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aceofwhump · 8 months

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Do you have recomendations (or a list) of fanfics with Crowley Whump?

I think I've given a few recs here and there but never a big rec list so here ya go! Tons of excellent Crowley whump fanfics:

Five Times Aziraphale Saves Crowley (And One Time He Fails) by Captain_Kieren Summary:

Basically what it says on the tin. 1. Holy Water 2. Exorcised 3. Thrown 4. Stabbed 5. Demon Hunter +1. Betrayed

Crowley's Armageddon and Recovery by Wolfgirl4vr Summary:

Aziraphale and Crowley couldn't stop Armageddon. Adam changed his mind, and now the war is finally happening. Crowley is captured and there is no sign of Aziraphale. As a prisoner of Heaven, Crowley endures more than he thought the Angel's were capable of. Especially from the Angel Gabriel, and through it all, all he can think about is Aziraphale, and hopes that his friend is still in hiding. Crowley only hopes that he can escape before the Angel's kill him, but is help closer than he realizes.

my first Good Omens fic please be gentle by taylor_tut Summary:

My first Good Omens fic! There's not enough Crowley whump in the world so I'm here to p r o v i d e for y'all. This one was a request from my tumblr. Aziraphale and Crowley are in charge of a holy object, and even just being close to it drains Crowley's energy. Eventually, he collapses, and Aziraphale is there for him.

Suspendin' Gravity by ahyperactivehero (ahyperactiverhero) Summary:

Takes place directly after the bus ride in episode 6. Aziraphale rejects Crowley's offer to come home with him, only to change his mind. He finds the puddle of Holy Water and assumes he's too late.

Black Lines by Eladriel Summary:

Two years after the not-apocalypse Crowley gets attacked by an old enemy and left with a wound that will kill him slowly. What will Aziraphale do when he finds out? Will they find a way to safe him?

Holy Mistakes by winterspirit13 Summary:

anonymous asked: Can you do a piece where Crowley is accidentally burned by the holy water Aziraphale gave him, and while it isn't enough to kill him he's hurt real bad and Aziraphale feels super guilty? I love your blog!

When Aziraphale gives Crowley the thermos full of holy water, it's like a leap of faith for the angel. Crowley basks in the newfound trust, but that's quickly taken away. Hurt, he sulks, and things get out of hand when Aziraphale won't pick up the phone. One thing leads to the next, and there's a very hurt demon being helped by a very worried, guilty angel.

Things turn out for the best, somehow.

I Stretch Out My Hands by sherlocktheholmes Summary:

With no final prophecy from Agnus Nutter, and no word from Heaven or Hell for months, Aziraphale and Crowley are cautiously optimistic that neither of them will face retribution. They never considered that they should fear personal revenge.

My Life With You Means Everything, So I Won't Give Up That Easily by PositivePumpkin for jessikast Summary:

After the apocalypse, house hunting with Aziraphale gets an interruption. Or, Crowley is summoned by some humans who actually want to start the apocalypse.

Palliative Practices by VerdantVulpus Summary:

Based on the following prompt. What if every time Crowley does a good deed, he suffers pain after because it goes against his demonic nature (and the greater the good, the more intense the pain)? Then Aziraphale finds out that Crowley has been living with that pain ever since the Arrangement. or 5 times Crowley masked his pain and 1 time he accepted help.

Hell Freezes Over by lilac341 Summary:

Crowley is not supposed to be cold. Or silent. Or still. Heaven puts an icy curse on Crowley to get rid of him once and for all. Aziraphale must find out how to unfreeze his demon companion. Tenderness and angst ensue.

let sleeping snakes lie by kythen Summary:

The world doesn't end. Crowley falls asleep. And Aziraphale stays by his side, waiting for him to wake up again.

Demonology and the Tri-Phasic Model of Trauma: An Integrative Approach by Nnm Summary:

As soon as Aubrey Thyme, psychotherapist, had opened her office door and seen her new client, Anthony J. Crowley, sitting in her waiting area, she was observing and assessing him. At first glance, she paid attention to the following: --His clothing was expensive and stylish; --He wore very strange but noticeable cologne; --His relationship to the seat he occupied could only, very loosely, be described as “sitting;” --He looked angry; --He was wearing sunglasses. What Aubrey Thyme, a professional, thought, upon first seeing her new client was: you’re going to be a fun one, aren’t you?

Growing Pains by hope_in_the_dark Summary:

“So if he comes back, you’ll… what? Take him into your arms, let him back into your life? No questions asked?” Crowley grunted. The therapist — Mark, Nina had said — was sitting forward in his chair, looking at Crowley with a kind smile and wide eyes. He was what the humans would call ‘emotionally intelligent.’ Crowley was looking to tap into a little of that. Crowley goes to therapy, because he needs it. This is a story of healing, learning, growing, and an eventual happy ending. Post-Season-2.

And Will Again by justajemreally Summary:

Crowley hasn’t breathed for seventeen minutes. His heart has thumped twice in that time.

The Deepest Pit by EdosianOrchids901 Summary:

Stricken by unexplained depression, Crowley gets stuck in bed. He can’t even cheer up once Aziraphale comes to check on him. But as always, Aziraphale is happy to keep him company even in the darkest moments.

All Good Hearts are Heavy by Sarah_hadeschild Summary:

Crowley has always dealt with bouts of depression-- periods in which he cannot bring himself to do much more than exist. Over the centuries, he grew accustomed to enduring these episodes on his own. But now, Aziraphale is with him. And although the angel cannot miracle away his lover's distress, he can try the only remedy he knows with any certainty. He can love him. (A comfort one-shot with lots of love, and very little plot)

Late For Lunch by obsidian_boi Summary:

Crowley and Aziraphale have a lunch date and Crowley is running late. He just can't seem to pull himself off of his couch, but he knows he has to get up, has to be there for his angel… He just can't seem to do it. Part 1

Never Late for Lunch by obsidian_boi Summary:

Crowely's late for lunch and Aziraphale grows worried. The demon is never late for lunch, well, at least never this late. After not hearing from his friend for a stretch of time, the angel finally brings himself to go check on Crowley, but he isn't prepared for the state he finds his friend in. He immediately wants to help Crowley, but what if there isn't anything he can do? Aziraphale's POV of Late for Lunch

Cold Showers and Dark Thoughts by obsidian_boi Summary:

Crowley's sleep is plagued with nightmares and when he wakes from one, he doesn't want to disturb his angel. Dragging himself to the shower instead, Crowley succumbs to his dark thoughts. Will his angel find him in time?

Rushing In, Rushing Out by Smooty Summary:

Crowley has a nightmare

walk like christ in grace and love by wartimelovers Summary:

“Just tell me, please, if it hurts too much.” As if, Crowley thought. Would be a funny old world if we told each other how we feel. or Crowley feels some very human effects of stepping on consecrated ground and Aziraphale tries to help.

Somebody to Love by Bookwormgal Summary:

Everyone knows that demons can’t feel love. It was one of those well-established facts that no one even bothered to doubt anymore. The sky is blue, the Ineffable Plan was beyond comprehension or understanding, angels do not question or doubt Her commands, and demons can’t love. Angels could sense love and none of them ever sensed love in the presence of demons. Everyone considered that to be conclusive evidence and moved on. Believing otherwise was foolish and a waste of time. But while it was considered an unquestionable fact of the universe, it wasn’t quite accurate. Demons were perfectly capable of feeling love. Any form of love. Despite common knowledge and despite the fact that the Fall ensured that they could no longer sense Her love, demons can experience love. What demons can’t do, however, is feel love and survive.

Tension by supernaturaltimemachine Summary:

"Crowley was in pain. Not the acceptable kind either. Not anything human, like loss or doubt or a stubbed toe. Living on earth more than made up for those inconveniences. No, what Crowley was feeling was ethereal." Or, Crowley's wings hurt, and Aziraphale is determined to do something about it.

#whump #fanfics #good omens #crowley #mod's fic recs #fic recs #hurt crowley #mod post #mod replies #ask #anon #long post

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 6 months

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Part of @do-it-with-style-events's Reverse Mini Bang!

My collaboration with artist @gottagobuycheese: Leviathan

“In that day, the Lord will take his terrible, swift sword and bring judgement on Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the coiling and writhing serpent. He will kill the dragon of the sea.” -- To fulfill a prophecy and prepare for the End of Days, the Archangels hunt down a legendary evil beast... a great serpent. Aziraphale learns the truth, but is he too late? Can he reach Crowley before Michael's hunters close in, or will he lose himself in the rising waters of his new powers?

Check it out on AO3, featuring BAMF Aziraphale attempting to rescue his demon! (CW: Violence, torture, apparent MCD)

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midnights-dragon · 9 days

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CHAPTER 6 of my current Forced Duke of Hell Crowley fic is up now!! Thank you as always to my muse @moriarty4life!! Enjoy all, please leave a comment if you do, they make my day!

Aziraphale felt helpless. He had no idea what on Earth he could possibly do. There was no one to enlist help from, truly; Nina would, he knew, but she was a human, what could she do? Adam, somewhere in the English countryside, had no more powers; he had rejected them. Muriel — he didn’t want to risk harming them, and didn’t want to force them away from Earth, they were far too happy, now. He didn’t have a single angel nor demon he could trust. God and Her Son were unreachable. And, really. What was there that he could do?

(Saraqael plays a big role in this chapter for y'all who love them! I know I do!)

#good omens #good omens fic #good omens angst #hurt crowley #duke of hell crowley #good omens s3 #good omens fanfiction #my fic #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale fanfic #crowley fanfic #supreme archangel aziraphale #the metatron #saraqael

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theknightswhosay · 5 months

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Crowley, Imprisoned

@mulasawala and I have co-created a piece of art & writing for the @do-it-with-style-events 2023 Good Omens Reverse Bang !!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51645259

The gummy bears are bleeding human blood. A waste.

Crowley had enjoyed the only one he was allowed to try. Held in his mouth for a long time to draw out the experience, tongue tracing the smooth little curves, slowly sucking out the sweetness, a hint of peppermint, a tang of acid. Only when he risked its complete decomposition had he chewed it with unpractised jaws. Like jelly, only tougher, putting up more resistance.

His teeth had felt unfamiliar, tongue rougher than it used to be. Not enough saliva. He is rarely given anything to eat.

A handful of eight gummy bears lie scattered carelessly a few metres outside of his circle. Once, it would have been a trifle to wave a finger, apply some willpower, and have them in his hand.

Gum-my-be-ars. He holds the words in his silent mouth. Such strange new creations the humans of the World far away have concocted. New candies have appeared more frequently as his captor’s twisted parties became regular occurrences. Somewhere, the Great War is probably over. It makes no difference.

The blood does not dissuade him. It might add a sharp piquancy. The little candy creatures ooze the dark liquid, swimming in a pool rapidly bronzing into a sticky stain. He runs his tongue along the sharp metal bar of his cage to distract from the saliva forming around his teeth.

A thin scrap of dainty fabric dips a corner into the dark stain. The soft silk stocking was once a pure cream colour. Now, it has a long rip along its length where it was torn, catching on the protruding, hard buckle of a stout leather belt. It might still have the thick, oily scent of deerskin, of the harsh bronze that tore it.

Flung across the room lies the garter that had once held up the stocking. In a matching cream, it is like the last tooth left in a gaping, bloodied mouth. He remembers a young woman’s yelp as the fabric tore and the resounding slap of leather on flesh that followed.

As he stares at the white elastic across the room, he loses himself in an ambitious fantasy – he lets himself dream that he might not be bound to the circle, that he might instead be bound to the entire basement. What an absurd luxury it would be to have four whole walls, complete with corners.

What might that be like?

Imagine having walls instead of bars – his domain would be twenty times bigger than the circle. It would include the claw-footed brass chair, its rough surface promising a cornucopia of aromas. All the ways he might perch on it, the days of entertainment contemplating its many curves up close! How many more dents and imperfections might he be able to observe along its surface, if it were not on the other side of this room?

All the new and interesting configurations he could languish in.

His latest favourite languishing position is on his back, hips twisted so that one leg is hitched up against the floor, the other lying straight, his arms stretched up, up, up, pulling his shoulder blades back, pressing against his ears. If he squeezes all his limbs just so, he can cause his vision to black out. Pinpricks of light appear in the gaping darkness where his field of view should be.

For a moment, he can remember what the stars look like.

Stars. He is swimming in them. Galaxies swarm into life beneath his hands with kaleidoscopic force; purple hearts pulse in greeting; each tiny explosion the rattling gasp of a newborn’s cry. Because he wills it, because he dreams it, so it is.

He sits up.

Crowley has rules. It is how he has survived. There are things he is not allowed. He re-focuses his mind on the gummy bears.

The telltale creak of boots on the stairs announces the imminent arrival of company. Another of Crowley’s rules: he will not react. And so, he does not move a single hair, does not even cover his hideous nakedness, does not curl up or shy away as familiar dark brogues enter the room in confident strides.

He does not in any way acknowledge this person’s arrival, which never fails to irritate. Oh, how Crowley knows this man.

The claw-footed chair is dragged closer to his cage. Better viewing distance. Crowley can sense a long talk coming. These are usually irritating. He will while away the time it takes by imagining all the ways he would destroy this man, inside out. It would be so easy.

Throw him into a dream where he is the King of all the World; have women and men in power throw themselves at him; have him enthroned in the grandest of coronations. Let them sing his praises from every shit-stained rooftop, every bunged-up armchair, every soot-soaked alleyway.

And then, when he’s at the highest he has ever been: break him.

It wouldn’t be hard. For the man who wants unlimited power, simply strip it back, bit by bit, piece by piece. Do unto him as he has done unto others. Every ounce of pain, every lash of the whip, every woman forced. Let him experience all of it. Take away all his power until he is nothing. Until all he has is metal bars and a binding circle, not even a scrap of cloth to cover him, not even a voice to speak with. Leave him there.

Oh, how Crowley knows this man.

He sits on the chair, stooping over, knees on his thighs, hands supporting his chin. His mood is dark turquoise; heavy but low in energy. Thankfully, Crowley detects no undercurrent of violence.

“I’ll get it right this time,” says Burgess, “I’ll get it right.”

He runs a hand over his face. His head sags, shoulders forming sharp, twin hills. Whether he is talking to his prisoner or himself is unclear and makes no difference.

“It has to work. It must work. This time will be different.”

He pauses.

“You will help me, whatever the fuck you are. You’ll help me succeed where I failed when I captured you. I know what we did wrong that night…we didn’t go all the way. It wasn’t a big enough sacrifice. Well, I’m not taking any half-measures this time. We’ll get it right, and you’re going to make sure of it.”

Crowley finds the use of the imperative so entertaining. Will. Must. What must he do exactly? A being with no powers; no clothing; no dignity; no voice. He is not even capable of an audible gasp of shock. All he has is his refusal and his shredded pride. So, he does not react.

He continues to gaze with limpid eyes at the gummy bears which are still there, unmoved. Burgess has not noticed them.

The man talks some more, mostly repetitive stuff, easily tuned out. The chair gets pulled back over to its customary corner. Some quiet time.

But then people. A small stream of robed figures clunking down the narrow staircase. The first few bring small tables which they place against the far wall. Not there! Crowley would yell if he could, that’s off-centre! But they are unconcerned. They have no interest in interior design.

They bring candles next. Lots of candles.

What is it with these ritual-obsessed types and their candles? A precarious and flammable habit. Too easily knocked over. An easy source of disruption. Inviting pyromania. If only he could just send out a little nudge… He reaches with his will. But of course, nothing happens. Nothing has happened for a long time. It is lost, along with his voice.

As the décor operation continues, Crowley muses that it must be nearing Burgess’ favourite time. Somewhere, it is night-time, out there in a World he is no longer part of, does not dwell on, will not let himself remember. Knowing Burgess, it will be approaching midnight. Superstitious wanker.

Sandalwood incense is lit. The only smell heady enough to mask the scent of blood and much worse bodily fluids that can’t be scrubbed out of the room. The thin thread of smoke is woody, smoky, and pungent but undercut with anxiety because he knows what accompanies it.

It is only when they attempt magic that the sandalwood comes out.

They draw a circle to mirror Crowley’s in bright chalk and runes he might once have recognised. One of the Believers is clutching at a book. He imagines it is probably 120 Days of Sodom. Naturally, all of them are fans.

Burgess’ deep voice is murmuring upstairs, directly above. Footsteps sound – more than one pair. Someone brought into the study that hides the basement.

A short time later, the man re-emerges, but the person who follows him is distinctly lacking Believer’s robes.

The girl glows. She is a bright sprig of garlic flower petals; her creamy sleeping shift dazzling amongst burlap-sack figures, a fragile light against the indigo of gloomy basement. Her skin is rough, freckles and pimples dust her cheekbones, her hair limp and dull, a lacklustre mousy brown. Yet she radiates with the fragile uncertainty of youth and worse, far, far worse, Crowley knows what she is here for.

This, he cannot ignore.

He sits up. He pushes himself as far against the cage bars as he can, clutching them, knuckles going white.

Does she know? His eyes seek her, reaching for her – trying to express, voiceless, his word of warning. Burgess had said, hadn’t he? It wasn’t a big enough sacrifice… They guide her to the new circle they have drawn. She goes willingly, expression unchanging, peaceful.

Get out! He mouths at her, Get out! Over and over, hoping she will glance his way. His fists rattle against the cage.

“Interesting creature, isn’t it?” says Burgess as he runs a hand through the girl’s hair, “all these years and it just sits there, half asleep. But now - now it responds. It has some kind of heart after all.”

He cradles her face and positions her chin so that she must look directly towards the cage. She is limp, obedient to his will. Why isn’t she fleeing? Her wide, brown eyes finally find Crowley’s yellow ones. He is still mouthing at her over and over, but her eyes are glassy, unfocused, distant. Her gaze looks right through him.

She retreats into herself and avoids Crowley’s urgent gaze as the ceremony begins. Through the chanting, the burning of objects, the spilling of blood, and the making of potions, she does not look at him again.

It is only as Burgess withdraws the dagger, his favourite, the one engraved with his initials, then the girl finally jostles herself and raises a hand.

“Wait,” she says, “Can…can we say a prayer together?”

He pauses. Then, “of course, sweet child.”

The dagger is tucked back into its holder. Around the room, every chin is lowered, every head ducked in prayer. Burgess clasps his hands behind his back and closes his eyes.

But the girl, the girl isn’t praying. That’s not what she’s doing. Her eyes are wide open. She looks at Crowley once, gives him the slightest of nods and leaps to her feet, pulling up her skirt to reveal a blade she has strapped to her thigh.

“IT’S HIM!” she yells, in a voice so loud and confident it immediately rips away the docile, innocent demeanour. Before anyone can react to her call, she thrusts the blade into Burgess’ stomach, her expression transformed into one of hatred.

His mouth falls open as he grasps the wound.

“Fuck! You little shit… don’t let her leave! To think, you should have harboured this malintent all this time…” if her expression is one of hatred, his morphs into something monstrously dark and ugly, “you will not get away with this, girl. You will need to be punished before we sacrifice you. Punished well. Don’t think you will be leaving.”

Two robed figures block the exit. A third retreats up the rickety stairs. The last two grab her shoulders, even as she flails and kicks in their grasp. Her blade is still embedded in Burgess’ side. He paces towards her, one hand on his wound, one hand coming to grasp her throat. Tight.

Crowley looks away. When they do not make him watch the things they do in the basement, he will not make himself.

He can still hear and smell. There is no way to turn those senses off (he has tried).

There is a faint crackle reminiscent of lightning accompanied by the rustle of paper and the musty scent of old books. Several, pronounced, bodily thuds - weights hitting the floor. Heaving intakes of breath, rickety and rasping. The dull clatter of a wooden handle on wooden floorboards.

Footsteps approaching the cage. He is still curled up, turned away from it all.

A rough sob of concern, and then a familiar voice. A voice he has tried so hard to forget. A voice that cannot possibly be real.

“Crowley?”

His angel’s voice. An angel belonging to a world long ago, a different life, a different being than him. He knows better than to believe it. He won’t turn towards it. He has spent too long lost in dreams, in fantasies. In exactly these moments of deepest, most despairing violence, his imagination will conjure up that which he misses the most.

“Crowley, it’s me. It’s Aziraphale. I found you…I finally found you. Oh, my dear…I am so, so, sorry it took me so long. You were hidden from me. What have they done to you…”

Another set of footsteps approaches. It can only be the girl, all in white, who had stabbed Burgess. “Mr Fell,” she says, throat creaking, “it’s him then? The one you’ve been searching for all these years?”

“Yes. It’s him,” voice trembling and soft. So soft. “Thank you – I couldn’t have found him without your assistance.”

“Thank me later. Right now, we need to get out of here, fast. There’ll be more of them.”

“Right. Right, yes, of course.”

The click of fingers.

A great constricting pressure vanishes as if he has surfaced after being trapped underwater at a great depth. Something is different. But still, he does not trust it. He keeps his eyes pressed shut and curls tighter in on himself. This is one of the nicer fantasies.

He cannot help wanting the hand on his shoulder to be real. It feels real. The palm warm, the fingers short and thick. Two arms gather him, the swaddling softness of fresh fabric appearing over his naked figure, fibres delicate, soft as clouds. The arms that cradle him are solid and strong. He is enveloped by the smell of chocolate, old curtains, tea with a dash of lemon.

So overpowering are the sensations that tears spring to his eyes. So focused is he on drinking in that old, familiar scent that he does not notice the motions, the sound of stairs creaking, the shock of an air change, the muffled steps on the carpet beneath them, the chiming of a mahogany grandfather clock, the quickly stifled gasp of a servant followed by a thud, heavy front doors opening on their own.

And then: fresh air.

It is enough to shock him awake. His eyes snap open as he drinks in the flavours.

His view is obscured by a beige overcoat and a shock of white hair, but above that – stars. With hungry eyes, he drinks in the deep, velveteen depths of the night sky. How could he ever have forgotten the magic of that ever-shifting tapestry, crested by a silvery moon?

He is bundled into a horseless carriage, but Aziraphale’s arms never leave him. He is cradled, held firm, limbs sprawled over the back seat, head resting on the angel’s thigh. Thrown backwards against the backrest as the vehicle careens away at speed.

Only then does he believe.

His unpractised fingers clutch at the arm cradling him, watery eyes finding the angel’s blue ones. He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a rasp.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, and only then does Crowley realise the angel has been repeating this over and over, “I’ve got you. We found you. You’re free, Crowley, you’re free.”

Drops of water hit his nose. Lines streak the angel’s cheeks.

“Angel.” Crowley finally manages. He can speak again. It has been so, so very long.

He is free.

#crowley #good omens #go #do it with style #reverse bang #event #my fics #mygofic #aziraphale #inspired by the sandman #ineffable husbands #good omens fanart #good omens fanfic #go fanfiction #good omens fanfiction #hurt/comfort #hurt crowley #aziraphale to the rescue

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zonzolik · 4 months

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me: peacefully listening to taylor

her: You had a speech, you're speechless Love slipped beyond your reaches And I couldn't give a reason Champagne problems

or I never was ready, so I watch you go Sometimes you just don't know the answer 'Til someone's on their knees and asks you

me: 😭

#i can't even listen to music and not think about them #i can't do anything and not think about them #ineffable idiots #taylor swift #champagne problems #good omens #hurt crowley #Spotify

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captainscribbles · 4 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Drunken Kissing, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Medical Inaccuracies, Stabbing, Breaking and Entering, Burglary, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens) Summary:

One Halloween night, a pair of burglars break into the bookshop...Crowley won't stand aside and watch it happen.

#good omens #aziracrow #aziraphale #protective aziraphale #angel form aziraphale #hurt/comfort #hurt crowley #tw drinking #tw stabbing #tw stab #tw knife #tw burglars #tw stitches #ik this is probably medically inaccurate and dumb and weird but. I'm proud of this!!!!#also #first post

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that-demons-angel · 4 months

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Hi there! I seem to be in a writing mood :3

Crowley whump, anyone? ;) Sorry not sorry, this is basically me dealing with the end of season 2.

#good omens #good omens fanfic #crowley #aziraphale #supreme archangel aziraphale #crowley whump #hurt crowley #torture #heaven is toxic #my writing #ao3

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fogsrollingin · 4 months

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Title: Even As A Demon

Author: fogsrollingin

Fandom: Good Omens

Relationship(s): Aziraphale/Crowley (romantic ace angels? queerplatonic? nothing's explicitly sexual but they're so cuddly)

Story Length: 6k words

Published: 12/24/2023 on fogsrollingin.neocities.org.

Warnings: explicit depictions of torture, sexual abuse

Tags: hurt/comfort, traumatized Crowley, hurt Crowley, protective Aziraphale, miracle blockers, comforting Aziraphale, disorientation, nudity, electrocution, evil cults, Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, Aziraphale to the rescue, angst, crying, hugs & cuddling, happy endings, season 2 spoilers

Summary: Crowley worked so hard to steer away from thinking about Aziraphale and then whenever anything weird or distressing came up, the angel would pop back into his head like he'd never left. And this definitely qualified as distressing.

Available Formats: HTML & EPUB

Link: https://fogsrollingin.neocities.org/fic/evenasademon

Author's Notes: Thank you to those who participated in my poll on masto abt whether it was plausible for Aziraphale to call Crowley 'sweetheart' 😂 I do intend to post this fic up on AO3, I'm just trying something different. If you read this and liked it, please anonymously scream with me about AziraCrow in my site's chatbox under the nav sidebar. That would make my day because I just implemented it and I don't totally understand how it works yet. OR you could come visit me on masto or tumblr!

Cheers everybody 🥂 happy holidays!

#AziraCrow #Good omens #Aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #good omens fanfiction #GO fic #hurt/comfort #hurt Crowley #comforting Aziraphale #my fic #my fanfic #ineffable husbands #GO fanfic #good omens fanfic

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aziraphales-library · 3 months

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Crowley gets dragged to hell at the end of the Resurrectionists mini episode, presumably to be punished. I’m looking for fic recs around this scene. The whumpier the better.

Here are some fics for you...

High on Laudanum by LawluSupremacy_Gigi (M)

"How about... A little treat, something of a gift. A thank you, if you wish. From me. For what you did earlier." or Crowley returns after being dragged to Hell for punishment.

Finding the Words by Lalaland42 (T)

After saving a girl and consorting with an angel in Edinburgh, Crowley has hell to pay.

Crowley's Punishment by DrHurtsSoGood (T)

A series that follows the events after Crowley's punishment for saving Elsbeth's soul in Scotland 1827. Mostly lighthearted and attempting to stay in canon. I strive to reproduce their "voices" as best I can. Aziraphale and Crowley's adventures in the Victorian era. This chapter: Crowley is severely punished after his miracles in the graveyard, with a lot of comedy. This scene plays immediately at the end of the Resurrectionist Mini Episode. 11/10/1827.

Never Let Anything Intrude by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

After the incident with the Resurrectionists, Aziraphale anxiously waits in Edinburgh until Crowley returns. Crowley is injured and traumatized, and Aziraphale takes him somewhere peaceful to recover. They both dream of being able to stay together—and maybe in the future, they can have a home of their own.

Grave Danger by Paige_Turner36 (E)

Aziraphale goes down to Hell to rescue Crowley.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #crowley whump #hurt crowley #hurt/comfort #the resurrectionists #mod d

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beauty-grace-outer-space · 8 months

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Crowley Needs a Nap (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Hell is Terrible (Good Omens), Heaven is Terrible (Good Omens), Whipping, Flogging, Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood and Injury, Major Character Injury, Injury, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Season 1, References to Oscar Wilde, Aziraphale and Crowley's Bodyswap (Good Omens), Bodyswap, Broken Bones, Bruises, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Pain, Heaven & Hell, good omens - Freeform Summary:

“I can heal you,” Aziraphale spits out, desperate and anxious. “I can–”

“No,” Crowley cuts him off, leaning forward over his knees with a grimace, elbows resting against his thighs as he properly looks at Aziraphale for the first time all evening. “You want to try and explain that to–” Crowley trails off, one long and spindly finger– still at just the wrong angle, bent sideways at the knuckle but slowly straightening as Aziraphale watches, his stomach turning– pointing upwards. “And even so, I have no desire to deal with downstairs if they catch wind of it.” With a recalcitrant shake of his head and another bitter breath of humorless laughter, his gaze returns to his glass. “It’s not worth the risk, angel,” he sighs as he brings it to his lips, draining the remnants in one go.

You are, Aziraphale longs to say. You are worth everything. He keeps his cowardly tongue tucked carefully behind his teeth, too afraid of what it might mean to speak the words aloud. He hates himself for it.

--Takes place during S1, no spoilers for S2.--

#HERE I GO AGAIN ON MY OWN #good omens #fanfiction #ao3 #season 1 only #no season 2 spoilers #aziraphale #crowley #hell is terrible #so is heaven #torture #hurt crowley #shortly before armaggedon't #between losing the antichrist and the last day

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celpheres · 2 years

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Rambling about the script #6

“Oh no, look! Poor Crowley, he suffers from Hell so much more than Aziraphale does from Heaven!”

That’s what people keep claiming this line to be proof of.

The fandom really likes to forget that emotional abuse exists.

But well. As long as Crowley is the victim of everything, in need of stone cold Aziraphale to save him, the fandom loves it.

#I really pity them tbh #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #rambling about the script #good omens script #hurt crowley #but also goddamn #hurt aziraphale

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 2 years

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Perfection 12--The Perfect End to a Perfect Day

Aziraphale and Crowley live in a heartbreakingly perfect world. There is no sadness. There is no loss. Every day, the sun rises on an idyllic peace far beyond mortal imagination. The end of the old world brought Salvation. Justice. Perfection.

But not everything is what it seems. And one angel learns that perfection cannot be bought without great pain.

In this chapter, after a day of many revelations, Aziraphale and Crowley prepare to sleep...

(CW: Minor s*xual ass*ult)

[Note: Prisoner Thirty-Eight is Crowley's current designation]

Read it on AO3!

Prisoner Thirty-Eight was halfway to the glow of the furnace when, with an echoing clunk, it went dark.

He stared at it, uncomprehending.

Where was the fire? Did it go out? Can’t go out. Shouldn’t…

“Looks like you made it. End of the shift.” The voice in his ear this time was Barrett, and Thirty-Eight could feel the weight of the hand on his shoulder. He stumbled, though he wasn’t sure if he was trying to get away or just collapsing, shutting down now that there was no more work to do.

An arm around his back kept him upright. “Oops! There we go. Can’t have you falling now. You know,” Barrett went on cheerfully, “you should be really proud of yourself, getting through your first day with almost no punishments. Not many demons can say that.” The arm moved away, and Thirty-Eight found he could stand, even though he felt more like he was drifting through the void of space. “Yes. Looks like tomorrow, I’ll be able to really challenge you.”

“Tomorrow…” He’d forgotten tomorrow existed.

“Oh, yes.” Barrett pulled Thirty-Eight’s arms behind his back, binding them again. “They generally say the second day is the worst. At least, until they reach the third day.”

Ah. A joke. Thirty-Eight liked jokes. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do after hearing one.

“Since you did so well today, you get a choice.” Fingers brushed his shoulders, his chest, his legs, as if cleaning off the dirt. As if anyone could see the dirt here. “Do you want to go back to your cell? Or I can accommodate you down here, until they want you back.” One last brush across his bare hip, then Barrett carefully tended to his hair, tucking a lock behind his ear. “You’ll get a chance to wash up, and a private place to lay down. Some of the others have earned little luxuries for their chambers. A light. A cup of water. A bed. None of that for you tonight, of course, but at least no broken glass.”

Thirty-Eight was hardly listening. He hadn’t been given a choice in anything, not in so long he almost couldn’t remember. That alone was enough to make him light-headed but… a night out of the Tower… a chance to be clean, to be able to lay down without cutting himself open on hidden edges, to feel something other than obsidian beneath him, to hear silence instead of the sobs and screams of fellow prisoners…

What if Aziraphale comes?

Stupid. He’s not coming. He’s never coming. Don’t want him to come. Let him stare uselessly at an empty cell, let him rattle the bars to his heart’s content, let him wonder for eternity what happened to me, how they punished me, if they found a way to destroy me…

“Cell,” he said, though his voice seemed to come from someone else entirely. “My old cell.”

“If you like.” A tug on his leash, and he turned to follow where it led, shuffling in the dark.

Read the rest on AO3!

#good omens fanfiction #good omens angst #angst #aziraphale and crowley #hurt/comfort #really just some hurt #aziraphale #crowley #hurt crowley #very hurt #ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens prime #au heaven won the apocalypse #my writing #my fanfiction #ao3fic #perfection

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midnights-dragon · 2 months

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This new fic of mine looks rather scary from the outside (Crowley/Other tag, Sad Ending tag) but I promise, it is not as intimidating as it seems! <3

Crowley, struggling with the grief of losing Aziraphale, wants nothing more than to replace those final moments and that awful kiss. He seeks out the assistance of a certain Mrs. Sandwich and her sensitive establishment -- but not out of interest for any of the more . . . sensual things. Rather, he wants nothing more than for someone to love him for an hour, because that's what they're being paid to do. Someone who he can imagine, for that hour, is an angel who stayed.

She looked at him, then — really looked at him, in a way that made him feel scrutinized and on display and naked, as if he were Adam and Eve feeling shame for the first time — and there must’ve been something on his face that she recognized from her years working with disheveled, miserable old blokes. He doubted she’d ever had to deal with a demon and his six thousand years of despairing pining, though. The thought just made him feel worse. Even fucking Gabriel and Beelzebub had gotten their happy ending. And yet here he was, at a fucking brothel in the hopes of replacing that awful kiss with something at least marginally better.

Anyway, if you're a fan of bittersweet endings and Crowley getting comfort (even though he's so very hurt), I ask that you please check it out! Chapter 2 will be up sometime this week, and Chapter 1 is already. <3

And an excerpt from Chapter 2, for fun ~

“Of course, Crowley, thank you for telling me,” Eve soothed him. “Is there anything else you’d like me to call you?” Crowley shook, and trembled, and buried his face in the crook of her arm, not even bothering to fucking care about how fucking pathetic he looked. “‘My dear,’” he whimpered. He wanted her to talk to him, now. He needed it. When was the last time he had spoken to someone, and been praised just as Aziraphale used to praise him?

#good omens #good omens fic #crowley angst #post good omens s2 #good omens fanfic #good omens ao3 #good omens fic rec #crowley fanfic #crowley fic #bittersweet ending #sad crowley #hurt crowley #my fic #my writing

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wolverina2002 · 1 year

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The Serpent and the Hound

Fanfic based on this post.

In the victorian era, after Aziraphale refuses to get Crowley holy water, he gets into trouble with a cult. Luckily, Lily has no Problem intervening.

Summer 1867

Lily can feel that she´s needed. It´s an urging tug in her chest, guiding her north. The feeling has always been there, similar to the radio collar she once wore for five years. This is different though. This is urgent, like a voice telling her to run, run, run.

Her current form, a black coyote, isn´t very suited for long distance running, so back to her favorite it is.

If anyone would´ve driven along the highway 15 towards Las Vegas that night, and if they would´ve looked anywhere else but straight ahead, they would´ve seen something arguably impossible: a pitchblack West African wild dog with a white tailtip, running at top speed along the street.

The top speed of african wild dogs, to the people unaware of the abilities of this wonderfull animal, is 41 mph, which they can hold for up to 60 minutes. So Lily has no problem crossing the desert surrounding Las Vegas in a matter of 15 minutes and still have enough energy to find whatever bound her to this earth.

She has been around Vegas in the form of a coyote often enough to know to avoid The Strip, instead taking a convoluted route through the city that mostly consisted of slinking through the sewers and across the rooftops in the outer districts. She´s never been to this kind of place, but somehow, ending up in a graveyard behind a church feels oddly ... fitting.

The ground doesn´t burn her paws, but Lily feels unwelcome all the same. She shouldn´t be here, a part of her says, she doesn´t belong here, on these grounds. And yet, it feels oddly fitting. Like it´s her place to walk among the graves, paws leaving patches of blooming lilies in the grass. Lilies, like her name.

Fog has drawn up at some point and adds even more to the eery atmosphere as Lily slinks deeper into the graveyard, back towards an old crypt. She can feel power thrumming there, oily and sick yet almost too bright. Sickeningly bright. She draws her own power closer, wraps it around herself like a cloak or a second pelt. Honeysuckle and moonflower vines creep across her body as she carefully steps into the crypt.

~~~~~~

Crowley isn´t sure if he´s awake or dreaming. Maybe it´s both at the same time, the concecrated ground and chains burning him and the symbols across the floor and walls trapping him, leeching away his power. He can´t even move.

Yet he´s pretty sure the creature at the top of the short staircase is real. It looks like some kind of canine with long legs and round ears, fur black like ink under the flowering vines wrapped around it´s body, it´s white tailtip burning like a star.

A rage filled snarl bursts from the creature´s throat as it spies him, green-golden eyes narrowing dangeroulsly. Crowly is panting, trying to shrink away from a creature so obviously not of his nature, but the chains keep him in place.

And yet. He doesn´t feel scared.

The creature steps closer and Crowley instinctivly knows it´s a she. And that she could step right through the binding runes, untouched by the powers of Heaven. But she doesn´t, instead pacing just outside the rune circle, eyes burning with power Crowley has never seen before. The old stone cracks under her paws, flowers creeping over the graves, in full bloom despite the darkness. Finally, she sits down, paws just outside the circle, and meets his eyes.

"Hello Crowley."

Crowley´s breath hitches as he hears the voice in his head, familiar and strange all the same, fitting in like a puzzle piece.

"Who are you?", he rasps out, trying to push himself up.

A new serious of burns shakes across his body, but he ignores it, too fascinated by the creature in front of him.

"My name´s Lily. At least I call myself Lily."

Crowley casts a short glance across the room, which is by now overgrown by funeral flowers in full bloom. In the middle of a summer night in Las Vegas. Some kind of nature spirit then, or at least something close enough.

"Can you get me out of here?"

It´s a sarcastic question, but the creature wearing the form of a dog tilts her head thoughtfully for a moment.

"Yes."

Firecracker, morning glory and roses break through the ground, rapidly growing across the floor, roots breaking open the stone. Crowley sobs in relief as the runes break, crumbling to dust. Blood red baccara roses rank themselves up the walls, followed by brightly blooming firecrackers. Roots wrap around the chains and shackles, metal creaking under the strain of plants doing the work of centuries in seconds.

Finally, the chains shatter apart and Crowley scrambles to his feet, stumbling outside and collapsing onto the dew-damp grass, sobbing at the cool fog brushing across his burned skin, ignoring the concecrated ground burning through his jacket. He watches the crypt being overgrown with vines and funeral flowers, then flinches when he feels teeth close around the collar of his coat.

"Come on, we gotta get you away from the church."

"W-wait ....", he slurrs, lifting his hand.

With his last bit of strengh, he miracles them back to London.

~~~~~~

Lily stumbles across cool stone floors as she lands, hastily pulling in her powers to avoid accidentally growing a whole oak in the appartment. Crowley lies sprawled next to her, limp and unconcious but still breathing. His clothes are ripped almost completely to shreds, revealing terrible burns and cuts.

Lily growls deeply and shifts her form again, into a massive great dane. Big enough to drag Crowley over to the couch and lay him out there. Aloe vera and other plants grow along her spine, roots framing her flanks like armor as she begins to treat Crowley´s injuries.

Whatever power rules this earth probably knows why she feels drawn to this creature - he is very clearly not human - but Lily isn´t sure if she cares. She knows where she belongs now.

Crowley doesn´t wake up.

His wounds heal and he´s clearly no longer in pain, but he just continues to sleep. Lily, who is pretty sure that "loyal" is a good word to describe herself, decides to try something.

She´s always been able to shape herself by deciding how her physical form should be. Somehow, the fact that she is capable of growing plants from her fur never translated into photosynthesiszing, but why shouldn´t it?

Oh wow. This feels great.

Deciding on a spot behind the couch, right where the large windows let in light for the whole day, she settles down, her body shrinking again into that of the West African wild dog. As she closes her eyes, grass begins to mix with her fur and lilies sprout between her ears.

She´ll wait for Crowley to wake up.

#fanfiction #good omens #crowley #crowley is in trouble #again #african wild dog #occult symbols and the destruction of them #rescue #after the victorian holy water thing #consecrated ground #flowers #hurt Crowley #don´t worry he get´s better

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