most important love story he'll ever write: his own

you know i'll never be lonely (you're my only one) by SylWritesStuff, ladydragona (E, 256k) Anthony Crowley has long since given up on love of the romantic sort. Besides, after the tragic passing of his cousin and her husband he now has a preteen pup to care for. If only the courts and social services would quit assuming a single, unclaimed omega isn't competent enough on his own to raise one, things would be going just fine. Warlock's problems at school aside. Aziraphale Fell is an accomplished author, bookshop owner, and does quite well, if he should say so himself. Love might have conveniently passed him by and the nights can be quite lonely, but he'd rather be alone than not be himself. And the thing they're both longing for might just be each other.

[you can find more fic rec masterposts here]

#i know u said preferably over 20k but caramel delight is just too sweet (ha) not to mention here 💜#i do have tons of more fluffy recs for fics under 20k :(#i feel like the longer fics get the higher the potential for angst gets u know #but i hope you'll maybe find some rest reading one of these 💜#good omens #good omens fic rec #good omens human au #good omens fanfic #aziracrow #aziracrow fanfic #gomens fic #aziraphale x crowley #anon #answered #foolishlovers #foolish recs #go fic masterpost

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midnights-dragon · 3 months

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I saw this post on Twitter and ended up replying with a string of a scene in my head, so, —>

“Black or white, my dear?”

“Black, obviously,” Crowley grumbled, pulling the board closer to himself and assembling each of his pieces in two neat rows, his brow furrowed as if the task were monumental. Aziraphale did the same, humming a little to himself.

“You go first, Crowley!” The angel prompted.

“Aziraphale, white always goes first.” Crowley rolled his eyes, but his expression, while exasperated, was fond.

“Oh, of course. I always forget the rules of these things.” Aziraphale smiled warmly. Crowley’s cheeks pinkened.

“Now, let’s see here . . .”

Aziraphale moved a pawn forward two spaces, and their game commenced.

Eventually, only six pieces (the black King, Queen, knight, and rook, and the white King and singular pawn) remained on the board.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured to himself, stepping his fingers. “I do believe you’ve got me stumped, dear boy.” His King had been backed into the corner by Crowley’s knight and rook.

Crowley frowned. He pointed at Aziraphale’s last pawn with a slender finger.

“That one hasn’t moved, so you can turn it into a Queen.”

“I don’t think that’s a rule, darling.” Aziraphale smiled at him, eyes twinkling. “You’ve beat me, foul serpent.”

“No, see?” Crowley snapped his fingers and the rule book appeared in his hand. He pointed to where the rule, ‘Pawns that have not moved once all game can be status-changed once the game reaches a near-checkmate’, was printed neatly.

Aziraphale could very easily sense the miracle, but as he saw the stubbornness in Crowley’s eyes, he decided to give in.

“Well, then,” he stated primly, “it certainly looks like you are in checkmate, my dear.”

“You’ve thwarted me, I suppose,” Crowley breathed out, pleased.

“Crowley, you still have your knight, you can easily —,”

“Shut it, Angel. Up for another round?”

(I love chess. Crowley loves chess but only because Aziraphale tries to let him win and he always manages to lose anyway by being a backwards cheater. Xxx)

#good omens ficlet #good omens #ficlet #good omens fic #gomens fic #good omens twt #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow fic #aziracrow

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patronsaintofelsewhere · 8 months

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Unknown / Nth

Summary

For the first time in six millennia, Crowley is completely alone. A week ago, Aziraphale had said “forgive” in the space that Crowley had hoped he’d say “love,” and Crowley hasn’t spent a moment sober since. Plagued by lovesick daydreams and laudanum-fueled nightmares, he struggles to cope with the loss of his angel.

Rating: T | 1,800 words

On AO3.

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san-bika · 3 months

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AO3 is down so this is a request for your favorite canon and AU AziraCrow fics. I’d love to have a nice queue to read from later tonight when it returns. Thank you for your service. 🫡

Likes:

• Soft Aziraphale

• Beardless Aziraphale

• Naive Aziraphale

• First kisses

• Pining Crowley

• Oblivious Crowley

• Jealous Crowley

• love at first sight

• slow burn

#good omens fic #aziracrow #fic request #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #gomens fic #good omens 2 fic #good omens au

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raz-writes-the-thing · 4 months

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New Year's Kiss (Good Omens One-Shot)

Aziraphale x GN!Reader / requests are open

Summary: Aziraphale asks to be your New Year's kiss.

Fic type: holiday fluff

GOMENS: @coffee-and-red-lipstick @quickslvxrr @clarina04 @motionlessindoubt @stevekempscocktails @go-bonkers-go-foolish @peytonpenguin37 @florduarte @complimentary-breadbasket @thekirbishow @jaziona92 (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You’d mentioned it when you were a little tipsy on New Year's morning. You’d never been kissed. You’d never had a kiss on New Year’s either. Well, those things sort of went hand in hand, but the point was- you’d never felt someone’s lips upon yours.

It wasn’t necessarily something that upset you. It was a fact just like how caterpillars have, like, four thousand muscles was a fact. But Aziraphale was a romantic at heart, and how could he let a stunning creature such as you go without a New Year’s kiss when there wouldn’t be another chance of that for another whole year? Not a long time for Aziraphale, no- but it was for you.

So, at five minutes to, Aziraphale took your hands in his and gave you one of his ever so charmingly romantic smiles.

“My dear,” he started somewhat hesitantly. Like he didn’t quite know what to say. “I’ve been thinking about your confession this morning.”

“My confession?” You asked, having sobered up many hours previous. “Oh! The New Year’s kiss thing? Yeah, what about it?”

Aziraphale’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand. Your heart skipped a beat.

You’d had feelings for Aziraphale for a while now. How could you not? He was soft, kind, handsome and a reader. And he did his own washing- what more could you ask for, really? But you’d never really entertained the idea that he might have felt the same way for you.

“I know I haven’t mentioned it before,” he said, clearing his throat and ordering his thoughts. “But- if you were amenable, I- well, I would be honoured if you’d do me the honour of being your first.”

You blinked a couple of times, trying to let the information absorb into your brain.

“Kiss, that is,” he hurriedly corrected, though you honestly wouldn’t have minded the alternative either just quietly.

“I- Aziraphale,” you breathed, a smile slowly spreading over your lips. You bit down on your bottom one so as not to seem too eager. There was a squeal threatening to escape you any second now.

“I know this is highly unusual for romantic courtships,” he continued on, clearly growing anxious now. “But I just thought, well, why not ‘shoot my shot’, as it were.”

Your eyes darted to the countdown on the television. Just a minute left now. Outside, you could hear the people gathered on the street start to countdown.

“I- yes, Aziraphale. I would love that.”

Aziraphale looked very pleased with himself, and he let go of one of your hands to brush his forefinger down your cheek.

“You’re truly stunning, my dear. Gorgeous.”

You could feel your cheeks flush slightly at the compliment. Aziraphale was always paying you compliments, but they never ceased to fluster you with their sincerity.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you chuckled back, eyes roaming over his features. He really was gorgeous, wasn’t he? Outside, you could hear the countdown get louder as it reached ten seconds to go.

Your grin was infectious, and Aziraphale shot you one of his own. He shuffled in place as if he were nervous. He probably was.

And then the countdown struck zero, and Aziraphale’s lips were on yours. Soft skin but a firm press of his lips. Your arms wound around his neck and you pressed yourself close. You’d waited so long for this- for a kiss, for Aziraphale, really.

And now you had him.

Zira pulled away and pressed his forehead to yours affectionately. He held you close, not wanting to let go of you just yet.

“Happy New Year, my darling,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Happy New Year, Zira,” you replied lovingly.

It was gonna be a good year. You just knew it.

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catre33 · 2 months

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@mrghostrat, sir?

I was wondering how the heck Crowley got so popular cuz like

Yknow David 'knows all about the social media world' perse

Myspace?????????? Is MySpace correlated somehow?????

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feralbutfluffy · 7 months

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56: Crowley

Chapter 56 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

*******

Crowley had opened his mouth and then found himself completely incapable of closing it again.

Spurred by the stifling silence, he’d unwittingly opened an artery and watched helplessly as every last wounded, heartsore, mortifying thought came pouring out of him. He had committed the sort of emotional seppuku he had been carefully avoiding for literally thousands of years, and he felt like he might be bleeding out right there on the sofa.

He had spent much of the previous five minutes wishing desperately that Muriel might conveniently appear at the door with an obscene amount of wine, or at the very least a couple of bottles of Talisker.

However, just as he’d been wondering if it was possible to discorporate from abject discomfort, Aziraphale had finally said something, and even though he’d had to go and be infuriatingly circumspect about it... Crowley was pretty sure the words he had strung together had meant I love you too.

Which seemed impossible, but he supposed he would just add it to the increasingly lengthy list of impossible things that had happened lately.

Aziraphale was turned towards him. A tear dropped from his jawline as he gave Crowley a wobbly smile that did things to his insides. He suddenly became aware of the fact that he was crushing Aziraphale’s little finger and, with considerable effort, forced himself to relax his hand.

Crowley wanted to look away, because this - whatever this was - was painfully intimate. It was galling, really. Barely touching and he felt as if the angel had zipped him open at the throat, exposing every part of him.

Except, well, he’d been the one to do that to himself, hadn’t he?

Here, he might as well have said. Ruin me.

He watched Aziraphale warily, and in response the angel shuffled closer, banging their knees together clumsily.

Crowley didn’t so much as blink.

He’d said everything he had wanted to say. He had also said everything he hadn’t wanted to say. He was cracked wide open, head swimming, waiting. Waiting to know what happened next, waiting for Aziraphale to say more, and he was good at waiting, he’d waited for so long, a few more minutes shouldn’t feel so excruciating.

But they did.

Aziraphale looked away and the fingers of his free hand fluttered nervously against the suede of the sofa.

“I have some things to say too, I suppose,” he started, and his voice sounded higher than usual, tight with strain. He coughed lightly, managing to get it back down to its usual register. “I think I’ve rather been getting in my own way when it comes to…” he tilted his head towards Crowley, still avoiding his gaze. “... us .”

Crowley took a deep breath and held it, feeling a bit like he was preparing to be held underwater.

“I think- Well all of those things you said, they're as true for you as they are for me, but I- I think- Ah, I suspect maybe I chose not to think on it, because I wasn’t quite brave enough to face the truth of the matter. Which is…” he trailed off. “Well, you know.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. If he thought he was going to get away with-

“That I’m hopelessly in love. With you.” The words sounded torn from his chest, “...Too.”

Crowley bit down on his tongue; the urge to yell ‘No takebacks!’ was almost overwhelming.

“I thought if I could just get you to dance with me-”

Crowley’s eyebrows slammed together. “What?”

“I thought we might do some formal dancing, and then we would realize that we were actually in love...” Aziraphale looked guilty. "... Like in Jane Austen's novels."

Crowley narrowed his eyes.

“I know I’ve said this before, but you read” - grumbled Crowley in an exasperated tone - “entirely too many books. How was I meant to pick up on that? Why couldn’t we have managed it without the formal dancing?”

Aziraphale shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know! But we didn’t, did we? Manage it, I mean.”

“Didn’t even manage it with the formal dancing,” Crowley pointed out, and Aziraphale’s face crumpled a bit. He nudged the angel’s knee with his own and leaned in. “You never know, might have worked without the demons trying to storm the shop.”

Crowley seriously doubted it, but Aziraphale brightened at the thought so he let it go.

“You know,” said Aziraphale, and he lowered his gaze, “I did try to show you.”

“Show me what?”

The angel was tracing a line along the suede, watching the velvety nap alternate between dark and light as he rubbed it one way and then the other.

“That I felt for you. That you were important to me. That I loved you, before I consciously knew that I loved you.”

The way he said it, the way he let it roll almost casually out into the air between them, made Crowley’s ribcage feel like a vice, his heart and lungs squeezed in a punishing grip.

“Ngk?” he said.

It was an embarrassingly inelegant sound.

“With the tartan,” Aziraphale said, as if it were perfectly obvious.

Crowley blinked and then pointed, bewildered, at the folded blanket on the armrest.

“The blanket?”

“No, the tartan .” Aziraphale was frowning, as if Crowley was being intentionally dense.

“I don’t follow. You’ve lost me. Are you speaking in code? Are you saying ‘tartan’ and actually meaning something else entirely?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, looking flustered, “I’m saying ‘tartan,’ and meaning ‘tartan’.”

The -you idiot was silent, but Crowley heard it all the same.

“Don’t you know anything about tartan?”

Crowley stared at him for the longest moment. “No,” he said slowly, “No, I do not. Why would I? In over six thousand years, when have you ever known me to willingly wear tartan? And don’t even think of mentioning the tartan collar, that does not count thankyouverymuch, that was you. As me. But still you.”

Aziraphale huffed and sat back a bit, clearly put out. “Never mind then.”

“No, no. No. You’ve somehow - against stacked odds, let me tell you - managed to make tartan sound intriguing,” Crowley said. “So you may as well tell me. Consider me interested. What should I know about tartan other than the fact that you have a disproportionate fondness for it?”

A pink flush was spreading up Aziraphale’s neck.

It was delightful.

It made Crowley want to kiss it.

“Forget I mentioned it,” the angel muttered, turning more pink by the second.

Crowley grinned. “Oh, I think the chances of my forgetting any part of this enchanting conversation are abysmally low. Go on, torture me with tartan facts.”

Aziraphale blanched at the word ‘torture’ and Crowley grimaced apologetically. “Too soon. Right.”

He eyed the angel’s bow tie with an entirely new and unfeigned interest.

“So. Tartan…?” he prompted.

Aziraphale straightened the bow tie unnecessarily, as if his hands needed something to do.

“This is, ah- That is to say, I had this dress tartan made for me sometime around the mid-1800s. It’s mine. It’s unique.”

“Right.”

The pink hue was back in Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“Different families - different clans - they each have their own unique tartan.”

“Different people, different tartan. Got it.” Crowley gave him a nod.

“Yes. Well, different clans or families, different tartan, but yes, basically. I couldn’t, for example, wear another clan’s tartan without their express permission, because wearing it is something of a claim; using their tartan would then, er, mark me as belonging to their clan, you see.”

Aziraphale gazed meaningfully at Crowley and waited.

Right. Clearly he was meant to have gleaned something important from that bit of information.

His eyes moved from Aziraphale’s face to his bow tie, and from his bow tie to the blanket.

He thought about the tartan collar Aziraphale had added to his jacket when they had swapped forms. He thought of the tartan thermos full of Holy water. He thought of the absolute eyesore of a tyre cover the angel had miracled onto the car after they’d been hit by that woman in Tadfield.

“Your tartan,” Crowley said carefully. “... You let me use it.”

Aziraphale said nothing, but the pink in his cheeks had spread to the tips of his ears.

“You were marking me as belonging to your… clan?” Crowley could feel his cheeks warming.

A matching flush. How perfectly wretched.

Aziraphale gave him a lopsided smile. “Something like that, I suppose. Our… team. Our group of the two of us.”

“Ah, so you were listening,” Crowley said uncomfortably.

Aziraphale blushed pink all the way up to his hairline.

With considerable effort, Crowley sat up properly. He shifted over, twisting his torso so that their bodies were in alignment, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

“Well.”

“Well,” repeated Aziraphale weakly.

“Well I’m sorry to have missed your demonstrations of affection delivered through the medium of tartan,” said Crowley with a wry grin.

The angel looked at him, embarrassed. “Yes, yes. Very funny.”

Crowley bumped him with his shoulder. “Maybe try something a bit more straightforward next time. Or at least work with something I actually understand."

There was a brief pause and then Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, his lips curling up at the corners. "Oh?"

"What, 'oh'? What does that mean?"

"I think I know what you understand," said Aziraphale, and the embarrassment was gone from his face. Crowley pulled back slightly, watching the angel carefully.

"What?"

His heart stuttered and took up an absolutely frenzied pace as Aziraphale leaned forward to take his face in his hands.

He eyed him suspiciously. "Are you about to kiss me?"

Aziraphale laughed and his eyes dropped to Crowley's lips, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Not just yet."

Crowley couldn't take his eyes off him. He felt like his heart might burst. Aziraphale was stroking his thumb softly against his skin.

"Anthony Just-a-J-Really Crowley, I'm in love with you," he said, and kissed his temple so gently Crowley had to swallow down a cry.

"I've loved you for a very long time," Aziraphale whispered against his ear. He kissed his forehead, and turned his thoughts into incoherent nonsense.

"A very, very long time," Aziraphale murmured against his other ear and nipped his earlobe, sending a jolt of undiluted desire straight up his spine.

"I'm sorry it took me such a long time to be honest with myself," he said, kissing the serpent by the hinge of his jaw. Crowley shuddered. He let out a harsh exhale as his eyes closed of their own volition.

"... And I'm sorry it took me such a long time to be honest with you," he said, kissing the corner of Crowley's mouth. He groaned and turned to kiss the angel, but Aziraphale pulled out of reach.

Crowley opened his eyes, dazed, to find Aziraphale looking at him with adoring eyes, a coy half-smile on his lips. He struggled to swallow, his throat tight with longing.

"I know you said I go too fast for you, angel," he rasped, "but this is painfully slow. Are you trying to discorporate me?"

Aziraphale frowned slightly, but he was still smiling. "I'm almost certain that's not possible."

"Let's not find out."

Aziraphale's laugh was muffled by Crowley's lips against his.

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