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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

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So as part of my push to fill the world with soft fluff while we all need it, @sparkkeyper requested Aziraphale warming up a cold Crowley. And, well, things got a little out of hand with this bit of hurt/comfort. Also fills the @bingokisses prompt for “Brush of Lips, Almost-There Kiss/Bridal Carry” so that’s exciting!

Not clearly established, but this fic is just-barely-pre Arrangement.

“If that’s the way you feel,” Aziraphale said, hand on the door to his one-room hut, “then I suggest you leave, and find some other angel to bother with your nonsense.

“Good! Maybe I can find one who isn’t a self-righteous prick.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” the apology dripped with sarcasm, “that I choose not to blindly trust a devious…manipulative…snake.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Crowley sucked in a breath, tasting a hint of frost in the late-autumn air. “Fine,” he growled, turning away. He’d have to walk through the night to get back to London, but at just that moment he felt angry enough to march all the way to China and back. “Good riddance,” he snapped from the gate around the little garden, but Aziraphale had already shut the door.

“Call me a snake,” Crowley grumbled, pulling the thick black pelt more tightly over his shoulders. He’d thought the wilderness look – loose hair, black fur wrap, boiled leather jerkin belted over his tunic like armor – would make him look intimidating and cool. But as the temperatures dropped with the sunset, he really just wished for a good wool cloak.

“I’m not the one who’s manipulative and…whatever else he said.” The wind shifted, slapping across his face, sending his hair spinning behind him. “Cold-blooded. I’m not cold-blooded.”

He snapped his fingers, summoning a cloak, but the wind immediately ripped it out of his hands. It got caught on a tree branch, just out of reach. “Ah, never mind. Just slow me down anyway.”

Stuffing his hands into his armpits, Crowley marched deeper into the woods. Just follow the path west to the little creek, follow that out of the forest, main road was on the other side. Quickest route to London.

As the last light faded from the sky, the snowflakes began to fall.

“Coordinate our activities – of course we can’t coordinate, you fool, we’re doing opposite tasks.”

Aziraphale waved his fingers at the fire, making it burn just a touch brighter, and continued angrily chopping vegetables to drop into the pot of water. “And I certainly can’t just – just tell you what Heaven’s plans are for the north, or for the Holy Roman Empire, or for…for…blast!”

He glowered at the deep cut on his thumb and quickly healed it, an almost blinding burst of holy power. Well, that was probably enough for soup, anyway.

“All I’m trying to say, you foolish creature,” he grumbled, lifting the pot to nestle against the hot stones that circled his hearth, “is that we can’t talk…business when we meet. Is that so hard? Can you not get that one idea in your head?”

The shutters rattled in the wind, one breaking open to crack angrily against the wall. Aziraphale hurried over to push it shut, pausing to look across the dark fields to the woods beyond. Already a mix of snow and freezing rain had turned everything to a muddy slush.

Crowley would be fine. Crowley always found a way to be fine, and more often than not that way involved finagling himself into some comfortable circle where dozens of humans happily did his bidding. And when he couldn’t find that, he came to Aziraphale.

Well. Aziraphale would not – would not be duped into doing Crowley’s work for him.

“Enjoy getting yourself out of this mess,” Aziraphale said, pushing the shutter closed.

Bracing himself against a tree, Crowley tried to pull the back of his tunic up to protect his neck. Tiny spears of ice had assaulted it for hours, and he could feel the cold drops worming their way down his spine, soaking into his undertunic. His boots were drenched through, squishing a little with every step.

“Bloody creek,” he grumbled, searching desperately through the ceaseless fall of ice and snow. He should have passed it ages ago. He should be nearly out of the woods, and instead here he was, surrounded by mounds of wet, icy snow as deep as his ankles.

Everything looked strange. Everything looked different. Every rock transformed into something unfamiliar, every tree a shapeless mass of white. He was…

Crowley was lost.

“It’s fine,” he said as the wind shifted and the tree dropped another freezing glob of ice into his hair to ooze down his neck. “It’s bloody fine.” He pushed away from the tree and snapped his fingers, trying to summon a fire.

Nothing.

“Oh, for Sssatan’s sssake!” He pictured a cloak again. Nothing. A windbreak. A pile of blankets. A lantern.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

With each failed miracle, Crowley felt the panic rise further, which was stupid. The only reason he couldn’t perform them was because he was panicking, so the thing to do was to stop panicking.

Useless, Aziraphale had called him. I don’t know what’s worse, that you come to me to help you with every little thing, or that you do everything in your power to get out of even thinking about working.

No, wait. Aziraphale hadn’t said that, not out loud. But the look in his eyes…it was obvious how he felt. Why wouldn’t he? It was true enough.

“Stop that, stop that!” He marched on through the forest. West. Just keep going west, London had to be somewhere around here. “It’s not my fault. Pointless assignments, impossible tasks, and you, you running around undoing everything I do – it’s not my fault I can’t get anything done!”

Useless. Failure. Worthless snake.

Had that been Aziraphale? Or Hastur? Or one of the other demons? They all thought the same, didn’t they? They were all right, weren’t they?

“No!” He waved his arms, visualizing a clear path through the slush.

Instead, he slipped on an icy patch and fell, chin cracking against the ground, one arm shoving into a particularly deep mound, filling his sleeve with snow.

“Fuck, fuck.” He scrambled to get purchase, to push himself up, wriggling around on his stomach like—

Like a snake.

“I’m not,” he whispered, but without conviction. “I’m not.”

Aziraphale tried to keep himself busy. Cooking, preparing herbs, copying pages out of texts, bits of wisdom that would be carefully left on the right desk at the right time, according to Heaven’s guidance.

He never quite knew when he’d be called to take care of something, never quite knew when Gabriel would announce he was coming down for an inspection. So Aziraphale always had to be ready, always had to look busy. Always had to be sure he was where he was supposed to be.

Maybe Crowley didn’t have to worry about that. Maybe Crowley didn’t have superiors checking in at random intervals, making sure he really had traveled to York, or Venice, or Kiev, or wherever else a bit of Holy assistance was needed. Maybe Crowley’s superiors actually trusted him to get the work done without…(Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut, carefully removing any accusations of micromanagement to the deepest depths of his subconscious)…without their careful direction and helpful input, but that wasn’t the case with Aziraphale.

He sighed and put the manuscript pages back on the bench. It was far too dark for a human to be doing copy work, and rather too dark for an angel. Perhaps he could take a break, just for a few minutes.

It’s always another excuse with you, Crowley had shouted. Well. Not shouted, but the words had hit him just the same.

But they weren’t excuses, they were – a thousand perfectly valid reasons why he couldn’t…couldn’t let Crowley interfere with his work, and yes perhaps some of them contradicted each other, but that wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault and…

“No, stop that.” He rose to his feet. Needed to keep busy. “A bit more water from the well. Better to be prepared.” The villagers often came up, looking for medicines, for advice, for a bit of food more varied than their usual diet (Aziraphale could miracle up fresh spices and vegetables any time of year, and that wasn’t…entirely cheating). Bad weather usually kept them away, but likely it would all clear up by morning.

He opened the door.

The wind that blasted Aziraphale’s face sent him staggering back. A fistful of mixed snow and rain hit him in the face, somehow colder than ice. By now, he ground was covered almost knee-deep in some places, and he could barely see the fence from where he stood, never mind the well.

“Oh…”

But, surely, Crowley had made it back to London by now.

Surely.

He had to keep moving.

Crowley huddled below a tree, knees pulled up to his chest, fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, trying to shield himself from the weather.

He shivered so hard his teeth nearly cracked, his ribs ached, and he felt sick to his stomach. Stupid mammal bodies, weren’t they supposed to retain heat?

He couldn’t feel his toes. The boots were packed with snow from trying to push through drifts. He couldn’t feel his fingers. He moved them back inside the pelt wrap again, pressing them into his already-wet tunic. The boiled leather jerkin clung to him like…well, like only leather could, getting stiff where he needed it to flex, getting soft where he needed it to stay rigid. Bloody useless.

Clenching his eyes tight, Crowley braced against another blast of wind, cutting through his layers like a dagger. What was the point of all this clothing if it didn’t help?

Some part of his mind kept reminding him to move. Not time to burrow yet, not time to conserve energy. Movement would create heat, warm him up.

No it won’t, argued the part of his mind that would never not be a snake. Moving uses heat. Stay. Conserve. Burrow down and wait for the sun.

“D-d-d-doesn’t matter,” Crowley groaned. “N-n-nowhere to go.”

His joints locked up, skin trying to pull itself away from the damp clothing pressed against it. He was tired. Mammal and serpent, both so tired.

No. He had to keep moving.

Crowley wasn’t sure how he managed to get his feet under him, managed to take the first shuffling, stumbling steps.

West. He was supposed to go west. Whichever way west was.

He picked a likely direction and started moving.

Was that hail pounding on the thatch? Or was the rain that strong?

Aziraphale waved the fire stronger, almost enough to over-boil the pots of soup arranged around the outside.

He didn’t really need that much soup. It just. Kept him busy.

The sun rose just as Crowley reached the edge of the woods.

It hurt to lift his head, to shift the muscles that had been hunched and braced against the cold for so long. The brightness of the sky hurt his eyes.

At some point, it had stopped snowing. He didn’t know when, his skin was completely numb. Wasn’t even shivering anymore. It was nice, in a way. Just the comforting darkness all around.

Now even that was gone, but he could look around the endless ocean of…snow was too strong a word, it was really slush…under the blood-red of the sunrise.

He wasn’t lost anymore. The hill, there to the right, the hut on top of it –

That was Aziraphale. He’d gone in a bloody circle.

I suggest you leave, and find some other angel to bother with your nonsense.

Fuck.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to hear it. He’d wonder why Crowley hadn’t just miracled himself to safety, and he didn’t have the strength to explain that he didn’t have the strength. He knew his miracles had failed in the night – that he hadn’t been able to focus. Couldn’t remember exactly why.

Couldn’t really focus now.

Aziraphale wouldn’t want to help. He’d still be angry over the things Crowley said. Still be stuck in his holier-than-though me-versus-you mindset. Probably want to send Crowley away.

But Crowley would never make it to London now. Might not even make it up the hill.

He pushed himself forward.

I can do this, Crowley grumbled at himself. Just need a plan.

Aziraphale would let him in. He just needed a really clever argument to convince the angel first. Tempt him, trick him. Make him think helping Crowley would somehow help himself? No, that wouldn’t work. Maybe threaten to cause trouble in the village? Though he could hardly look capable of it in this state.

He stumbled through the gate – half-open, and held in place by a mound of ice that crunched under his feet. Just a few more steps to the door.

Well. Looked like Crowley would be going with his favorite plan: winging it.

He tried to knock on the door, but his arms had stopped obeying him, his hands wouldn’t budge from where he’d tucked them in his armpits. He tried kicking the door, but the snow and slush piled in a drift almost up to his knees, so he only succeeded in making a wet crunching sound.

The wind shifted again, another volley of ice, and the last of his heat was stripped away.

He was going to discorporate here, literal inches from safety. He was going to wake up in Hell and spend the next decade trying to convince his superiors to give him another body after he’d been so careless with this one. Worthless, stupid snake…

“Aziraphale,” he tried to call, throat too raw to make a sound, his jaw irrevocably clenched. He surged his whole body forward, smashing his shoulder against the door. “Angel! C’n see…smoke…lemme in…”

The door vanished in front of him so quickly, Crowley nearly tumbled through it. Barely managed to wedge his shoulder against the door frame to keep himself upright.

“Oh, my word!”

Blinking the ice out of his eyes, Crowley could see the look of shock and horror on Aziraphale’s face. Knew he wouldn’t want me here.

“G-g-got caught,” he managed, struggling to unclench his jaw. “Sssssstorm.” It was more a puff of steam wrapped around a vowel than a word.

“But – you – that was hours ago!”

“Nrf.” Something was spilling out the door, like a wave of…the opposite of pressure. As if the air was somehow lighter, easier to move in. So close. Just had to convince Aziraphale. “Look. ‘Ngel.”

“Enough. I don’t want to hear it.”

“B…” He shook his head, long, slow, dizzy loops as he tried to clear his mind. “Jus’lissen. Yer side…I mean, my side…”

“Don’t start on that now.” There was that stubborn edge to his voice. No point in arguing.

“Fffffine.” Another white puff filled the air between them and he tried to turn, one shuffling step at a time. He was still upright, that had to be good, maybe he could make it to the village before—

“No, you ridiculous—! Get in.”

“Wah…?”

Aziraphale grabbed the back of his fur wrap and hauled him through the door, kicking it shut behind him.

Something prickled across Crowley’s skin. It must be the heat, but he couldn’t feel it. Not really. The blinding light of the morning sun reflecting off the white landscape had been replaced with the cozy darkness of a shuttered hut, fire burning low in the hearth at the center. Oil lamps burnt here and there, giving a cheerful glow that reflected off the brass cookware, the earthenware pots tucked close to the fire, then bench covered in parchment, the neat white linen of the bed.

Then Crowley did feel something: the ice trapped in layers of clothing melting, sliding down, soaking further into his tunic. He bit back a groan.

“Come along, move faster.” One hand still clutching his furs, the other pressed into the small of Crowley’s back, propelling him forward.

“I c’n walk,” Crowley griped, but before he could even finish forming the words, he was in front of the fire, being pushed firmly down to sit on the floor.

“Yes, I’m sure you can, you always make such a display of it.” Aziraphale crouched beside him, brow furrowed. “Look at you. Look at your hair.”

“S’wrong wi’m’hair?” Aziraphale reached behind Crowley’s ear and pulled out an almost fist-sized lump of snow. “Oh. Nice trick.”

“Don’t be…Crowley, this is serious!” He grabbed Crowley’s chin in both his hands, ran thumbs across his cheeks, then pressed a palm to his forehead. “You’re too cold.” Cupped his hands around Crowley’s ears. “Not frozen, at least, but…couldn’t you at least wear a hood?”

“Nah. M’hair’s too good.” He tried to toss his head, despite Aziraphale’s grip, and he heard the splat of more snow working loose. “Lost it. Cloak. Wind.”

“And you didn’t just – just miracle yourself to safety?”

“Nrrrrrrgh.” Crowley bent his head, ready for the recriminations. He could stand them. Probably. Long as he didn’t have to meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

Aziraphale ran his hands across the thick pelt, scraping through melting snow, which still clung thick enough to turn it white. “My dear fellow,” he said, voice strangely soft. “If you were in trouble, you should have…have come back.”

Crowley’s head jerked up, searching for Aziraphale’s face. It was hard to focus but, yes, his eyes, not angry. Something else.

“Didn’think…y’wanted me…”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale shut his eyes for a moment, but his fingers sprang into action, twisting the furs free to drop in a pile behind the demon.

“Wha…Angel, what’re you…”

“Isn’t it obvious? Trying to warm you up.” He grabbed the heavy pelt with one hand and tossed it aside, as easily as if it were made of cotton. “It’s hard enough to heal a demon with holy power in the best of times, but if you’re too numb to even tell me if it hurts…”

“M’not.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” His hand rested on Crowley’s elbow, tracing it up to where one hand tucked into his armpit. Aziraphale tugged, but the hand didn’t come loose. “Crowley, please. We don’t have time for you to be petty.”

“S’nice coming from you,” he grumbled, and tried to shift his arms. “Can’t. Too cold.”

Aziraphale tugged at Crowley’s arms, rocking him in place, and made a noise of dismay. “Your clothes are soaked through! Of course, all that walking.” He turned to Crowley’s boots, started tugging them off. “You’ll be lucky if you still have feet under here.”

“M’fine. M’a snake. Don’ need feet.”

“You’re delirious.” Aziraphale jerked the first boot off Crowley’s foot, water and ice pouring out of it. He tugged off the wool wrapped around Crowley’s foot and ankle and inspected his toes. “Not black, at least. I think you’ll be fine. Can you feel this?” He breathed out heavily.

“Nnnnh.” Was that a little curl of warmth across the back of his foot? Or was he just imagining it? “Not delirious,” he added. “You called me snake. Las’time. Other thing, too. Untrustworthy.”

“Did I?” He started on the other boot. “Well, you can hardly blame me, Crowley, an agent of Hell repeatedly asking me to – to neglect my duties. What am I supposed to think?”

Crowley groaned. He didn’t want to argue. Couldn’t argue. Some of the feeling was returning to him, along the side closest to the fire, but that just made him feel colder. More miserable.

“Look, I know you’re tempting me, Crowley. I don’t know what your goal is, but I’m aware of what’s going on.” The second boot came off, and Aziraphale began unwrapping his foot. “I…I may have been…harsh. Defensive. But I’m just…trying to be cautious. You’re very good at what you do.”

“You think I’m g-good?” Odd, he couldn’t actually feel the grin on his face, but he could hear it in his voice.

“Hmmm, no. Obviously not. Demon and all that. But you are very clever.” He stretched Crowley’s feet out towards the fire, stopping them just shy of the ring of stones. The flames, Crowley noticed, didn’t feel very hot. “There. Let those warm for a moment.”

“You…” Crowley shook his head. Wished he could focus. “C-called me w-w-worthless. Ffffailure.”

“I most certainly did not!” He rested his hands on Crowley’s arms again, but they still wouldn’t relax. “I never said anything of the kind. Why would you even think such a thing?”

“Fine. You th-thought it.” Was he shivering again? Or were his lungs just seizing up?

“No. I didn’t. Truly, Crowley, I have never thought that of you.” He moved behind Crowley, crouching down, wrapping fingers around his narrow waist, tugging him slowly back. Away from the fire. “I have the utmost respect for what you do, even if I disagree with all of it, both your methods and your goals. I cannot deny that you are effective, that you get results even when you hardly do any work at all. I do not think you’re a failure. Or worthless. Nothing could be farther from the truth.”

Crowley stared ahead at the fire, which kept flaring up, brighter, redder. Tried to wriggle his toes. One of them stirred a little.

“How is that? Too hot?”

“Nah.” The shivers seemed to have faded, leaving him just tense. Hard to breathe. And move. “Not hot’a’tall. Some’n wrong wi’ your fire.”

Before he knew what was happening, Aziraphale’s arms wrapped fully around Crowley, and pulled the demon back into his lap. He gasped out a protest, even as soft arms crossed over Crowley’s and large hands rubbed at his biceps.

“Just what I was afraid of,” Aziraphale murmured, voice close to his ear. “You’re very, very cold. So cold you don’t realize it.”

“Aziraphale—! I don’t need you to…to…”

“Come, my dear fellow. You know you do. You wouldn’t have come to me otherwise.”

Long, slow movements of Aziraphale’s hands up and down his arms. He could feel the heat of them, of the chest pressed into his back. Better than fire. “M-m-maybe I’m t-tempting you.”

“No.” His grip slid once more to Crowley’s wrists and with a little pressure his hands popped free of his armpits, feeling damp and oddly distant. Aziraphale took one, then the other, giving them a few slow rubs each. “No, I know when someone is…truly in pain. You can’t fake that.” He hooked his chin over Crowley’s shoulder, bringing his fingers closer to blow on them, one hand, then the other. “And as you well know, I won’t turn away anyone in pain.”

“Do I know that?” He was feeling strangely tired. Well. Not strange, all that walking all morning, but it wasn’t the normal exhaustion. It tugged from somewhere deeper.

“Why else would you come here, even though you were angry at me?”

“N-n-nowhere else to g-go.” He leaned back a little, soaking in the warmth. “’Sides. M’not angry. C-can’t stay m-mad’t’you.” The movement of Aziraphale’s hands against Crowley’s slowed, briefly. “Y’r mad’t’me.”

“Am I?”

“Called m-me sssssnake.”

“I…But I always call you…serpent. Foul fiend. All sorts of things.”

“S’different.” He didn’t know how to explain it. How serpent was clever, chaotic Crowley, slithering around, outsmarting his opponents; but snake was stupid, useless Crawly, begging for his life, cowering in fear, hiding from every failure. Aziraphale couldn’t understand. He didn’t have two selves – a true one he tried to project, a wrong one that everyone saw anyway.

But even still. It hurt.

“I see.” One of Aziraphale’s hands dropped to rest against his stomach. “But you aren’t angry? That I sent you away like that?”

“Naaaah. Yer’n’angel. Gotta ssssay th-th-things like that.” Aziraphale still held one hand, thumb rubbing circles on his palm. Crowley wiggled the fingers of the other, and smiled to see them move. “Just…wish you’d trust me.”

“Why?”

“Cuz I trust you.” He tried to squeeze Aziraphale’s hand, but his fingers still moved stiffly, like twigs on a frost-covered tree. “I like you.”

Now both of Aziraphale’s hands were at his waist, pressing him back. It was nice. “Do you mean that, Crowley? Do you trust me?”

“Course.” Crowley turned his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and found the angel’s face alarmingly close. His eyes were right there. His lips. Right there. “N-nerrer trusted anyone b’fore. N-not a lotta trust in Hell. Erryone’ll b-b-betray you.” He smiled, or at least he thought about smiling. No telling what expression his face wore. “You, too. You’ll b-betray me. S’fine. Don’ mind. J-j-just hope I see it comin.”

“Crowley…”

They were right there. Crowley thought of leaning forward just a little. See if that heat was in Aziraphale’s lips, too. Drink it in. Warm him from the inside.

“But even so. Yeah. I trust you.”

Aziraphale took a deep, shuddering breath. “Good.” His hands grabbed at Crowley’s belt and began to unbuckle it, loosening the leather jerkin. “You need to take your clothes off. Now.”

“Oh. Oh.” He dropped a hand to pat Azirphale’s…something…missed entirely, anyway, and landed in the dirt. “Angel’s g-gonna tempt me.”

“Stop that, you ridiculous…” He huffed out his annoyance. “Crowley, your clothing is soaked through and it’s making you colder. Let me help you out of it and into the bed.”

“You g-gonna j-j-join me?” He’d only said it to make Aziraphale uncomfortable, indignant. He really liked those little huffs. Instead, he was only met with silence. “Aziraphale?”

“Crowley…you’re always a little cold. Barely produce enough heat even when you aren’t…” He’d unwrapped the soaking leather, and one hand clutched at the hem of Crowley’s tunic. “No, I won’t. Not if it will make you uncomfortable. You can keep your clothes on, too, if you prefer. There are other ways to warm you up.”

“Oh.” He wished he could see Aziraphale’s face. “D-don’t mind. Ssssaid I trust you. Meant it.”

“You…ah…”

“Gonna haf’ta c-c-carry me tho. M’feet’re…” He tried wriggling his toes again, succeeded in flexing his whole foot together. “Do what you gotta. Trust you.”

He hadn’t realized how awful the tunic felt, clinging to his ribs and back, until Aziraphale peeled it off over his head, ran his hands quickly over damp skin. The rest followed soon after, and Crowley felt…not warmer. Lighter. As if some burden had been removed.

Aziraphale slipped on arm under his knees, the other around Crowley’s back, and lifted him easily, carrying him across the little hut to lay him on the bleached-white linens of the bed.

“S’nice,” Crowley murmured, as Aziraphale found more blankets to pile on him. Miracled up? Possibly. Lucky bastard.

“Oh. Ah. Glad it’s comfortable. Don’t really use it myself. Only have it because visitors expect it. Like the chamber pot.” He gave the blankets one more tug, then brushed his fingers across Crowley’s hair. “Is this better?”

“Mmmmh. Sleep?”

“One moment.” A rustle of fabric, and then the bed shifted and another body slid in beside him, tugging him against the soft, warm chest. “Is this better?”

“N-now’m warm.” He ran his fingers across Aziraphale’s back, feeling the way his skin dipped under the pressure, as if Crowley could truly sink into him. “Y-y-you’re n-nice.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, but his hand didn’t stop rubbing a slow circle across Crowley’s back. “That really is enough of that.”

“No. I m-mean you’re n-nice.” If he wiggled a little, he could rest his head on Aziraphale’s arm. Hmmm, that was good. “Y-you d-didn’t need t-to help me. M’a demon.”

“I told you. I will help anyone. Even you.” A hesitation, and Crowley could swear he felt something brush across his forehead. Maybe his hair. Everything still tingled a little. “Especially you,” Aziraphale said, voice even softer.

“Won’ help me wi’my work,” Crowley grumbled.

“That’s…I can’t…it’s different.” Another hesitation, and now he could feel Aziraphale’s other hand, still running evenly up and down his bicep. “What…did you want me to help you with? I…suppose I…wasn’t really listening.”

“Nrf.” Oh, he could feel himself shivering now, in a distant sort of way. “J-J-Jus’wanna know f’you’re…gonna…cancel out m’next j-job. S’along way t’walk for n-n-nothing.”

“And if I am?”

“I sssstay’n London. Ssssay you th-thwarted me. Sss’all g-good.”

Crowley could hear the rhythm of Aziraphale’s breaths, of his heartbeat, of the hands on his skin. It was all nearly enough to lull him to sleep, even without that glorious heat that surrounded him, reflected back from the blankets. It was the closest he’d ever come, in this body, to that luxurious feeling of basking, gathering the sunlight on his scales.

“You know, Crowley…perhaps we should talk. When you’re better.” His forehead pressed against Crowley’s, and he continued in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry I threw you out. I’m sorry I called you a snake.”

“Ssssss.” They weren’t supposed to say those words. “Can’t ssssay m’sorry for wha’I said,” Crowley muttered. “Umm. Cuz. Fffforgot what it was.” He remembered being hurt. Angry. But the words themselves escaped him. “I was jus’…jus’…”

“I understand.” Another of those funny brushes by his hairline. “Sleep now. I have you.”

Aziraphale’s lips still tingled where they’d brushed Crowley’s forehead.

For a moment, back by the fire, Crowley had been too cold. Too still. Aziraphale had come very close to losing him, and that frightened him more than anything. He couldn’t say way. It was just discorporation, and yet…

I trust you.

One last brush of lips, so gentle it could hardly be called contact. Even still, Crowley sighed in his sleep, pulled a little closer. He was shivering now. That was a good sign.

“I think I’ll trust you, too,” Aziraphale whispered. “I’ve…never trusted anyone before, either. We’ll have to learn together.”

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale and crowley #emotional h/c #there was only one bed #hypothermia #snow storm #medieval #crowley is bad with emotions #hurt crowley #protective aziraphale #my writing

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d20owlbear-deactivated · 4 years

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Joy of Cooking (or the Cookie Fic)

Chapter 1 will be on AO3 on July 10th! With a podfic version by @groovyaviator and as part of the @do-it-with-style-events minibang!

Rating: T

Warnings: Trauma about the Fall, mental health spiral, breakdown about the Fall and implications therein

Tags: Aziraphale (Sister Frances), Crowley (Nanny Ashtoreth), Warlock, Ineffable Wives, Crowley/Aziraphale (sort of, pining) 11-year interim, building the world, making cookies, cookies as a metaphor for trauma, God is a Kitchen Witch, the universe is made of shortbread and other things, burnt cookies as fallen angels, Warlock is presumed the anti-christ, so sometimes, expectations override reality, if you're an angel and a demon who believe something a lot, Warlock kinda sorta has powers, Crowley has to Face His Emotions Like An Emotionally Mature Being, where we tackle topics like, can anyone be inherently Bad or Good or is God is just cruel, with a four year old, Heartbreaking meta disguised as friendly theological debate between two hereditary enemies? In MY fic? More likely than you think!, a 4 year old as a stand in for God

Summary: Nanny Ashtoreth is doing her damndest to instill the virtues vices a young Prince of Darkness. So, she teaches him about how the universe was made so that he can eventually remake it when he's 11 and grown into his birthright.

On her day off, she ends up giving Warlock a more hands-on lesson, patching together shortbread biscuits the same way God did in Her cottage at the Edge of the Universe before it was made when She created the angels. All the while telling Warlock the story of how She made the Earth and the Firmament and even Crowley herself.

But somehow, those sorts of thoughts don’t seem to end on a high note for Nanny... Luckily, Sister Frances is here to help. Or try to, at least.

Sneak Peak below!

Chapter 1: In Which Warlock and Nanny Talk About The Universe

“Nanny?” Warlock mumbled sleepily, “I’m not tired.” Crowley raised an eyebrow at that.

“Of course you are, dear. And just what did I say about lying?” She asked sternly, stopping on her way to bring the hellspawn to his bed, and looking him in the eye, letting her bright yellow gaze peek over the rims of her sunglasses.

Warlock, of course, had never been afraid of them, liked them even and Crowley had been able to report a stunning casualness in the face of outright demonic and evil activity, for which she’d been golf-clapped rudely. Remarkable achievement in Hell, really.

“You said,” Warlock sighed dramatically, which she was also quite proud of, “That if I’m gonna lie, gotta do it good.”

“Well.” Crowley corrected absentmindedly, but continued walking and shuffled the antichrist in her arms so he could wrap his stubby arms around her neck—yes, just like that, when you’re older it’ll be a perfect stranglehold, my little dragon, hold on tight—and let him bury his head into the crook of her neck. “But, young prince-of-this-world, that was quite a good first step in your mischief. What was the next going to be?”

Warlock groaned and wriggled in her arms so that she nearly dropped him, only stilling once she hissed under her breath and held him tight against her chest. Usually it was simply a matter of waiting, and Nanny had something bordering on an infinite amount of patience, at least where Warlock was concerned.

“Was gonna say you had ta tell me a story, Nanny.” Warlock grumbled after a child’s eternity passed, “And I was gonna mis-chiv and tie all Jeeve’s shoes together if you didn’t.” Crowley smiled slyly and tapped Warlock’s cheek fondly. The butler was, of course, not actually named Jeeves, but he took the compliment admirably whenever Nanny and young master Warlock were around. Mr. Ainsworth was a bit harder for a four year-old to say, antichrist or no.

“Ah, an ultimatum, masterfully done, my little dark lord. Just as you ought.” Crowley adjusted Warlock a little higher on her hip with a huff. “But, my dear, just why would I care if you made mischief for the butler? Why would you choose that to punish me for not giving you what you wanted?” Crowley emphasized the correct pronunciation of mischief.

Warlock didn’t take quite as long to think about it as Crowley thought he would and his answer was a bit surprising. “I heard Jeeves and you talkin’ an’ a maid said he was,” Warlock screwed up his face and very carefully continued, “in-tre-stid in you. An’ she said ‘t was lucky. So ‘f I made him mad at you, wouldn’t be lucky.”

Crowley stopped short in front of Warlock’s door and raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh really now, did she. How interesting…” she muttered before pushing her way into the room, not bothering to flick on the lights. She could see perfectly fine as it was and Warlock didn’t need to go anywhere.

“And that’s how you were going to punish me? Make me unlucky?” Crowley asked, setting Warlock on the bed and crossing to the wardrobe to pick out sleeping clothes for the boy. “I suppose that could work, but you’d have an easier time of it if your ultimatums or threats were against something I actually liked.”

“Like Sister Frances?” Warlock asked after a few moments of thought, raising his arms for Crowley to change out his shirts.

“Now what makes you think I like anything at all? Let alone Sister Frances. Most everyone else seems to think I hate her.” Crowley continued the conversation, even though it was waking Warlock up, making him think like this, rather than putting him to sleep. Warlock, of course, had always liked when she asked him about “tactics”—especially when he was destroying block cities with his dinosaur toys—and was happily responsive.

“You smile at her.” Warlock shrugged again, “An’ she gets to see your eyes. Only me and’ Frances get to see your eyes. And I know you like me ‘cause I make you.”

“Ah, that’s true. I am but a humble servant to your whims, my little dragon.” Crowley smiled a little too fondly, a little too softly, and tapped Warlock’s cheek. “Very well then. It was a decent try, I’ll give you that. But next time, you’ll have to do better if you want a story. Understood, Warlock?”

“Yes!” Warlock jumped onto his bed and shoved himself under the covers messily. Crowley could, of course, only approve of the chaos. She tucked him in and took her usual seat by the bed.

“Alright, my great beast.” Crowley began slowly, letting her words fill her mouth and a story spin itself behind her eyes. “Let me tell you about how the world was made. So that when you reshape it and bend it to your will, you know what to do.

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topaziraphale · 4 years

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the same people who hc aziraphale as being weak/not being a warrior are the same people who LOVE crowley being this super suave tempter. hello, the whole POINT of good omens is that they are neither of what they are expected to be. aziraphale rejects his role as a warrior, but that does not mean he is weak. crowley's job is to be a this suave, amazing tempter, but meanwhile he's just Anxious. aziraphale is Strong and crowley is a tempter, its just not in the way their sides want them to be.

I think a big part that plays into the charm of these two main characters is exactly that - at first, you have certain ideas for how an angel and demon character might act, especially with how they’re normally depicted in pop culture and stuff, but then you quickly learn that they’re just not quite what you’re expecting. Aziraphale and Crowley both subvert the audience’s expectations of them as well as what is expected of them by the other characters - in this case, Heaven and Hell respectively.

This actually ended up being way longer of an answer than I thought it would, so I’m putting the rest of it under a cut. For those that don’t feel like reading it all and just want a summary:

I basically talk about how Crowley puts up an element of coolness and style in what he does as a demon except for when it comes to direct temptations, and then I offer a little mini-dive into his psyche and how there’s a lot of vulnerability underneath his Cool And Definitely Not-Nice persona. Then I talk about how Aziraphale is in fact a soldier of Heaven, one who is capable of being a warrior, and how him not wanting to fight in the war is not a display of weakness, but rather one of great strength.

Also, all of the quotes I use here are from memory, so there’s a chance some of them aren’t exact.

When Crowley does his job, he does it with elements of coolness and style to it. (Note: What he perceives as cool, because some of the stuff he finds cool is actually kinda dorky. In a lovable way, of course.) But that’s for when he has his next big idea on how to generate petty low-grade evil. It’s how we end up with him cutting off a phone network by infesting a building with rats and using the guise of a technician to waltz in there and pour coffee into a cable-box-thingy, rather than him just snapping his fingers and making the networks go down that way. The ladder method is boring and not very cool.

But you’ll notice he doesn’t approach direct temptations the same way. I can see where one might think he puts as much effort into being cool and suave when it comes to making temptations, due to the way he presents himself, but honestly, all he really does is just make you see something in a different light. He just, talks. Talks and makes really good points.

“What about diabolical plans? You’re supposed to thwart the wiles of the wicked one at every turn, aren’t you? You can’t be certain that thwarting me isn’t part of the Divine Plan?”

“If there was no boy, then the process would stop. There’s a boy now, but that could change. Something could happen to him. I’m saying you could kill him. One life, for everything else.”

There’s no suave element in the way he does it, not much finesse. No extra fluff. He’s just saying what needs to be said, to make sure his idea is getting across. And it’s also fun to note that these acts of temptation are for Aziraphale - in fact, I don’t think we see him tempt humans at all after Eve. He’d rather set up elaborate schemes to ruin peoples’ days over actively participate in an act that could directly damn their souls.

Sometimes, you have to wonder why he goes through so much effort to be this way when he knows that he’ll get in trouble for not doing his job...

Crowley puts up a front that he’s confident and content with what he is and the job he has to do. He always tries to play the act of a cool, stylish, perfect demon that is mean and evil and most definitely not a nice person. But we can see that underneath it all, he never meant to fall, and he’s still upset about it. He still doesn’t understand why it happened for what he did, and he knows he never will. He doesn’t like that the answer for it all is always chalked up to: It’s part of the Great Plan. We see him project the wrath of God onto his houseplants. We see him directly call out the nature of the Plan more than once, in the show.

I’ll even argue that he’s somewhat projecting onto Adam and Eve when he talks about how God punished them in the garden, when he first speaks to Aziraphale: “Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offense, and everything.”

Aziraphale, being an angel, is clearly part of the army of Heaven and is expected in battle. We even get reminded of this by the many times people ask him where the flaming sword is, and by Gabriel telling him he’s a mean, lean, fighting-machine. And once more when the Quartermaster informs him that his platoon is waiting for him - they wouldn’t be waiting for him if he wasn’t their lieutenant. The script book even implies his strength and power. To paraphrase the line:

“He’s not threatening him (Crowley) with it (the flaming sword), just reminding him that he can do dangerous and very out-of-character things if he needs to.”

And in the novel itself, it’s implied that after all this time, Aziraphale still has what it takes to fight if he absolutely must, when he picks up the sword in preparation to fight off Satan himself.

“Once you’ve learned how to do it, you never forget.”

There’s no reason to think he doesn’t easily have the ability to be a warrior. And not only a warrior, but a strong one, at that.

Here’s the thing with Aziraphale: he doesn’t want to participate in this fight. He thinks it’s wrong, but he can’t admit it to himself, he can’t just outright say it. He jumps through plenty of mental hoops to try and find reason in the fact that Heaven wants Armageddon to happen.- he thinks his people might just be misguided, their intentions are good, sure, but he wants to show them that this way is better, that there doesn’t need to be another war, that they can save everyone. The beings of Heaven are always Good, right? For him to fully admit that what he thinks they’re doing is wrong is to also admit the flaws of his own angelic nature, that he’s just as capable of wrong, and that’s a terrifying thought. Look at how desperately he wants it all to work out:

But when push came to shove, and the entire world was at stake, and Heaven was all for it to happen despite Aziraphale’s efforts to show them otherwise, he had enough. He chose to not go back to Heaven to fight in the war. He chose to try and save the world, despite his actions being perceived as going directly against the Great Plan. In the series, he literally puts his foot down, looks the Quartermaster in the eye, and tells him: “I have no intention of fighting in any war. I was in the middle of something important, I demand to be returned!” And when nobody was helping him, he went and figured out how to get back himself. He finally had the strength to choose for himself what he thought was right over what was wrong.

I get confused and, even sometimes think to myself, Did we watch the same show?, when I see people interpret Aziraphale’s reluctance to fight as a sign of weakness or passiveness. That very decision he makes, after millennia of not daring to defy his superiors like that, took a lot of courage. It’s quite literally the heart of his character arc.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #derpy answers #good omens meta #i have no idea how i ended up ranting but here we are lol #you definitely got more than you bargained for when sending this ask anon im sorry skdjfskdjghs #derpy analyses

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verdantvulpus · 3 years

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First Lines Meme

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line, then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

I appreciate being tagged by @unproblematicme

Heads up that many of the fics are Explicit.

1. Crowley rushed into his flat as if he were being chased by hounds of Hell. Being chased by Hellhounds was in Crowley's top 15 ways he expected to be discorportated in the last year. The Trouble With Being A Demon

2. I think I knew back in Eden. I knew I loved Aziraphale with all my shriveled husk of a heart. Forsaken

3. Crowley didn’t like his eyes. That had become a fairly well known fact, given the effort he put into hiding them, but it was a mistake to think it was because he thought they were ugly. Up & Down, Sideways (& Diagonally)

4. “‘Course ‘ergotten' ’s a word, Angel. It’s wot they used to say, innit? When they got it?” Waiting

5. Falling from grace meant never coming home again. As it happened, Crowley had been fine with that, and had actively avoided the very concept of home since his first bite of sulphur. A Home In Heather

6. "Every bloody time," Aziraphale grumbled, glaring at his takeaway coffee. Coarse Grind

7. Crowley realized he may have been over-ambitious with the amount of goodies he'd brought. Catnip!

8. The water was cold enough to sting when Crowley slid into it, but he plunged deeper regardless, sliding down against the porcelain until the wet shock touched his eyelids and lifted his hair from his scalp. Balm

9. It wasn’t the Heaven Crowley remembered, but then again, he barely remembered Heaven. True Natures

10. “Just once can’t you humour me without complaining?” Aziraphale chided. Holidays Both Good And Ominous

11. The first time was little more than a bee sting. Palliative Practices

12. The quiet atmosphere of the old bookshop was disturbed by a loud sigh. There had been more than five such sighs in the last half hour. The Unforeseen

13. Aziraphale’s smile was beginning to ache. Corruption

14. The door opened. Crowley listened, every muscle held taught in preternatural stillness. He waited. Tripping Over Air

15. There is nothing more dangerous to a demon than hope. Worth The Price

16. "I'm here, Angel," the demon barked on his way in the shop. "Let's get this over with." As I Am In The Mood To Break Pretty Things

17. It had started as a simple walk in the park. It had been a nice day. Anthony J. Crowley’s Worst Week Ever

18. "My dear, are you feeling all right?" Aziraphale asked Crowley. They were sitting at their usual table at their favorite bistro and the demon was squirming in his seat. Residue

19. Crowley was laughing. Whipped Cream and Consequences

20. There were few places where Crowley would say he was truly comfortable but the backroom of Aziraphale's bookshop with Armageddon two years behind him and the wine two bottles in, was the top of that very short list. Storytelling

#20 (Storytelling) is part of the Up & Down, Sideways (& Diagonally) but I used it because each chapter of Up & Down is actually a different fic for the bingo event and I needed one more story for the meme.

The thing I notice right off the bat is that I tend to start a fic in Crowley’s voice. I think this is just because I find Crowley easier to write. I also tend to start with either dialogue or an observation as opposed to action. Again, I think this is because dialogue and character is where my strengths lie. I’ve always had a harder time with the actual plot and why I’m struggling so badly with my original story.

#15 is my actual favourite opening line. I don’t actually tend to put a lot of thought into my opening lines, which is something I only now noticed, but this line reads to me like a thesis. This one sentence is the story. Everything comes back to it over and over again.

I’m going to struggle to tag 10 authors here because a lot of my faves have already been tagged for this and others aren’t on Tumblr. If you see this and haven’t been tagged, please consider me tagging you now. I’m sorry this is a cop out. I’m very tired atm.

#memes #good omens

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our-smooty · 4 years

Text

Flowerbeds and Fertile Soil: Chapter 14

Fandom: Good Omens

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens, )Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer

Tags: Kidfic, Mpreg kind of, they can choose to present however so idk, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has A Vulva (Good Omens), OCs Galor, parenting, using your snake form to avoid confrontation, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pregnancy, if I missed a tag lemme know

Summary: They could do anything, go anywhere, all without the worry of Above or Bellow making a fuss. Even so, they mostly kept to their little patch of Eden, their cottage and garden and the simple life they’d carved out among the locals. Aziraphale opened a book shop in town, where he only occasionally sold any books (and the ones he did sell, were all modern and stocked specifically for that purpose). Crowley focused his attentions on the garden, and if he occasionally helped their elderly neighbour with her disobedient willow tree, then that was a secret no one needed to know. Lately, however, they had both been feeling rather restless, unbeknownst to each other. Aziraphale tried reorganizing his store, changing the way he tied his bowtie and even ate pizza –something he considered to be far too messy for him personally. Crowley had branched out into birdwatching, and then car maintenance (the human way), and even reading. Nothing scratched the itch for either of them.

Ao3 Link

It was Beelzebub’s turn to pick the meeting spot, so of course they were standing in a dark, damp back alley somewhere in the American Mid-West at three in the morning. Seemed a little out of the way to Gabriel, but the Prince of Hell had said something about an on-going project with the American political system that they couldn’t leave for a even a second, so here he was.

“We couldn’t meet inside somewhere? he sneered, eyeing the way his designer shoes were getting ruined in the disgusting sludge coming from a dumpster a few feet away.

“Don’t want you and your lot closer to this project than necessary. You’d just fuck it all up,” Beelzebub answered, rolling their eyes at him. Gabriel huffed and straightened his collar, though it of course wasn’t at all out of place.

“Well let’s make it quick then. Did your humans…?”

A dangerous growl that Gabriel was glad wasn’t directed at him. “No. Idiots got scared off by whatever the bastard had set up. They all ran off anyways.”

“Well mine got the job done. They sent a little… encouragement, to that ratty bookshop Aziraphale insists on keeping.” Gabriel was practically preening and he knew it. Being able to show up Beelzebub in any way always put him in a positive mood. Thwarting the enemy and all that.

“It’d be easier if we could be direct,” Beezle growled. The flies swarming around the dumpster began to make their way over and Gabriel had to swat a few away with the back of his hand.

“Get a hold of yourself, Beez. You were there, you know the almighty was clear that neither one of us could interfere directly!” Using humans as a loophole had been Michael’s idea and so far there hadn’t been any repercussions. But this had only been a test, and since things had gone well…

“We can escalate though, yes?” they buzzed, the flies zipping around excitedly and a grin breaking out on their face. “My contacts from before have been... reprimanded appropriately, and we’re ready to move on whenever you are.”

Gabriel’s face morphed into a tight smile of his own. He always had admired his demonic counterpart’s willingness to get a job done, no matter the cost. Beelzebub was shrewd and cutthroat and if they hadn’t been one of Satan’s damned, Gabriel might have hired them for a position Upstairs.

“Yes, we can move on to phase 2. Give it a few weeks, I’ll send you a memo, and a calendar invite for the pre-briefing. It’s Heaven’s turn to cater so…” Which was a good thing, since last time when it’d been Hell’s turn the lettuce on the tea sandwiches had been mouldy. Gabriel didn’t partake in the gross matter but it was the principle of the thing! “Are we still on for that event in Berlin next Saturday?”

“You’re the one who said it’d be in both our best interests if it went well, so yeah, I’ll be there. Don’t get in my way.” Beelzebub threw up a rather rude hand gesture then disappeared through a door in one of the buildings. Gabriel spent a few extra minutes in the ally, pondering whether contacting the demon to make sure their chosen apparel didn’t clash, or if that might get him in more trouble than it was worth.

The hunger didn’t really go away. Crowley woke up almost every morning with a strong desire to get to the breakfast table that persisted throughout lunch and supper. Aziraphale enjoyed it as an opportunity to exercise his cooking skills, even if it did require him to spend more of his day in the kitchen than was usual. Crowley repaid him for his kindness of course, he’d bring in fresh flowers (though with the changing seasons, he was going to have to switch to gourds), or later in the day bring him cocoa and biscuits while the angel was working on restoring a book. Sometimes, after a particularly good supper, Crowley might drop to his knees under the table and thank Aziraphale in a different way that the angel liked just as much as any of the others.

The change of season brought on a change in their routines as well. Since it was getting colder, Crowley spent a lot more of his time indoors curled up in front of the fireplace watching reality TV, or in bed taking long indulgent naps. When they’d first moved in together Crowley had tried to stay awake and active through the colder months, scared Aziraphale would be upset with him for lounging about. But after 10 years they’d come to an understanding. As long as Crowley made an effort to spend at least a little bit of time-conscious with the angel every day (barring very long naps, which were usually discussed beforehand), Aziraphale was happy. And Aziraphale being happy made Crowley happy which in turn made the colder months of the year much more pleasant for the demon.

On a blustery November afternoon, Crowley was making a significant effort to be awake as Aziraphale showed him pictures of cribs on his own laptop. He never should have shown the angel pinterest, or Amazon.

“So what do you think? I thought something traditional would be nice, and of course money isn’t really an object, and maybe there’s someone in town who does carpentry? But what about safety?” Crowley browsed the collections of cribs, and rocking chairs, and various baby paraphilia, trying to keep himself from drifting off. He’s set an alarm to wake him up just after midday in case he didn’t wake up naturally. Of course, he’d snoozed it a few times before dragging himself out of their bedroom and into the sitting room for a cuppa.

“Think we’ve seen thousands of babies make it just fine, even without all these fancy cribs and chairs and baskets. You know we can make just about anything safe if we want to, with wards and a good talking-to.” He paused on a simple crib made of light pine with gently scalloped finishings. “I know I’ve seen signs for ‘rustic’ furniture around the village, m’sure you could find someone to make one like this.”

“That would be lovely, wouldn’t it? It’s been a very long time since I had to make use of any woodworking skills, but I’m sure I could sketch something up for a professional to take a look at. Would you like to help, darling?”

“Sure, go get us a pencil and paper then, and maybe a refill?” There’d be no more coffee since Aziraphale insisted he keep to under a cup a day, but maybe the angel would allow him some tea. Aziraphale gave him a beatific smile then rushed off to his stacks of stationery. Crowley secretly thought it was sweet how Aziraphale still wrote letters on his own custom paper, with fountain pens and a personalized wax seal. Over the millennia he’d gotten thousands of letters from the angel, and he kept each one in a lockbox that was now hidden in the back of their closet. Outwardly, Crowley rolled his eyes when Aziraphale returned, playing the part of out-upon husband as usual.

“Alright, you get a start on here then, while I make more tea. You’ve always been better at the arts than me anyway.” Debatable, but Crowley was too sleepy to really argue. He took a pen and some paper and began to doodle out crib-shaped creations. As the kettle whistled and Aziraphale hummed to himself his drawing moved towards the more specific, detailing little flower engravings for decoration along all the legs. When Aziraphale came back with the tea and some biscuits, Crowley had less of a sketch and more of a fully fleshed-out design.

“Oh Crowley! It’s gorgeous love,” Aziraphale exclaimed as he sat down to take a look. Crowley had barely been thinking about what he was drawing, instead letting his hands take over while his mind coasted in a half-dreaming state. “I love the flowers, and the wings on the corners. “You’re so creative.”

“Thanks angel,” Crowley murmured, looking at his own drawing like he was seeing it for the first time. He took a sip of tea from the cup Aziraphale passed him, relaxing back against his angel. “But I’m sure you can do it better, if you try.”

“Nonsense. I think it’s perfect. Maybe we could do a little more research, just to make sure it’s up to safety standards, just in case, but otherwise, I don’t think I’d change a thing.” Crowley would have argued if he wasn’t already half asleep again, his teacup leaning dangerously to the side. “Are you really so tired my dear? You should have said.”

“Wanted t’spend some time w’you,” he mumbled. The teacup was gone from his hands, presumably taken by Aziraphale, and a warm blanket draped around his shoulders. “Don’t want you t’be lonely.”

“My sweet demon,” Aziraphale cooed. “Thank you, you’re always thinking of me. But I think I’m going to read for a little while, if you’re like to take a nap. You can use my lap, if you’re like.” Crowley was already sliding down so he was horizontal, his head cushioned against Aziraphale thighs. The angel used one hand to turn the pages of the book resting on the arm of the sofa, the other slung low on Crowley’s hips. That hand wormed its way under Crowley’s sweater--soft cotton, with little devil horns on the hood--so he could touch the bare skin of his belly.

“Love you,” Crowley hummed. Aziraphale wiggled a tiny bit, either in happiness or to get more comfortable, and sighed happily.

“I love you too, dear. Get some sleep.” And Crowley drifted off.

At first he was dreaming about the garden. Not the Garden, but his garden in the South Downs, at the cottage. It was summer, peak flowering period for some of his favourites and he was down on his knees at one of the smaller flower beds pulling weeds. The sun was exceedingly warm at the back of his neck but that was alright, he was nearly done. Then he could go inside and drink some of the lemonade Aziraphale had made earlier.

The dream oozed forward at a leisurely pace and he enjoyed every second. The sun slowly sank towards the horizon and the wind got a little chilly; it must have been later in the summer than he thought. Even though the weather was turning, he still felt warm though, an unfamiliar heat spreading from his core and out to his limbs. He looked down, almost expecting to see something silly like a hot water bottle--dream logic of course; even when he knew he was dreaming Crowley’s imagination got away from him--but instead saw his own body. And the baby bump.

“That you, Sprout?” he asked, his voice echoing strangely in the hazy dreamworld. “You’re very warm, taking after your Papa?”

A familiar wriggling, and something Crowley struggled to define. It almost reminded him of when we was still an angel, and he could sense love, a glowing joy from inside, spilling out through his cracks. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation, the dream’s slow pace lulling him into a sense of security. Here in his garden there was just him, the baby, and what felt like pure joy.

Crowley didn’t notice the dream shifting. The garden slowly getting darker and colder, the flowers wilting, shriveling, dying. Their cottage faded away, becoming an empty field, the sky a roiling grey. When Crowley opened his eyes and saw his surroundings, the oncoming storm whipping the dead grass and flowers all around, he knew. The warmth in his stomach pulled away and Crowley felt cold.

Something was coming.

Aziraphale was startled from deep in his reread of Frankenstein’s Monster by Crowley’s shuddering. Normally when the demon had a bad dream the first sign was a noise; a whimper or a shout that would alert Aziraphale to the situation so he could intervene. But even lacking the normal markers, the angel could tell something was wrong. Crowley was a very still sleeper, even if he did cling, and the erratic shaking and shivering he was doing right now certainly wasn’t normal.

“Crowley love, wake up. Shhh, it’s alright,” he said, loud enough to wake the other but softly enough to avoid startling him. He set his book aside and brought both hands into the equation, caressing and petting Crowley’s hair and shoulders. “Come on darling, time to wake up.”

“‘Zira? S’dark.” He didn’t sound upset, or panicked and Aziraphale let out a breath of relief.

“You were only asleep for an hour, but the suns already set, given how late in the year it is,” Aziraphale explained, still petting Crowley’s hair. “Were you having a bad dream?”

Crowley rubbed his face against the angel’s belly, dispelling the sleep from his eyes. “Strange. I was in the garden, and then it was dark out. Could feel…” He stared down at his stomach. “I think I could feel them there.”

“Really?” Aziraphale meant to ask more about the dream, but was easily sidetracked by the news of the baby communicating. “In what way did you see them?”

“Not see, just felt them. They were warm. But then it got dark, and I felt like I was freezing, and the cottage was gone--” his voice got faster and faster, his breathing more shallow. To stop him flying off into a panic attack Aziraphale thread his fingers through Crowley’s hair again, not really tugging but still a firm presence. “And then I woke up. That's it, nothing exciting angel.”

Aziraphale hummed lowly, in the way he knew relaxed Crowley. “I’m a little jealous of you. For getting to feel them, not for having a nightmare.”

Crowley wiggled so that instead of just his head resting in Aziraphale lap, his entire upper body was laying across his legs. Then he grabbed the hand the angel didn’t have woven through his hair and pressed it to his stomach.

“S’the best I can do. Maybe if you concentrate you’ll feel it too?” Aziraphale tried his hardest, willing his entire celestial self to focus in on that one small area. Underneath his hands Crowley shuddered, but Aziraphale kept on searching until--

“Oh!” He could feel something, at least. It wasn’t really warm, like Crowley had said, but there was movement. It was reassuring to know they were there, and alive, and growing. “You’re amazing Crowley.”

“What, me?” Crowley laughed, thoroughly pleased with himself. The anxiety from the dream didn’t stand a chance against praise from Aziraphale. Still, Crowley looked like he was done sleeping, because he sat up and stretched languorously. “S’a bit late to go out, but we could order in?”

“If you want. You’ll have to take a look at your application and see what’s available.” Somehow, despite being a ways out into the countryside they always had plenty of options for takeout. And they were well known by all the delivery persons as excellent tippers, so their food usually arrived on time or earlier than expected. “I’m not craving anything in particular.”

“Good, ‘cause I am. I want fries, and maybe a ceasar salad. Oh and falafel.” Crowley was already tapping wildly at his phone, presumably making his order. “And maybe something sweet, for after…”

“Cravings dear?” Aziraphale teased, nudging Crowley with one elbow like he used to do years ago, when they would walk through St. James’ Park. That was before the end that didn’t happen, when even the smallest contact between them was taboo. Now they could touch whenever they wanted, and so Aziraphale didn’t stop at just one nudge, instead choosing to lean heavily against Crowley so he could look at the screen, “The poor delivery person is going to have an awful lot of trouble carrying all that.”

Crowley just rolled his eyes and continued scrolling through his options. “So you don’t want bubble tea? I was going to get you taro flavour but if you think it’s too much--”

“Now now let's not be hasty love. I'm sure a large tip will make up for any trouble on the driver’s end.” Crowley giggled. Aziraphale tucked the sound away in his memory with all the other cute things Crowley did but would never admit to.

“I thought so. You can never resist, can you?” Refusing to be needled, Aziraphale decided to fire back. Crowley was so cuddly and soft; so completely unworried now that the nightmare had faded that he couldn’t resist. He nuzzled right underneath the other’s demon-sigil where he knew Crowley was extra sensitive and revelled in the full-body shudder it produced.

“Why should I? There’s no shame in liking nice things.” Aziraphale let the implication hang. Crowley could still be touchy about being called nice or good outside of the bedroom depending on his mood. This time however, Crowley sighed and shimmied away a bit so he could show Aziraphale the screen.

“Whatever you say angel. Does this look good?” The order list was expansive, and probably much more than either of them would be able to eat tonight. But that was alright, leftovers wouldn’t last long given Crowley’s new and voracious appetite.

“Splendid love. I’ll go set the table?” It was really an excuse to get up and move. As much as Aziraphale loved cuddling and pampering his husband, he did tend to get restless. Now that Crowley was awake and relaxed he could get up and bustle about, working off all the energy that had built up while the demon napped. With the excitement of the baby coming Aziraphale had been finding it difficult to sit still and not rush about, preparing everything.

“Can’t we just eat here?” Crowley asked, sprawling into the warm space on the sofa left behind by the angel. Aziraphale smiled and passed his slothful demon the telly remote.

“No, I won’t have you drop tahini and falafel bits all over the carpet. You can eat at the table or not at all.” Crowley glared but there wasn’t really any real anger in it. In fact, it was quite cute, not that he’d ever say that out loud. Crowley would not tolerate being called cute, no matter how happy he was.

“Fine, stuffy angel.” He turned the TV on and quickly navigated to NBC where Aziraphale knew they’d be playing Golden Girls at this hour. After one last fond look Aziraphale couldn’t stand still any longer, so he hurried off to get everything ready for their impromptu feast.

#fanfic #good omens #crowley #crowziraphale #aziraphale/crowley #aziraphale #tw mpreg #trans male pregnancy #gomens #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #fbafs

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wanna-b-poet31 · 5 years

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Hastur’s Brutal Honesty (A Good Omens Meta?)

So Like, This is me just drafting my bigger idea that Hastur as the perfect literary mirror to Aziraphale...but the closer I look at him, the more...honest??? he seems. Which, considering how Crowley chooses to lie, leads me to an interesting conclusion about the role of dis/honesty in the series. Namely, how his words (when compared to Aziraphale, Crowley, Heaven and Hell) intersects with loyalty, cruelty, and kindness.

>Plan on hearing more about Hastur and Aziraphale in the future...but in the meantime, some observations<

First, as I discuss in Part 3 of my Lying/Honesty series: I identify instances where Angel’s lie (with Aziraphale being a good example of a poor liar) but also I made a passing comment that there is an inexplicable honest streak among the demons.

It got me thinking about WHY? Especially because their honesty doesn’t make them any less cruel or abusive. So I go to thinking...(a dangerous pastime, I know)

Yes, the demons are more aware of other’s ability to deceive them, like Beelzebub’s jab at Michael that “it’s not that we don’t trust you, but we don’t trust you” and further, TESTING the water before subjecting “Crowley” to it. But...do we see them honestly, lie? And, is that indicative of something bigger?

I will note, they clearly say they don’t trust each other:

>GIF of Ligur asking Hastur if he trusts Crowley. Hastur replies “no”< But do their actions match their words? I would argue not.

Case in point: Hastur.

I find Hastur’s behavior particularly interesting because I’ve recently re-watched the series and noticed, the closest he gets to a lie is when he knocks on Crowley’s door and Ligur say’s they just want to talk to him. However, this feels more like a threat, with ironic intent, rather than a flat lie.

He is also particularly gullible, similar to the naiveite we see Aziraphale exhibit. Yes, he’s clearly more malicious than Aziraphae (as we see him burn down the church, threaten Crowley, and kill another demon without remorse) but we also see him willingly ask questions, and easily believe Crowley’s deceptions.

For example, we see him openly and honestly communicate with Ligur while they’re sulking, waiting for Crowley to show up. Sure, he’s wrong about what “Caio” means, but is it a lie? It seems more like his arrogance of Italian, transliterating it to an English word than an actual lie.

Even when he’s greeting Warlock’s family, we don’t see him lie. He’s simply too preoccupied with the coming of his master to care about what anyone else thinks. I’m also hesitant to classify “threats” with “lies” because while they may not come to fruition, he certainly intends for them to be true. The closest lie I can think about is when he’s disguised himself to capture Crowley. He doesn’t even lie when he’s reading out Crowley’s crimes to the audience.

Instead, we actually see that he’s actually surprised by Crowley’s lies. As much as he claims not to trust other Demons, when he’s actively pursuing Crowley and Ligur is killed, for a split second, Hastur looks like he believes Crowley’s lie that “the Dark Council” is testing him.

This scene seems to highlight the fundamental difference between Crowley and Hastur: honesty vs. cruelty.

Hastur is unspeakably cruel, where Crowley is kind and Hastur is oddly honest where Crowley freely lies. They are foils for sure (stay tuned for that meta sometime soon) and I think this nuance matters.

Like, in this scene Hastur also genuinely believes, however briefly, that Crowley is calling the Dark Council. This is AFTER Crowley lied about the anti-christ, lied (by omission) that he befriended an Angel, just wrote Ligur (Hastur’s bestie) out of reality, and lied about putting holy water into the water mister.

By all accounts, there is no reason Hastur should trust Crowley at this moment, but he still does. The above Gif doesn’t do justice to the tone of voice that Hastur gives when he asks if Crowley is calling the dark council. It’s almost downright hopeful. It doesn’t occur to him until Crowley says “so long sucka” that Crowley’s lied to him.

Sure, Crowley is the most convincing liar in the series, and his performance is top-notch, but at this point, Hastur still demonstrates trust. I think both because it doesn’t dawn on him that he’d be the recipient of an unkind lie AND because Crowley still hasn’t shown the unbriddled cruelty Hastur himself would demonstrate. Crowley’s only acted out of self-defense. It’s not until Hastur has time to fully process the loss of Ligur (in answering-machine land) he realizes Crowley’s no longer on his side.

In reality, Crowley never was. Crowley has ever only been loyal to Aziraphale, and Hastur has only been loyal to Hell.

And I think the motivating reason is the brutal cruelty Hastur, and other demons, display. Ligur and Hastur both waste no time shoving a poor Eric into the Hellhound’s pit and kill 2 more Eric’s at the “traditional” end of the world cite. They do these acts of cruelty without a second thought. Hastur laughs with glee as nuns are screaming for their lives and the satanic church is burned.

It truly mirrors the way Heaven/God is fine killing everyone except for Noah and his family. There is no remorse.

The only time we see the sliver of cruelty in Crowley is in the above scene. When Ligur is destroyed, Anthony “you can’t kill the kids” Crowley is directly responsible. But, this is self-defense and Ligur is clearly a vehicle for abuse. And, it is clearly framed differently from how Hastur’s several acts of cruelty are.

For the show he puts on, Crowley is not cruel, not even to his enemies. Crowley does not relish killing, opting to give Nazis a choice to leave while still not condoning their behavior. Unlike Hastur who is downright gleeful that the nuns who have helped him are running for his life, Crowley adds no emphasis to killing. He is not nice, but he is not unkind nor does things out of purely malicious intent.

Meanwhile, Hastur goes above and beyond to be cruel. When he kills the demon at trial (his 4th!! demon murder!!) he still is not lying but he’s certainly not being kind. This tells me that honesty is not intrinsically “kind” nor is it intrinsically “bad” in the series. Rather, it is but one weapon in the arsenal choice.

If I bring my train of thought to the ineffable husbands, it gives so much more meaning to Crowley’s active choice NOT to lie to Aziraphale. I’ve said it before, that this show is dependent on choice. He chooses the kinder of the two options. Crowley could lie, he has the imagination for it, and he wields it against their adversaries (Hell) well. However, he doesn’t. he only ever points out what Aziraphale is unable or sometimes unwilling to acknowledge as truth.

Hastur. meanwhile, he chooses to be cruel beyond belief and chooses to be honest. He does not make the same grand show to lie to his enemies. For him, the truth behind his threats and his impulse to act in the moment are greater tools for harm.

Aziraphale, thinks he’s choosing the kinder option to lie to Crowley at the Bandstand. He certainly is saying “true” words, but neither believe it at this point, and both are harmed by it. We also know he thinks lying can be unkind, but he uses it primarily as a defensive tool, not an offensive one. It is not until he realizes how much abuse he’s internalized that he realizes who deserves his kind honesty: Crowley.

This also brings greater emphasis to the way honesty and dishonesty can be manipulated. Crowley and Aziraphale lie self-defense. Neither relish lying, but will because the kind of honesty they are being fed by their respective sides is cruel, and nothing like the unspoken, unnamed truth between the two of them.

Hell is unkind, unloving, and unspeakably cruel. Heaven is cold, unfeeling, and cruel. Crowley is the victim of clear and specific abuse at the hands of hell and does not need to feel sorry for lying to his abuser. Aziraphale has been belittled and gaslighted by Heaven and both lie for protection.

However, Hastur is honest only as a means to be cruel. When Crowley chooses, to be honest, it is explicitly to be kind and to be loving.

So I bring myself back to my initial observation. Why do Demons have an honest streak? I think it is because for them (and for Heaven) lying and honesty is neither good nor bad. Instead, they add “weight to the moral argument” they’re making. They are much more concerned with outcome (which is always an offensive mechanism) than the means. It just so happens Demons bully and intimidate for what they want without especially needing to lie.

TLDR: Yes, Hastur chooses to be honest, but the outcome is still cruelty. Yes, Crowley chooses to lie, but the outcome is protection. Lying is not intrinsically bad, honesty is not intrinsically good. Demons cant still be super abusive even if they don’t lie about it.

Thanks for coming to my tedtalk

#good omens #Ineffable Husbands #good omens meta #gomens #gomens meta

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ineffable-endearments · 4 years

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“Don’t say that.”

Aziraphale, at the Globe, after Crowley first calls the Arrangement what it is:

“Don’t say that.”

Aziraphale doesn’t want to give the Arrangement a name. Naming the Arrangement both acknowledges that there is another specific set of rules they’re loyal to, and also implies that it’s an ongoing thing.

Why is this a problem? For one thing, Aziraphale is supposed to be loyal to Heaven’s specific set of rules - the Great Plan. By naming the Arrangement, they’re challenging Aziraphale’s loyalty to Heaven on a rhetorical level rather than just an incidental level. It adds another duty instead of being something Aziraphale can pursue “off-duty.” It changes his self-perception (which is already a difficult issue for Aziraphale) from “angel who sometimes bends the rules in a way that doesn’t technically break them” to “angel who always has multiple loyalties.”

In truth, Aziraphale doesn’t like every choice Heaven makes, but he does think they know what they’re doing, he does think he has a responsibility to them...and he is afraid of them.

We also know that language/rhetoric matters to Aziraphale possibly more than to the average person.

Also of great importance to Aziraphale is the fact that naming the Arrangement would also rewrite Crowley’s supposed loyalty to Hell, and as Aziraphale explains, this is life-threatening for Crowley. Crowley is no longer just being a bit disobedient on occasion. He’s actively committing treason against a brutal dictatorship.

Crowley, in the Bastille, after Aziraphale says “I suppose I should say thank you”:

“Don’t say that.”

Similarly to naming the Arrangement, saying “thank you” would officially label Crowley’s deed as a Good Deed, which is dangerous for him.

However, I do not think this is actually an immediate danger (they’re alone in a frozen moment of time, after all). It’s interesting that Crowley is the one who wants to name the Arrangement, which is equally if not more dangerous than accepting responsibility for one tiny good deed, but won’t accept a minimally-risky “thank you.”

I think instead of actively worrying after his own safety in this very moment, he may be sort of asking Aziraphale to accept that Crowley has no choice but to do his job. This exchange happens right after Aziraphale asks if he’s responsible for all the violence here in France because Crowley received (and accepted) a commendation for it. Crowley is basically saying “yeah I took that commendation for all these people getting beheaded because my bosses require me to be Bad and I’d be dead if I didn’t.”

This also explains why Crowley has that sort of patiently-indulgent look on his face 225 years later at the former site of St. Beryl’s when Aziraphale just outright says “thank you.” There is actually a HUGE amount of baggage behind that tiny phrase, and he’s a bit emotional about it, but knows Aziraphale means well, as he did when he offered a “thank you” in the Bastille.

The two “Don’t say that” incidents highlight differences between the characters and some of the main conflicts that have to be resolved between them. Aziraphale is caught up in the Grand Scheme of Things, with torn loyalties as well as anxiety about what is going to preserve Crowley in the long run. He doesn’t see their situations changing safely and believes they need to steal what moments they can from within the framework of the rules that have been set by the Great Plan. Trying to go against the Great Plan, he thinks, will get them annihilated. He sees no choice but to obey and to choose to be optimistic about believing the whole thing will end up working out for the best, since the only alternatives are death or eternal misery.

Crowley, on the other hand, is concerned about what’s going on immediately between the two of them. He believes that as two individuals rather than parts of two collectives, they can definitely outsmart Heaven and Hell, and only cares about Aziraphale being able to accept him for who he is.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #ineffable spouses #good omens spoilers

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profoundlyxbonded · 4 years

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12 signs a storyteller is building romantic and sexual chemistry

Dean/Cas FOR SURE hits 9/12 of these and arguably 11. DESTIEL IS REAL.

LOONG POST AND THE FANDOM EXAMPLES AREN’T SPN , BUT IT’S WORTH THE TIME.

THE BOLDED SPN EXAMPLES ARE MINE.

When it comes to possible romances in popular work, fans and storytellers do a lot of finger-pointing. People have varied tastes and can view the same interaction differently, causing fights over whether the romantic or sexual chemistry in a story was intentional. These feuds are particularly likely in cases where storytellers may be taunting queer audiences.

However, the question of whether chemistry was inserted by the storyteller isn’t as subjective as you might think. Storytellers use the same tactics over and over again when developing a romance. Let’s go over twelve of the most common. You can use them to analyze your favorite stories or to build chemistry yourself. To make things simpler, I use the term “peer” to indicate people who are similar in age and aren’t closely related. In other words, they qualify for a non-platonic relationship.

Let’s start with signals that could be platonic if used in isolation and count down to ones that are almost never platonic.

12. Banter & Teasing

Multiple episodes during seasons 4 and 5. Bickering and acting as if married after that.

When the Lord of the Rings movie trilogy came out, fans felt the chemistry between a pair of people that Peter Jackson probably didn’t expect: Legolas and Gimli. However, Jackson should have seen it coming. These contrasting characters start as natural adversaries, and once they’re on the same team, that transforms into competitive banter. This makes for fun and endearing scenes between them.

Even though banter can be platonic, there’s a very blurry line between banter and flirtation. That means interactions between peers that are familiar and yet have that teasing edge are particularly effective at building sexual and romantic chemistry.

If banter is all there is between the characters, the storyteller may not be creating that chemistry on purpose. However, in popular stories where everyone knows that fans want those characters to hook up, storytellers who include teasing are at least willing to encourage it. For instance, Merlin and Arthur on BBC’s Merlin are also known for their banter, and since it’s obvious that the show’s writers were cultivating chemistry, it’s very likely that banter was part of their strategy.

11. Staring & Close Eye Contact

Multiple episodes ARE YOU F- ING KIDDING ME??

In the Star Trek: Next Generation episode The Big Goodbye, Dr. Crusher dresses up in a 1940s outfit to join Picard’s Dixon Hill game on the holodeck. When Picard sees her there, he first stops, stares, and then has a close face-to-face conversation. The scene even has cheesy romantic music.

While that example is over the top, storytellers can do this with a lot more subtlety if they want to. Visual storytellers typically have a character conversation in almost every scene, and it’s easy to nudge characters closer together or have them stare a little longer. However, some shows like Star Trek are also in the habit of making their actors talk really close together all the time. That makes the line between what is romantic and what is platonic really blurry.

Building chemistry via staring isn’t limited to visual works. In narrated works, description is used to focus the camera and show what the viewpoint character is paying attention to. The choice to describe the eyes of a peer, assuming they aren’t supernatural looking, creates romantic chemistry. Using a disproportionate amount of description on a peer, especially if that description makes them sound attractive, will also be interpreted as non-platonic. While narration can also describe how close characters are together, it won’t have the same subtlety as it would in a visual story.

10. Domestic Activities

(”Co-parenting”Jack/ being two of his three four dads.)

In season seven of The 100, viewers discover that Octavia spent ten years stranded with her former enemy, Diyoza. They took shelter in an abandoned home, and since Diyoza was already pregnant, they ended up raising her child together. For many years, Octavia tries to leave and go back to her brother, but Diyoza tells her that she shouldn’t abandon her family. Diyoza finally sabotages Octavia’s efforts to leave, but Octavia quickly forgives her. That sure sounds like a love story.

While characters don’t have to be romantic to be roommates, making peers into roommates is likely to get fans invested in a hookup. This is partly because living together is associated with romantic partnerships, but it also means that the characters are around each other a lot. The more they are together, the more opportunities they have to build chemistry.

Aside from that, simply seeing characters handle (or refuse to handle) domestic tasks like cooking, doing dishes, or house cleaning builds romantic chemistry between them. This goes double if the characters raise a kid together.

9. Bonds of Magic or Destiny

Multiple episodes ARE YOU F- ING KIDDING ME??

In BBC’s Merlin, a wise dragon tells the titular Merlin that it’s his destiny to protect Arthur so that Arthur can bring about a new golden age. The dragon refers to them as two sides of a coin, and it emphasizes more than once that their fates are intertwined. Because he wants to stay close to Arthur, Merlin spends the entire show hiding his magic and working as a lowly manservant.

Our culture has countless stories about characters thrust into roles that make them essential to both the world and each other. These characters might be magically linked together, perhaps even hearing each other’s thoughts. The bond might be one of prophecy, with the characters needing each other to save the world. Or their society might make a big deal out of the two interdependent roles the characters play. For instance, in Gideon the Ninth, lots of time is spent describing how important a necromancer and their cavalier are to each other. Often, characters with these special bonds will gain abilities that can only be used when they’re together.

Storytellers have used this trope so many times in their romances that it carries a strong romantic connotation. While the trope can also be used for platonic relationships, a storyteller doing that may need to explicitly state that the relationship is platonic.

8. Voicing How Much They Care

Multiple episodes ARE YOU F- ING KIDDING ME??

In Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, the students Albus and Scorpius form a close relationship that is forbidden by Harry himself. This relationship is of central importance to the play, and it includes a conversation where Albus tells Scorpius “you make me stronger” and Scorpius responds “I didn’t much like my life without you in it either.” This sounds like a conversation from a romance novel with the direct “I love you” lines conveniently clipped out.

Friends and siblings in popular stories don’t spend much time talking about how they are friends and siblings. Most platonic relationships in stories are also not as emotionally intense, and they come across as less needy and codependent than romantic ones.

As we get more deep and meaningful platonic relationships in popular stories, these conversations may be less associated with romance in the future. Even so, having peers spend time discussing their relationship or what they mean to each other definitely builds romantic chemistry. And since we can’t credit most popular storytellers with caring about meaningful platonic relationships, conversations like this one between Albus and Scorpius are a strong sign that the storyteller is creating romantic chemistry on purpose.

Storytellers who are covertly building romantic chemistry are particularly fond of using the word “love” in ambiguous ways. They know interested audiences will interpret this as “in love,” while others will interpret it as platonic love.

7. Activities Associated With Dating

Multiple episodes - meals together

The Good Omens miniseries added original scenes for the fan-favorite demon and angel pair, Crowley and Aziraphale. The series shows them meet for the first time, go through ups and downs together, and as a secondary concern, deal with the events of the actual plot. They’re shown drinking wine at a fancy restaurant together more than once. When things look bad, Crowley practically begs Aziraphale to run away with him. After Aziraphale’s shop burns down, Crowley invites Aziraphale to come home with him. Aziraphale often appears scandalized by Crowley’s advances, which only makes those scenes more suggestive.

While two friends could have a candlelit dinner together, storytellers don’t depict characters having candlelit dinners for the purpose of developing a platonic relationship. That’s why in a story, just having two peers eat at a restaurant by themselves implies a romance in progress. Other dating-associated activities might include watching the sunset together or dressing up to attend a fancy event together.

This category also includes any outing referred to with the word “date” – even if it is a “friend date.” Your friend date in real life might not be romantic, but storytellers choose that word for a reason.

6. Absent Clothing ?

(09x06) There’s Cas’ discarded vest and unbuttoned shirt during the scene in the car outside Nora’s.

In The Last Jedi, director Rian Johnson decided to develop a romance between Rey and Kylo by giving them a magical bond in the form of long-distance telepathy. But Johnson must have decided the obviously romantic implication of this connection was too subtle, so Kylo also happens to be shirtless in one of these scenes.

Fictional clothing doesn’t just evaporate in storyland. If a character is bathing, is in their underwear, is missing their shirt, or even just has buttons undone, the storyteller has chosen to create sexual tension. This isn’t always to develop sexual chemistry specifically between two characters. In visual media, it might be to give the audience some eye candy. But if one peer’s shirt goes missing when the other appears, that’s a big sign.

Perhaps the most common method of doing this is putting characters in the same room when one of them is changing. Injuries are another common excuse for clothing removal and close contact. A remarkable number of characters have trouble applying their own bandages; somehow, they always need first aid from an attractive peer.

5. Flirtation & Flattery

Multiple episodes - (5x22) Dean outright flirting with Cas before saying yes to Archangelic possession and just Dean’s body language in other episodes.

X-Files was notorious for taunting viewers with a possible romance between its two leads, something that started right with the pilot. One of the many tactics used to build up a possible romance was for Mulder to inappropriately hit on Scully while they were working. In one scene where they are undercover as a married couple who just moved into the neighborhood, he tells a neighbor that he and Scully spooned like kittens all night. Generally, Mulder’s advances are disguised as jokes, and when he’s too serious to be joking, Scully treats his comments as if they were jokes.

It’s obvious that when one character hits on another, they have sexual or romantic interest. The only question is whether that interest is being used to develop romantic or sexual chemistry. Many stories have a scene where a minor male character hits on a female protagonist only for her to turn him down, and it’s supposed to be funny. Since most women do not find this funny, these scenes aren’t as common as they once were. Occasionally, a male antagonist will make threatening advances. That’s even worse.

However, it’s different when a relatable protagonist is initiating the flirtation. Even if the subject of their affections isn’t interested, being turned down will create sympathy. The scene may still be written as though it’s funny, but then it’s humble or self-deprecating humor. Failed flirtation establishes that the protagonist is looking for romance, creating the expectation that they will hook up with someone. If they’ve tried to flirt with a recurring character, it’s almost certainly a romantic setup.

4. Emphasis on Hugs and Physical Contact

Multiple episodes ARE YOU F- ING KIDDING ME??

Many fans of the show Teen Wolf wanted Stiles and Derek to hook up. Stiles is the fan-favorite character, Derek is really hot, and the two have some great banter scenes. Unfortunately, the writers of the show wouldn’t create a romance between them, but at the end of the show’s long run, they decided to give these fans something to remember. How did they do that? With the bridal carry. Even though the scene was written to be humorous, this specific hold has incredibly romantic connotations.

While the bridal carry is pretty blatant, storytellers will use all kinds of physical contact between peers to create romantic and sexual chemistry. One of the most common is hugging. Yes, friends hug, but visual stories don’t include extended shots of friends hugging. Narrated works don’t spend a whole paragraph describing the way friends hug. If a hug between peers is rendered in artistic loving detail instead of as a casual and brief aside, that was intentional chemistry-building.

Other blatant signs of non-platonic physical contact include showing whether their hands are close enough to touch, making one character fall on top of another (classic), hair tucking, and, for storytellers with no shame whatsoever, mouth-to-mouth such as CPR or “water transfer.”

3. Blushing

In Netflix’s She-Ra, the characters Bow and Glimmer start off as best friends and hook up in the final season. In depicting this transition, She-Ra gives us a beautiful reversal, in which this straight romance is much more subtle than the central queer hookup. Because they were already friends, some viewers might miss that Bow and Glimmer end the show as a couple. However, close observation of one scene in particular leaves no room for doubt. In it, Glimmer praises Bow’s music, and they both blush.

Blushing is a little odd because it doesn’t appear in live action for practical reasons. But in animated, illustrated, or narrated works, storytellers use blushing to communicate that a character is experiencing non-platonic feelings. While it occasionally indicates general embarrassment, context almost always makes it clear which is which. If the character blushes after dropping all their books in the middle of class, it’s embarrassment. If they blush after speaking to or staring at a peer, it’s romance.

Since blushing is involuntary, it’s particularly useful when characters aren’t willing to show their feelings. This means it often gets used as early buildup to a romance or to create chemistry between characters who will never admit their feelings at all.

2. Jealousy ?

OPEN TO INTERPRETATION BUT - (4X10) Cas’ reaction to Dean and Anna.

In Gideon the Ninth, Harrow is a necromancer and Gideon is her cavalier. However, at the beginning they’re almost enemies. When they’re summoned to an abandoned castle to train for a great honor, Harrow goes off on her own. This leaves Gideon to socialize with the other nobles present – in particular, the lovely and kind Dulcinea. As Gideon and Harrow begin to make up, Harrow increasingly voices her displeasure with this association, finally forbidding Gideon to see Dulcinea. While Harrow insists it’s because Dulcinea is dangerous, Gideon accuses Harrow of being jealous.

In stories, jealousy is an obvious sign of romantic feelings. That’s simply because while the vast majority of romances in popular stories are monogamous, friendships are never exclusive. Someone who wants to be a friend doesn’t have much reason to get jealous. Factor in conscious choices by storytellers, and platonic jealousy is rare indeed.

Characters rarely admit to being jealous, so storytellers who want to clarify usually have another character say it. Even if it looks like that character could be wrong, the storyteller wouldn’t have used the word “jealous” unless they wanted their audience to think about it. The romantic chemistry that comes with this is intentional.

Unlike other items on this list, I don’t recommend using this one yourself for romantic buildup. Like other negative emotions, occasional jealousy is natural. However, it’s not a sign of a healthy relationship, and it’s associated with domestic abuse. When storytellers use it in romances, they are encouraging everyone to think of jealousy as romantic. That can have deadly consequences.

1. Onlookers Assume They’re Dating

Multiple episodes - Meg, Balthazar, and others making joking (or very serious) comments about their relationship.

In the BBC Sherlock episode A Study in Pink, Watson and Sherlock have dinner together at an Italian restaurant. For those who’ve been paying attention so far, that’s a dating-associated activity. The waiter is an old associate of Sherlock, and he casually refers to Watson as Sherlock’s “date.”

I cannot count the number of times I have seen this used as early buildup in straight romances. The likely couple goes out together – often to a restaurant but not always – and some stranger assumes they’re a couple. Embarrassed, they hurriedly correct the stranger. Several episodes later, they’re admitting their feelings for one another. In BBC Sherlock, this trick from the old romantic playbook was clearly not enough for the show writers. Following this is a conversation where Sherlock concludes that Watson is interested in dating him. He says he’s flattered, but he’s “married to his work.”

The denial of the characters doesn’t cancel out the intentional romantic chemistry. If the storyteller didn’t want the audience to think about the pair hooking up, they wouldn’t do this song-and-dance in the first place. In fact, if the denial is enthusiastic, it just indicates these comments about being a couple are hitting close to home.

For all the other signs I’ve listed here, I can at least conceive of a situation in which a plot would call for something similar between people intended as platonic. These little snippets of dialogue have no such cover. They are irrelevant to the plot at hand, inserted entirely for the character moment they create. They are the furthest thing from organic, especially with a same-gender pairing. The storytellers can claim they’re jokes (homophobic ones), but they have many jokes at their disposal that do not build romantic chemistry. They chose a joke that would.

When these romantic or sexual signals are used on same-gender pairings, it may fly under the radar for audiences with a heteronormative gaze. However, these signals don’t end up in the story by accident. That goes double if this is a big-budget story in a visual medium, where the story has been written, animated, or filmed, and finally edited under supervision. Remember: it’s a storyteller’s job to shape the response that audiences have to their story. They may not be perfect, but they still know what they’re doing.

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