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deppiet · 9 months

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About the yassification of GO2.

Warning: the following text is highly critical of the second season of Good Omens. If you enjoyed it, I am happy for you, and a non-negligible amount of jealous as well. Please scroll past before I inevitably rain on your fandom parade.

So, I did the thing. I binged the entire second season of what was, up to now, my favorite show ever, in one sitting. And I have a great deal of things to say, but hardly any of them is positive.

Let me start by saying that I don't mind the cliffhanger or the melancholy ending, like at all. In our era of Marvel apologists and the instant gratification culture, it is necessary for media to persevere and add nuance to romantic relationships. That said, what transpired during the six hours leading up to this sort of unearned climax hardly contains anything remotely close to nuance.

Who are these people? I don't mean the new characters, all of them written as cardboard-cut anthropomorphic personifications of stereotypes, yassified to the point of representation losing its purpose and getting in the way of, you know, actual writing. I mean the protagonists themselves, Aziraphale and Crowley, up to now my favorite characters in the entire world and -up to now- tangled in a love story so beautiful I had, for better or for worse, devoted a large part of my creative output on it, making art, songs, and metas on why what those two entities had was as close to perfect as anyone can hope to find for themselves.

These are not the characters I knew. The characters I knew spent hundreds of human lifetimes revolving around each other in a treacherous yet familiar dance- they both knew the love was there, it was comfortable like an armchair that has taken the shape of the body using it for years. They argued the way old couples do, and of course, like all fictional beings that are counterparts of one another, had differences to settle, but what stood in their way wasn't misunderstanding or miscommunication, in was their fear of Heaven and Hell, and their fundamentally different approaches on how to keep each other safe.

What is all this teen angst? This will-they-won't-they silliness that lacks any nuance, thematic coherence, or literally even trace amounts of understanding of the source material? Where is the dark humor, the quotability, the chaotic overarching plot, the self conscious camp? The season is so cynically written to cater specifically to a certain part of fandom, that I am losing respect for the original work- because if Neil Gaiman doesn't care for these fictional beings, and he evidently doesn't, why should I?

The thematic core of what made Good Omens what it was, had always been the "Love in unexpected places" trope Sir Terry Pratchett knew how to write so well. It had never been about the fantasy, because Sir Terry wrote satire wrapped up in a supernatural package, it had never been about the romance, because when the ship becomes the end instead of the means, the love rings hollow, like artificial light trying to pass as sunshine. The beating heart of GO lies in its philosophy, in the beautiful notion that the agents of two oppressive systems at war have more in common with one another than with their respective oppressors. That being a nobody, a mere cog in a larger machine, says more about said machine than it does about you, and that you can try to break free and build a life for yourself, where a happy ending looks like a dinner at the Ritz with the one you love most.

Shoehorning an underdeveloped "romance" between Beelzebub and Gabriel not only feels like bad fanfic (disclaimer: I like the ship and feel like it could have worked if developed in any capacity, and presented in a more humorous and character-appropriate way. I hate with passion how much they watered down Beelzebub in order to make them stereotypically romanceable, adding the Ineffable Bureaucracy to the ever-expanding list of characters I don't care about anymore.) but also, it muddles and grossly undermines the thematic raison d'être of Ineffable Husbands. If the ramifications for defecting and fucking off with the enemy were a slap on the wrist for the respective leaders of both sides, well surely the system can't be that oppressive after all. And if fear of the oppressive system wasn't, after all, what kept these beings apart, surely these two entities don't like each other as much as we thought. Or rather, one is reduced to a lovesick puppy and the other to a brainless husk of a character, a plot device, a means to go from place A to place B without spending much brainpower on the logistics.

And if these two new people got to kiss I care not, for they are not the same people I rooted for (props, though, to the actors, who gave, somehow, an almost Shakespearean gravitas to their love affair, underwritten and dumbed down as it was. They both love the characters, and it shows in the minuscule yet brilliant ways in which they added nuance where the script had none.)

What was that thing with the lesbians about? Though straight passing, I have always known myself to be attracted to women as well as men, and I am always highly suspicious when an "ally" writer (see: straight, no shade to straight people among which I live because they are, like, the majority) decides to make all characters queer, in the face of real-world statistics and despite NOT being queer themselves. When a person like Nate Stevenson does it they get a pass because writers self-insert and because, when done well, it can carry a message of equality. But when the ally writer does it, unless it is pitch-perfect, I am forced to examine the possibility of them being calculating about it and trying to score representation points, often because they need the rep as a fig leaf to cry homophobia behind when people start complaining about the atrocious plot.

Nina and Maggie were boring. They had no personalities, no cohesive backstories, nothing to make us understand what they are to one another and to the overarching plot ("plot" is used loosely here, for there was no plot: the series ended where it should have started, with six hours of -progressively more offensive to my intelligence- fanfic tropes in a trenchcoat serving as the, well, "plot"). I didn't care whether or not they'd end up together, because I have no idea who they are. The blandness of the dialogue had the actresses, both very talented as evidenced in the first season, grasping at straws with what little characterization they were left to work with, and the "ball" was so unbelievably bad a plot device no amount of suspension of disbelief was ever going to make it right.

The minisodes, though at parts clever and philosophical, felt out of place. This was another narrative choice I had to raise my eyebrows at, because it felt like a bunch of executives sat around a table and watched Neil Gaiman's powerpoint presentation of what made Season 1 financially successful. They were shoehorned in, largely irrelevant to the, eh, "plot", and most of them lasted far more than I personally deemed welcome, or necessary.

What else is there to say? The wink-winks and nudge-nudges to the Tumblr nation? The in-your-face Doctor Who reference? The narratively myopic choice to make Crowley a former archangel? The cheese dialogue, not one bit of which was quotable?

I am distraught. I am grieving an old friend, and a part of my fandom life I cannot, in good faith, return back to after this gross betrayal. I am happy for those who don't see it, because I wish I could love this season past its flaws. However, the writing isn't simply mediocre, it is irrevocably, immeasurably, undescribably bad, so bad I am shocked to my very core, so bad I find it offensive to Sir Terry's memory and everything his own creative output was lovingly filled with.

I am passing all five stages of grief and very much doubt I will return to this fandom. I loved the original story and the characters with all my heart- now the aforementioned heart is broken, not by the breakup or anything as pedestrian as cheap romantic tropes. But because my old friends, my family of fictional beings, are no longer the ones I loved and could relate to.

Deppie out.

#good omens #good omens season 2 #go2 #good omens 2 spoilers #gos2 spoilers #good omens s2 #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens critical #good omens season 2 critical #neil gaiman #terry pratchett #good omens spoilers #michael sheen #david tennant

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pearwaldorf · 6 months

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20 questions for fic writers

sorta tagged by @antivanruffles

How many works do you have on ao3?

130 excluding the the podfics I'm listed as a co-author on

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

230,000. I'm a very succinct writer!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently OFMD. I have written a lot of (in descending order) Star Wars sequel trilogy, Good Omens, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Critical Role, and MCU.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

we wore the jacket for the longest time (Star Wars ST, Finn/Poe/Rey, 3200)

well you laughed baby it's okay (it's buzzcut season anyways) (nsfw; Good Omens, Aziraphale/Crowley, 1100)

human sacrifice and mass hysteria (nsfw, DA:I, Cullen/Dorian, 1080) This one has a weirdly long tail. I still get bursts of kudos on it every now and then.

balance theory (The Old Guard, Joe/Nicky foe yay, 660)

taste the stardust in my mouth (Star Wars ST, Finn/Poe/Rey, 560)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I do not. I don't have enough energy to write and respond to comments, so I'm sure people would rather I write. They are all appreciated though <3

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

a knife on the things that held us together for sure. It sets up the rift between Han and Leia after Ben's attack on the Praxeum and it's the last time Leia sees her brother. I was so emotionally wiped by it I couldn't even think about writing for two weeks hahaha

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of my fics have happy endings, or at least hopeful ones.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

If I do nobody has ever told me.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! I'm not sure what "what kind" means.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I've written exactly one, the Will Graham/Aziraphale one (I swear it makes sense in context). ngl it's pretty weird. Plenty of AUs set in different universes though!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I have. Somebody plagiarized "but you laughed baby" beat for beat. When I confronted them about it they said they must have subconsciously regurgitated it. Binch, I had to reread my own fic to compare, don't give me that shit. (They deleted their entire account afterwards. I'm not sad.)

12. What's the longest you've spent working on one fic? And the shortest?

Shortest is drabbles, and those take anywhere from 15-30 minutes. Longest? I still have a Mass Effect fic that I've been picking at on and off since 2012. I should just finish it up.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not.

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I refuse to pick.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

The Good Omens While You Were Sleeping AU is my only actual posted WIP. There are Reasons I tend not to post unfinished stuff.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I'm really good at nailing character voices and dialogue. I think I'm decent at striking a balance between pretty language and making sure it still moves things along. I have been told I'm very good at intimate character interaction.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

What the fuck is a plot?

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Unless you're going for the half-remembered vocabulary because diaspora kid vibe (which I did in my Shang-Chi fic), get somebody fluent to translate for you. The amount of horrific Spanish I've seen in OFMD fic is... not good.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

X2! I thought I was very clever making puns on "le petit mort" in a Rogue fic

20. Favorite fic you've written?

I have a series! I love the extremely weird ones I wrote just for myself that nobody else seems to like, although the Ed/Blackbeard/Stede one is an exception.

I am where memes go to die, so if you want to do this, consider yourself tagged.

#pear does a meme

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darkpurpledawn · 3 years

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ladling out a bowlful of hubris as I do the fanfic asks game even though I’ve been taking a writing hiatus this whole spring and summer

thank you for the tag @heavens-bookshop!

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

14. I tend to leave shorter stuff (<2500 words) on tumblr, but I have several works on Ao3 shorter than my longest tumblr ficlets

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

143,641. someday I’d like to write a fic that’s longer than that. baby steps

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

...it’s pretty much all Good Omens. back in early 2019 I wrote a few bits and pieces of (MCU) Thor fanfic, but GO is the only thing I’ve published!

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Anthony J. Crowley, Retired Demon and Airbnb Superhost (3k, G)

Exactly what it says on the tin, in fake review format

A Visit to the Pet Shop (2k, T)

Outside POV of the herp supply store owner who encounters Crowley and Aziraphale

In Mixed Company, Or the Corporate Retreat of Heaven and Hell (52k, M)

Continuing the trend of spelling the whole fic premise in the title. it delights and amuses me to no end that this one is included in the collection “Fics in which Gabriel doesn’t suck”

Come Adore on Bended Knee (and Other Ways to Make an Angel Rejoice) (5k, M)

Friends to mutual blowjobs speedrun, Christmas edition

There Were Angels Dining at the Ice Cream Parlour (2k, T)

My first fic from back in the heady summer days of 2019

All of these are from the time the fandom was just straight up bigger, but looking at patterns among my own fics it seems like weird formats, smut, and very long and specific titles tend to do well, all of which Checks Out

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try! I feel like a goof writing replies, but I am super grateful for them and I do attempt to respond, albeit erratically. I don’t usually reply to comments that are just a few words or emojis, not because I don’t appreciate them, but because I feel a little obnoxious writing a thank you that’s longer than the comment??? idk I’m probably overthinking it

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

SO when I first started writing fanfic, I thought I was going to write all unresolved pining historical fics all the time, and accordingly, my first chaptered fic, A House in the Country, is a melancholy 1920-set slice of life in which Aziraphale and Crowley take a trip to the Lake District and pine for each other. I don’t think it’s super angsty but it ends on a somber note

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I was going to say no, but then I remembered one of my absolute favorite things I’ve written is technically a Good Omens/Macbeth crossover

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Nope!

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Yes, inclined towards “lots of foreplay and then a weird but hopefully suggestive sequence of metaphors, all in some kind of Uncertain and Forbidden Situation”

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No I keep my fics locked in my fic safe and u can’t have em

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes!!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope, not yet

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

Aziraphale/Crowley, definitely. Also shoutout to Hermione/Ron and Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy...apparently my type is Person Who Excelled At Formal Education/Redhead, And They Argue A Lot

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

hey hey hey I am going to finish both of my Good Omens WIPs! I do have an unpublished horror comedy WIP that I’d like to post around Halloween but am completely stuck on because I can’t decide what it should be rated, so I may use parts of that for other things if I can't pick a tone

15) What are your writing strengths?

*Mike Wazowski voice* These are the jokes, kid

I’d also say I can write sexual stuff that is not repetitive and dialogue that sounds in character. Oh, and I genuinely enjoy writing titles and summaries!

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

besides…not writing…

On a structural level, I have a tendency to take too long getting to first plot beats and then rush endings. On a sentence level I think I have a terminal case of Dependent Clause Disease that genuinely interferes with clarity

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

No real thoughts other than whenever I am reading an old book and someone says something in gratuitous French or one of the 12 expressions I know in Latin I feel very Smart bc the fifth grade snob lives within me

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

It’s been so interesting seeing responses to this question from people who have been writing fic since their early teens or childhood! I didn’t write any fanfic before 2019 or any fiction at all except for school projects. I wrote maybe 1k words of Thor fanfic that summer and then went straight on to Good Omens

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

In Mixed Company, for sure. I’m hopeful that when I finish current WIPs it’ll be Lest They Be Flatmates though!

tagging @lenore-is-lost and @mllekurtz if you'd like, and anybody else who sees this post!

#fic writer asks #long post #good omens fanfic

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contraststudies · 3 years

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Thank you for tagging me, @tawnyontumblr! I’m very bad at doing these writer meme things, so here goes nothing.

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

45 and counting!

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

376,429. Holy moly that is a fuck ton of words (I only properly started posting on AO3 last May iirc).

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Four: Critical Role, Good Omens, Hades, and Kill La Kill.

4) What are your top five fics by kudos?

This list is bookended by two PWPs, which I find hilarious given that I seem to have misplaced my smut brain cell sometime in the last couple of months.

On The Matter of Traffic Violations (Good Omens, E)

“Officer Fell,” Crowley says, and leans forward, enough to give Fell a good view of his décolletage. He tilts his head in the way he knows people find deliciously coquettish, glad that he’d had the foresight to apply some mascara before heading out. “I’m so very sorry about this,” he says, looking up at the officer through his lashes. “It’s late, you know, no cars around… Didn’t notice how fast I was going, that’s all.”

[Or: Crowley flirts his way out of a traffic violation.]

Unbinding (Critical Role, T)

This is a great honor, Essek reminds himself, trying not to recoil as fingers run through his hair, working through the tangles. A braid is made of three strands, symbolizing the inextricable bond between the soul, the den, and the Luxon. A recognition of an achievement by the drow who bears it. With each braid, the soul is bound ever closer to its den and to the Luxon.

It is a lesson Essek learned long ago, but one he is never permitted to forget.

[Or: the story of why the Shadowhand wears his hair cropped short.]

No Church In The Wild (Good Omens, E)

The stem of the wineglass in Aziraphale’s hand snaps cleanly in two, but no one seems to hear it—every eye in the room is trained on the redheaded dancer sashaying to the gleaming silver pole, centre stage for all to see.

Oh, Aziraphale thinks faintly. Good lord.

[Or: the one where Aziraphale gets assigned to the red light district.]

abide gold with me (Critical Role, T)

“Okay, Cay-leb,” Jester says, stretching out the syllables affectionately. “You sit right here so we can watch you and Essek try an orange for the first time.”

The Primal Scene (Good Omens, E - a collab with @lookitsstevie!)

Harriet notices that there’s a crack of light at the end of the hallway coming from the door to the library, and her mood brightens considerably. Perhaps the tutors are still here, putting together their lessons for the next day before they leave for the night. She leans down to pick up a piece of cloth that’s fallen on the rug. Her breath catches in her throat when she realizes what it is – a necktie with a familiar tartan pattern.

She nearly drops the tie in shock at the unmistakable sound coming from the closed door of the library. A sharp, quickly stifled moan.

[Or: Harriet Dowling accidentally bears witness to divine ecstasy.]

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I try. I really do. My friends (and maybe some of my readers) know that this is difficult for me, mainly because any sort of recognition reduces me to a gibbering pile of tears. I’m working on it though, even if it does take me a million years to respond to anything on AO3.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

God, which one do I choose. I have been referred to as an angst gremlin for a very good reason. I’m gonna go with The Remains of the Day, a Good Omens fairy tale AU I wrote loosely based on Bluebeard.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I HAVE. I wrote philtatos, a crossover of Good Omens and The Iliad/The Song of Achilles. It’s the only crossover I’ve ever written, unless we’re counting Variations of an Arrangement, which could loosely count as a crossover of the book/radio/TV versions of Good Omens.

8) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I have not. And hopefully never will.

9) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I do, and it’s usually of the angst with a happy ending variety.

10) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Hm. How do we define stealing? Just kidding. The short answer is no.

11) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope!

12) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Got one in the works for Critical Role!

13) What’s your all time favourite ship?

Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes was actually the first ship I ever really got into, and they’ll always have a special place in my heart even if I never wrote anything for that fandom. Crowley/Aziraphale from Good Omens of course, and more recently Caleb Widogast/Essek Thelyss from Critical Role.

14) What’s a WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Variations of an Arrangement. I loved writing it, and I still want to finish it one day, but it took a lot of brainpower to write and keep track of the plot and I feel like it’s beyond me, at least right now.

15) What are your writing strengths?

I… hmm. Judging by the way people are always yelling at me in their comments, I guess it’s that I can write stories that make people feel things very deeply.

16) What are your writing weaknesses?

I repeat words so often, it’s embarrassing. I use too many “-ly” adverbs. Also, I find myself using the same turns of phrase across several fics lmao.

17) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

Language is a tricky thing. I don’t want to bore you with discourse. I try not to write dialogue in a different language (especially if it’s not one I speak myself) unless it’s absolutely called for, or if they’re just basic phrases and I’m 100% certain I won’t be getting it wrong. I have read fics where this was done very well though, and I’ve found that it really adds to the atmosphere in those cases.

18) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

It was for this old anime called Princess Tutu. I danced ballet when I was younger and loved it so much – I believe I was only twelve at the time?? But I think the fic may still be floating around on FF.net somewhere.

19) What’s your favourite fic you’ve written?

I wrote philtatos in a four-day fever dream. It’s not the most technically perfect fic I’ve ever written or anything like that, but I think it’s the one that reveals the most about who I am as a person. That is an incredibly cheesy thing to say, I know. I always joke that posting that fic felt like offering my still-beating heart on a silver platter to the void, but there you are.

For Critical Role, surprisingly enough it’s this ficlet I wrote called sinners, a small bite of Shadowdrei where I was parsing my ideas on Astrid and Eadwulf’s dynamic and where they stood when it came to Bren/Caleb and Essek. I didn’t realize how fully formed my thoughts were until I wrote that. Fascinating what your own writing will show you about the things that are in your mind.

Tagging with no pressure whatsoever: @naromoreau @jenanigans1207 @saretton @theseedsofdoom @musegnome!

#about me #writing meme

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orionsangel86 · 4 years

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Hey Everyone,

As you have probably noticed, I have neglected this blog for a long time now. I haven’t been on any fandom related social media at all actually. But I figured since I am currently in a good mindset, I want to write a post just outlining some things which basically boils down to a goodbye letter to Supernatural fandom.

Long rambling post below the cut...

This year (and the last) has just taken it out of me in terms of general negativity online both in fandom and in the real world. At first I got tired of fandom (mostly because Twitter is a cesspool of policing and bullying) and then I got tired of everything else (the world sucks right now, and my mental health basically stopped me from being able to participate in any form of online activism – just because I’m not blogging about something, doesn’t mean I don’t support the cause ya know?). Earlier this year, right around the time of the UK lockdowns, I had surgery and a recovery period in which I spent a lot of time with family, and just reacquainted myself with the real world. I think perhaps the coronavirus pandemic made me realise that long before lockdown began I had already been isolating myself from my real life and diving further and further into an online black hole.

It was years in the making. Supernatural fandom preoccupied my thoughts for such a long period of time it got to the point where every moment of my non working time seemed to be spent either online scrolling my tumblr dash or twitter feed, or reading fanfic or doing something fandom related. I invested so much of myself into this show and fandom that I think I forgot who I was before I was a Supernatural fan completely.

After my wake up call in late 2019, which lead me to break free from an extremely nasty clique, I have tried to re-enter fandom on my own terms, as well as attempt to enjoy the source material and the fandom creations to ignite some new spark of love and interest in the show. Yet as much as I have tried, I have failed to do so.

I was thinking recently about someone I used to follow years ago before I ever created a blog. When I was still just lurking in the tumblr shadows and followed the likes of Mittens, Lizbob, and other meta writers of the period, there was a blogger whose name I can’t remember but she was the funniest blogger I had come across. But when the show killed off Charlie Bradbury, she quit. I had never even interacted with her, as I was barely getting my blog started at the time, but I’ll never forget a post she wrote about her feelings on the show. She had recently started watching something else (I think it was Sense8 but can’t recall entirely), and that this new show had given her everything she had never thought she could have from her fave before. She wrote about how her relationship with Supernatural had become abusive. That for years the writers of Supernatural continued to throw punches at fans like her – women, LGBTQ+ people, people of colour, and yet she continued to give it all her time and attention, brushing off the punches because she was so damn devoted to the characters. Then this new show had come along, and it was like she had seen the light. The killing of Charlie Bradbury was the last straw, and she dumped Supernatural’s ass and fled into the arms of her new love.

I hope she is doing fantastically today.

What she wrote has resonated with me for years. I was a fairly new Supernatural fan at the time, and therefore didn’t really understand what she meant. A TV show can’t be abusive. Can it?

Of course, we are speaking in metaphor here, and in no way are these metaphors meant to reduce or limit the truly serious situation of actual abusive relationships, but every now and then, when a new episode of Supernatural has left me feeling upset, disappointed, frustrated and grossly let down, in some cases affecting my mood for days at a time, and therefore my mental health. I have thought back to those words she wrote and quietly agreed with them in my head. Yes. This is a metaphorically abusive relationship.

When I discovered earlier this year that Castiel was most likely going to be killed off in some sort of bullshit self sacrifice before the end of the show, I was extremely distressed. When I found out that my favourite person of all time Misha Collins, supported this ending for Castiel, and may have even been the one who pushed for it, I was more than distressed, I felt betrayed by the person I cared about most. I’ll admit to you all now that in my weakest moments I have fantasized about standing in front of Misha and screaming at him exactly just what kind of affect his “ideal ending” for Castiel will have on his fanbase, on their mental health, and potentially their own safety. This fantasy has me guilt tripping him and doing everything in my power to make him feel utterly shit about the decision. I know what you are thinking – don’t blame Misha, the guy has his own problems and we all know he projects his own self esteem issues onto Cas – and yes, I know this, like I said its only a fantasy to get me through my darkest moments. I don’t hate Misha at all. But perhaps I do love him a little less nowadays than I did back at the height of my fandom life. That’s at least still a little bit more than my feelings for Jensen and Jared which now I can only describe as complete indifference.

I am admitting all of this now knowing full well it will ignite shock and anger among the more die hard fans of J2M, to explain why I need to just leave this fandom completely, or more accurately, why I have already left fandom.

Over the past 10 months of 2020, I have watched a lot of TV (there isn’t much else to do during a lockdown when you are on crutches with your foot in a cast!) and the one thought that occurred to me over and over again was “this show is so much better than Supernatural”.

I kept comparing everything I watched, from the quality of the scripts, the actors, the special effects, to the inclusiveness of the shows. Just so many beautiful and interesting stories that seem to understand their audience, and understand how to entertain and impress without resorting to cringe humour, outdated jokes, and prejudice, not to mention misogyny and queerbaiting – yup, I said it.

The thing is, I think these thoughts have been creeping over me slowly for longer than just this year, but I have been desperately batting them away the way Dean Winchester bats away his own gay thoughts. Unlike Dean though, eventually I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I cannot continue to carve out space in my own soul for this show, which incessantly beats me down regardless of my devotion. The creators, the network, the writers, and sometimes even the cast, have all shown that they don’t care about me as a fan. I’m not some gun toting dudebro living in middle America, so why should they give a damn about me? I’m clearly not their target audience, nor have I ever been.

I know many of you will vehemently deny my personal opinion of Supernatural now. That is absolutely fine. I am sorry to be admitting it, but I had to. I feel like once I finally write out these words, I have got it off my chest and can close and lock the door on Supernatural for good.

Without Supernatural, I am able to focus on my real life, I am able to find pleasure in other things, new things, interesting things, that bring me joy and joy alone – not disappointment and frustration. I found a new job this year, which has been a huge accomplishment as I was stagnating in my old one, and several new hobbies under my belt. I moved to a new flat, I have a lovely flatmate who has been a godsend throughout lockdown, and I have rekindled friendships that I was neglecting due to my Supernatural obsession.

All in all, I am finding post-Supernatural life far more rewarding and content than my life in fandom. It has taken me a while, but I am over the show. And whilst I will always hold a special place in my heart for Castiel, it will be as I know him in my own mind; as the wonderful, strong, powerful and determined angel with a soul, who loves so strongly, and who is worth so much more than his own creators give him credit for. He is up there with Aziraphale and Crowley, with The Doctor, and Buffy, as one of the greatest characters of all time.

So the Supernatural writers and creators can take whatever ending they have decided upon, and shove it up their asses. I am sorry to say that Sam and Dean Winchester are also lost to me. Any love I had for them was destroyed by their later season depictions. Castiel alone is the only character worthy of that space in my heart now. If in time he longs for a companion, I will find one for him, but it won’t be the Dean Winchester of the canon show. Canon Dean hasn’t been deserving of Cas for a long time now.

Perhaps I am still a little bitter about the ending. Perhaps the finale won’t be the disaster I expect it to be, perhaps Dabb will somehow turn it all around last minute following whatever travesty Bucklemming have given us in 15x19. Either way, I won’t be watching.

So this is me saying goodbye to this blog, at least until I have decided what else to do with it. It certainly won’t be a Supernatural fandom blog anymore. It wasn’t all wasted though. I did get a wonderful friendship group out of this fandom, and I have certainly expanded my knowledge of film and television analysis, as well as having enjoyed a great many memes.

I guess in the end, my internal war with my inner bitter Cas girl finished with her winning, and writing this post. Once it is posted however, I will put her to sleep with thoughts of a happy Castiel, who has swapped his wings for a beating human heart, and is living on a beach somewhere beautiful, refurbishing an old Victorian house, and greeting his kindly elderly neighbours. There’s a gay bar on the main strip, and the bartender is quite a dish. Green eyes and light brown hair with a killer smile. Castiel thinks he looks familiar, like a memory from a past life, but they’ve definitely never met, because this man is kind.

Now that she is asleep, there is nothing left for me here. Goodbye everyone. Whether you manage to enjoy the finale or not, I truly hope you too, find your peace.

#personal #a goodbye message to fandom

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fandomsmeantheworldtome · 4 years

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Tagged by the amazing @itisa-profoundbond-sarandom to

pick 10 ships without reading the questions.

I have more than 10 ships to list lol 😂 but i will pick some of my all time favorites and i will add some new

1. Aziraphale/ Crowley (Good Omens)

2. Edward Nygma / Oswald Cobblepot ( Gotham)

3. Dean Winchester / Castiel ( Supernatural)

4. Villanelle/ Eve ( Killing Eve)

5. Merlin / Arthur ( BBC Merlin)

6. Will Graham / Hannibal Lecter ( Hannibal tv series)

7. Barry Allen / Iris West ( The Flash)

8. Ray Palmer / Nora Darhk ( Legends of Tomorrow)

9. Ava Sharpe / Sara Lance ( Legends of Tomorrow )

10. Yennefer / Geralt ( The Witcher )

1. Do you remember the episode/scene/chapter that you first started shipping 6?

I don't remember exactly from which episode but there was a scene where Hannibal got really close to Will and started to smell him 😄 this was really intense

2. Have you ever read a FanFiction about 2?

More than 100 i think 😂 is one of these ships i have read the most fanfics

3. Has a picture of 4 ever been your screen saver/profile picture/tumblr?

Yes and i have a sideblog about Killing Eve @lovemesomevillanelle too many fandoms to have them all in one blog 😄

4. If 7 were to suddenly break-up today, what would your reaction be?

You hit a sensitive spot here , i consider myself new to the Flash fandom its only a few months since i discovered this show but i noticed that there are a lot haters of this ship and some fans even made recist comments about Iris and the actress who plays her, i would be devastated if these two break up because they are perfect for each other and i will forever support their relationship @sweetbarryallen is my flash sideblog

5. Why is 1 so important?

Its been a year since Good Omens series came in our lifes well the book is much older but the series had such a huge success, i still can't get over these two lovable idiots who love each other since the beginning of time this ship gives me hope and warms my heart with all kinds of feelings

6. Is 9 a funny ship or a serious ship?

Both? these two amazing women are made for each other and i totally enjoy their serious and funny moments the same amount

7. Out of all of the ships listed, which ship has the most chemistry?

I guess the success of a ship and the reason a duo or a couple is shipped from the fans has to do with the chemistry the actors bring to the screen but there were a lot of cases where fanfiction writers created such a great stories for the readers to make them ship even characters who had limited interaction on the screen and that's the power of imagination, to me all the ships have chemistry

8. Out of all of your ships listed, which ship has the strongest bond?

I would say Ineffable husbands because the know each other since forever , who can beat that ?😂

9. How many times have you read/watched 8’s fandom?

DC's Legends of Tomorrow is a new show for me i managed to watch all Seasons till 4th as i write this in almost a month , before i reached S3 where Nora makes her appearance i had seen/ read some spoilers that she and Ray would end up together, Ray Palmer is my most favourite character from lot and when i found out about this ship i was so happy because he deserves all the love and so does Nora Darhk. Nora is such a great written character her development to the show is one of the best. You can guess my reaction when i also found out that the actors who play these characters are married in real life , this ship is everything and to answer this question i have searched about this ship too many times to count but i wish there were more fan videos of DarhkAtom on the internet

10. Which ship has lasted the longest?

I think Aziraphale and Crowley because of the years since the book published and there were fans of this ship even then, second ship who lasted longest is Destiel because of the years Supernatural has on screen

11. How many times, if ever, has 2 broken up?

If you are a Gotham and nygmobblepot fan then you know all about this ship's love and hate relationship , these two crazy idiots almost kill each other but they can't live without each other

12. If the world was suddenly thrust into a zombie apocalypse, which ship would make it out alive, 2 or 8?

Both? i think Ray Palmer with his atom suit abilities and Nora with her magic have more chances to make out alive though i wouldn't underestimate Ed's and Os's surviving skills in times of danger, they are both so clever and cunning that i am more concerned about zombies well being than the two of them 😂

13. Did 5 ever have to hide their relationship for any reason?

Merlin and Arthur never become canon but to the fans Merlin and Arthur have feelings for each other , they hide their feelings since they know each other i wish this ship was canon on screen

14. Is 4 still together?

Killing Eve season 3 delivered this year the best finale in my opinion of all seasons , Villanelle and Eve have feelings for each other that's canon now and i hope in S4 they will live and work together as a couple

15. Is 3 canon?

Not for the writers still not canon but the fans with me included we hope before the show ends completely the writers stop this torment and give us what Destiel fans are praying for years , our ship to become canon

16. If all 10 ships were put into a couple’s Hunger Games, which couple would win?

This is hard, i don't know i guess all have their chances to win " may the odds be ever in your favor" lol

17. Has anybody ever tried to sabotage 10’s ship?

Jaskier ? Lol 😂😂😂 truth is that Yennefer is my favourite character from the show the Witcher but Jaskier is also my favourite and i may ship Yennefer with Geralt but since i got to this fandom is hard not to notice the chemistry between Geralt and Jaskier 😄 love both ships the same

18. Which ship would you defend to the death and beyond?

All i can't pick one

19. Do you spend hours a day going through 1’s tumblr page?

YES 😂

20. If an evil witch descended from the sky and told you that you had to pick one of the ten ships to break up forever or else she´d break them all forever, which ship would you sink?

Ahhh this is so hard i can't choose sorry

Tagging some lovely people @penguinsheart , @mishandjen-tellmehow , @vicarious-rebel , @its-all-ineffable , @ramblingsofachristiannerd , @littlehollyleaf , @jawnlockwinchester , @thisplacehaseverything , @littleangel4996 @your-mad-tea-party-blog @itotallygazeatscully, @belle82devart @skatle-skootle-demon-noodle @lesbian-and-useless @quakerlasss, @whitecrawace and everyone who see this post and wants to do this

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ineffably-good · 4 years

Text

It’s The Principality Of It

Summary: Principalities are made for fighting. Like it or not. Or, why not to invite Aziraphale to play laser tag.

Read it on AO3!

_____________

Aziraphale was an angel full of contradictions. He loved being an angel but wished he could be fully human. He believed in the core virtues but found it very hard to practice some of them, especially those involving temperance and keeping your celestial temple unsullied. He loved the Almighty completely and utterly but found many of her underlings quite tiresome.

And most interestingly, he hated violence in general and fighting in specific, but he was absolutely lethal with a sword.

It was a fact widely acknowledged in Heaven that Principalities were made for fighting. They were guardians, and not in the soft and fluffy sense of a personal guardian angel who appeared over your right shoulder and told you that perhaps you shouldn’t have that last bite of cheesecake or that maybe you should go apologize to your wife. No, Principalities were guardians in the sense of standing alone, flaming sword in hand, on a promontory in the north of Britain and single handedly fighting off the Viking fleet.

Not that that had happened, though. Aziraphale was pretty sure that there weren’t any witnesses to that event, and he intended to disavow it to his grave.

Shortly after Aziraphale was created, he found himself standing in a long line in front of Heaven’s quartermaster, who was a strange little man with curly mustaches and a piercing gaze.

“Let’s see, who’s next,” the man shouted to no one in particular. He consulted his clipboard. “Ah yes, Principality Aziraphale. Principality?”

Aziraphale stepped forward and gave the quartermaster a polite smile. “That would be me, I believe.”

“New, are you?” the Quartermaster asked, crisply. “Always good to meet a Principality. Have they decided what you’ll be protecting yet?”

“I believe it has something to do with Her new special project on Earth,” Aziraphale replied modestly. “I’m not quite clear on the details yet.”

The quartermaster looked him up and down. “Well,” he said, “you’ll probably want to make a few changes to your corporation before you head down. Toughen up a little bit. You look a little soft around the edges, yet. No matter though, let’s see what they’ve issued you for basic equipment, shall we?”

Aziraphale looked down at himself while the quartermaster checked his list. Was he soft? He didn’t see any problem with his corporation; it was healthy and strong and comfortable and he rather liked it. She had made him this way, after all, and he didn’t see any need to modify the Creator’s design. He examined his hands and fingernails, looking for flaws.

A snapping noise brought him back to reality. The quartermaster was snapping his fingers under Aziraphale’s nose, trying to get his attention.

“You are a bit of a strange one, aren’t you?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Well it’s your lucky day, because you’ve been issued a piece of rather special equipment. Genuine flaming sword.”

“Ah, well, that’s just lovely, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, trying to look suitably impressed. He didn’t know too much about himself, being relatively new, but he could already tell he had very little interest in swords and what one did with them.

The quartermaster dug around in a cupboard for a moment and pulled out a large sword with a dramatic flourish. He handed it to Aziraphale, hilt first.

The moment his hand touched the hilt, Aziraphale felt a thrum through his body that he had never experienced before. The sword felt like a natural extension of his arm, and he found himself testing its balance and making a few sweeping movements just to get the feel of it. It felt, he found, very good.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” the quartermaster said. “Now to make it flame, you just –”

FWOMP.

“Ah, I see you already know how to do it,” the man said with a smile. “I should’ve known. You Principalities are made for war.”

Aziraphale widened his eyes and quickly extinguished the sword with a flicker of thought. He was made for what?

“Next!” called the quartermaster. Aziraphale tucked the sword away and tried to find his way back to the rather intriguing scroll room he’d found earlier in the day.

It was a relief, really, to give the sword away to Adam and Eve. Despite how good and true it felt in his hand, he’d never cared for the thing. Handling it made him deeply uncomfortable; something about having a weapon in his hand made him feel like his entire being was nothing more than a means to an end. It was true, what the quartermaster had told him so long ago – he was bred for fighting. What he didn’t understand, though, was why his loving creator would make a creature such as him, designed to fight and to decimate one’s enemies, and also instill in them such a deep distaste for the task. Why give him both an almost unbeatable set of fighting skills and a deep abhorrence for violence? It was… what was that word? Ineffable.

Aziraphale watched, long after the demon left, as the light of the flaming sword receded over the desert sands. Adam and Eve were making their way into the world, lit by the weapon he had never wanted. Perhaps it would be of more use to them than it ever had been to him.

It had felt like the right thing to do. He hoped he’d acted correctly.

Aziraphale managed to go many centuries without ever having to fight, but it occasionally came up. He couldn’t help but be involved in a war here, a skirmish there. Various kingdoms over the years valued prowess in battle over all else, and sometimes it was necessary to provide a demonstration of his skills to gain access to the people he needed to influence. Sometimes he had legitimate reasons to defend a people or a place he cared about, and he did it thoroughly, dispatching the job as quickly as possible and trying to cause as little harm as he could. He rarely lost a fight.

He didn’t know Crawly very well the first time they were called upon to fight each other. They’d been acquaintances and adversaries for quite some time, but only ran into each other every few centuries. This changed when they were both assigned to influence King Cyrus of the Persis empire in his attempt to overtake Babylon and India.

Being a warlike creature intent on conquering most of the known world, the king’s favorite past time was designating two of his men (or women) to fight each other for his amusement. Crawly did his best to stay out of sight during these interludes, but Aziraphale, having been seized upon immediately as someone who was perhaps not in the best trim, physically, had been squared off early against one of the king’s riders for an easy win.

The king was amused and pleased when Aziraphale unexpectedly wiped the floor with his first opponent, revealing himself to be a rather astute fighter despite his soft and fussy exterior.

After that, the king made a habit of pairing up the angel with increasingly challenging opponents – some with fists, some with weapons, some with just traditional wrestling. Aziraphale defeated each of them without barely breaking a sweat.

—

“You need to let them land a punch or two, angel,” Crawly warned him one evening after the fight had concluded in the usual way. “Bleed a little somewhere unobtrusive. People are beginning to talk. You’re making enemies.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I don’t want to bleed! I don’t want to fight at all! This is most frustrating, having to pummel people for someone else’s amusement. How am I supposed to get my job done when all he wants is to see me beat people up?”

“Well you could, I dunno, lose?” Crawly suggested.

The angel pondered this. “I suppose I could,” he said. “How badly would I have to lose? I truly don’t enjoy pain.”

Crawly felt an idea come squirming up out of the depths.

“Angel,” he said. “What if I arrange to get myself nominated as your opponent? We’ll make sure it’s wrestling so no one has to seriously injure the other. And you can throw the match.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, and just conveniently you get to win?”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “Seriously, angel, what’s going on with you? Yes, I get to win – because if it’s me, you know I’m not going to bash your head in or give you a concussion or do anything serious.”

“Just wrestling?” Aziraphale said, considering.

“Yeah. And since we both agree on the outcome, we can make it look really good so they think you went down fighting. Should get you out of the ring for a while.”

“All right, it’s worth a try,” the angel said. “How are you going to get yourself put into the arena?”

“Just leave that to me,” Crawly said.

Sure enough, a few nights later, when the wine was flowing heavily and the evening was growing increasingly rowdy, Aziraphale heard the king’s voice calling out for him in the hubbub.

“Yes, my lord?” Aziraphale said, bowing deeply before him.

“You’ve defeated most of my servants, and two of my secretaries, and even my youngest son,” the king said. “So tonight, I have a new challenge for you.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, waiting. The king motioned to his side and, unsurprisingly, Crawly stepped forward. Their eyes met and they both did their best to pretend to coolly assess the other. Good, Aziraphale thought. This was all going according to plan.

“Let’s see how you do against an opponent with less brawn but more cunning,” the king said.

“Wrestling, my lord?” Aziraphale said politely, trying to hide how much he enjoyed the “less brawn” comment.

The king took a moment to answer. “I don’t think that would be a very fair encounter,” he said. “You outweigh him by nearly half.”

Crawly snorted. Aziraphale glowered at him.

“I think we will have you fight with staffs tonight,” the king said.

Crawly frowned. He hadn’t been planning on encountering Aziraphale with a weapon in his hand. That was suicide. However, he reminded himself, this wasn’t an actual fight, just a simulated one. He could get through this. He trusted the angel.

It started as a fair fight. Crawly was fairly sure that only he could tell that Aziraphale was holding back; the angel made it look like he was convincingly testing Crawly’s defenses and finding chinks in his battle strategy that he could exploit. Determined to play his part, he set about making it look good by offering up a variety of jibes and insults.

That may, in retrospect, have been a miscalculation.

“C’mon, is that all you’ve got? I’d heard you know how to fight!” Crawly taunted him as they circled each other, feinting and drawing back. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and spun his staff impressively and then settled into a highly defensive stance with his feet wider than his shoulders and his left hand holding the base of the staff in an easy grip. He smiled at Crawly in a way that was downright chilling.

Still playing at this, correct? the demon thought.

Crawly took the moment to begin what should have been a devastating downward blow with the upper end of his staff, but Aziraphale smoothly stepped towards him, missing most of the force of the blow, and swung the lower end of his staff in a smooth motion parallel to the ground, hitting Crawly in his flank.

The demon staggered back a step or two and reassessed, circling the angel widely while looking for a weakness. The angel was going to make it possible for him to win this, he knew, but he had to land a few blows first.

Aziraphale charged him and Crawly blocked him easily enough, criss-crossing their staffs expertly as he upended the intended blow and drove the angel back a step or two.

“Not so showy now, are you?” Crawly said, more to the observers than to the angel, although he did notice the angel grimacing in response. He pushed hard against the angel and their staffs disengaged as the angel dropped to one knee

Aziraphale pressed down on the ground with his staff and lumbered to his feet, clearly expecting Crawly to give him a moment to do so, but the demon decided to press his advantage, and surged ahead issuing a strong blow to the angel’s left side, knocking him backwards, and then a follow up blow to his right hip, which pushed him down to the ground.

An excited murmur arose among the crowd. Could the undefeated champion be facing someone worthy of him?

Crawly, holding the angel down by the force of both hands on his staff, locked eyes with Aziraphale for a tense moment and noted that he had a small trickle of blood rolling down his left temple. Had he hit him in the face? He hadn’t meant to. The angel met his eyes, legitimately struggling for a moment, and when the drop of blood hit his eye Crawly saw something snap in him.

No, angel, no, remember? Crawly shouted psychically. You’re supposed to let me win. I’m doing this because you told me to.

It was no use. Crawly watched the angel’s eyes ignite from their usual soft blue to a more fiery version and he knew, without a doubt, that he was in for it. Aziraphale had lost control of his fighting response and was moving into Principality mode, and before he even had time to move, the angel had sprung to his feet with superhuman strength and was beating him back to the opposite corner with a flurry of blows that landed more rapidly than he could block. Crawly dully heard the cheer of the crowd as their favorite champion beat the crap out of his opposition, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to do anything about it. He blocked, he parried, he ducked one particularly crushing blow, and he tried to keep his footing as the Angel of the Eastern Gate bore down on him in all of his avenging glory.

What may have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes later, Crawly came to his senses laid flat on the dusty ground, Aziraphale’s staff pressed into his solar plexus with such force that a human would not have been able to withstand it without serious injury.

“And we have a winner!” shouted the king, from his seat at the edge of the ring. “Counselor Aziraphale is again victorious!”

Loud whoops and cheers erupted from all sides, and the noise -- finally, thankfully – the noise seemed to wake Aziraphale from his hypnotic-like state. Crawly, fearing for his immortal life, watched as Aziraphale blinked and shook his head, looking around in confusion, and then looked down to find his ineffable adversary, bleeding and defeated at his feet, using all of the force of his will to keep a quarterstaff from breaking his ribs and possibly piercing a lung.

“What on earth?” Aziraphale said, moving his staff aside and offering a hand to help Crawly up.

The demon batted it away. He rolled to his side and carefully made his way to his feet, before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes with an intense glare. He dropped his staff at the angel’s feet in the traditional gesture of defeat, then limped off the combat field. Aziraphale watched as he accepted a flagon of ale from one of his mates and then stalked out of sight towards his tent without ever taking so much as another glance back at the angel.

“Oh dear,” the angel fretted.

Aziraphale waited until darkness had fallen and most of the camp was deeply intoxicated before he made his way to Crawly’s tent. He called out to alert the demon of his presence, and then opened the flap to enter.

Crawly was lying face down on the bundle of furs that served as his bedding. He waved a hand in recognition of the angel and then grunted something.

The angel found himself unsure of what to say. He sank down onto his knees next to Crawly and looked him over. “My dear, are you all right?” he asked.

“Fuck off, angel,” Crowley muttered. “I’m fine. Can take a beating, you know I can. Certainly have taken enough of them, over the years. Never from you before, though. Jerk.”

Aziraphale swallowed in dismay. “I’m so sorry, Crawly – I don’t know what happened, when you made me bleed I just – I just lost control of myself and went into battle mode…”

Crowley groaned and rolled onto his back, then eased himself up into a sitting position. “I noticed,” he said wryly.

“You must believe me that I didn’t intend to do this,” Aziraphale pleaded. “I meant to throw the fight like we discussed, I just found myself… physically unable to do so.”

Crawly looked at the angel. He looked a little green, as if he wanted desperately to be ill. Aziraphale, for all of his training and purpose as a Principality, as a guardian, hated to fight, hated to hurt anyone or anything. There had quite possibly never been anyone quite so at odds with their intended purpose as the angel, Crawly thought, feeling a surge of sympathy for him that almost overcame the deep amount of pissed off he was feeling.

“I know,” the demon hissed. “Back off a little, will you? I need to finish healing myself.”

“Oh, let me,” the angel said, readying to lay hands on him. “It’s the least I could do –”

“ANGEL!” the demon shouted. “You already nearly discorporated me with your staff. Are you truly going to complete the task now by showering me with angelic grace?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, falling back. “No of course not. What was I thinking?” He scooted back several yards and let Crawly get to work.

Aziraphale let the king know the next day that he was making a vow of peace to his gods and would no longer be fighting. The king, having heard the grumblings and discontent of some of his men, wisely accepted this. However, the legends of the counselor to the king who could not be defeated in battle lived on for centuries in stories and song.

“Laser tag?” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “I really don’t think…”

“It’s what Adam wants to do for his birthday,” Pepper said firmly, a look in her eye that could cow even an angel. “And he wants you two to come. If you say no, you’ll be the ones ruining his birthday and I know you don’t want to do that.”

Aziraphale looked helplessly at Crowley, who shrugged.

And so they came to find themselves strapping on sensor vests and being taught how to shoot a distressingly realistic-looking weapon the following Saturday, along with Adam, Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper, as well as a few other parents who had decided to join the fun.

“Angel, a word,” Crowley said, pulling him aside as they made their final adjustments.

Aziraphale followed him back into the vestibule. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to be sure that we aren’t going to have any problems today.”

The angel frowned. “What do you mean?”

Crowley fixed him with a look. “Angel, you know how you get.”

“I most certainly do not!” The angel visibly bristled. “What are you referring to?”

“You know,” Crowley said, waving a hand. “Put you in a fight and you get all – Principalitied up. I don’t want you losing control in there because a twelve year old makes your target light up and taking out the entire place in a swath of angelic rage.”

“Oh I really don’t think…”

“Have you forgotten the quarterstaff fight?”

Aziraphale flushed. “My dear, that was over two thousand years ago.”

“Do you remember who it was that taught the Celts to paint themselves blue and scream so loudly as they ran into battle that some of their enemies dropped dead from fright?”

Aziraphale looked both a tiny bit proud of that one and a bit embarrassed. “Yes, I remember that.”

“How about that joust we no longer talk about in Henry’s court? The one where you were supposed to let the favored contender win but you just couldn’t stop yourself?”

Aziraphale looked deeply distressed. “I healed all of them! Immediately!”

“I could go on,” Crowley said. All signs to the contrary, he was not enjoying this conversation, but he needed to be sure the angel wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“I didn’t go berserk the last time I held a sword, did I?” the angel muttered. “There have been plenty of times I’ve managed just fine.”

Crowley eyed him. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “But these are children, and it’s bad form to demolish the birthday boy at his own party. If I see you losing control, I’m taking you down.”

“Fine!” Aziraphale sighed. “Do what you must. I will be fine.”

He was secretly relieved as he followed Crowley into the arena, though. It was always good to have someone watching your back.

He cocked his weapon as they’d been shown, and surveyed the landscape, already taking in a few key strategic points. As the lights went out, he went into a tactical crouch, and instinctively headed for cover.

Oh, the humans were onto something with this one, he thought. This was going to be fun.

“That was WICKED, uncle Aziraphale,” Adam said, breathless, as they sat around later in the afternoon eating overly sugary cake off of paper plates. “You shot EVERYONE! You were like… like a superhero in there!”

Aziraphale blushed and fidgeted with his plate. “I suppose I got a little overenthusiastic,” he mumbled.

Wensleydale jumped in on the other side. “No way, man, you were the high shooter for the entire arena!” he shouted. “How many people were in there today?”

“Thirty five,” Crowley said dryly, from across the table. Aziraphale met his eyes and Crowley shoveled a large scoop of mostly frosting into his mouth and licked the fork clean, never dropping his gaze.

“And you hit thirty one of them,” Pepper said, grinning. “Everyone except us!”

“Yes,” Crowley said acerbically, “how did you manage it, angel?”

“Never mind him,” Adam said. “He’s just mad because you took him out first.”

Aziraphale coughed on his drink. “I truly didn’t mean to,” he said helplessly. “You surprised me, Crowley, when you popped out from behind that column and I just… got overexcited.”

Crowley continued to glare at him while shoveling cake into his mouth. “It takes three shots to knock a player out, angel,” he said. “You shot me seventeen times.”

“With a light beam,” Aziraphale pointed out. It wasn’t like it was bullets, after all.

“Lucky for you.”

“You can be on our team anytime you want, Uncle Z,” Adam said. “And you have to teach me some of your moves. I swear I saw you do a triple roll and come up shooting.”

Aziraphale took another large bite of the terrible cake and tried to block out the conversation. He was never going to hear the end of this from Crowley.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #Aziraphale x crowley #ineffable idiots #Aziraphale is good with weapons #whether he wants to be or not

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Ectotherm (all parts)

Hey, all! I really wanted to contribute to the Great Good Omens Snake-Off. Short crack fic about Crowley being driven out of Ireland by St. Patrick.

(Spoiler: the punchline was “Of course I’m going to take it personally -- I was the only snake on that bloody island!”)

But I am burned all the way out today. Instead, please enjoy my Snek!Crowley Angst-with-a-Happy-Ending, “Ectotherm” - all the parts gathered together in one place, for the first time ever!

(If you enjoy, please consider reblogging!)

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

In twenty-four hours he had been subjected to the inferno of a burning bookshop; the hell-born flames of the dread sigil Odegra enveloping his Bentley; the terrifying freezing-hot-burning-cold presence of Satan himself; and a column of Hellfire intended not for him but for Aziraphale, because the Archangels were determined to destroy the best thing that had ever walked the floor of Heaven.

Well, forget them.

And so, they sat at the Ritz raising their glasses to the world, ready to share a meal and start their life together.

Only Crowley suddenly realized he couldn’t eat. He’d thought he was hungry, but the food just sat in his stomach, heavy and cold. Even the wine seemed to sour, once it was past his tongue.

Just nerves, he thought, and did it really matter? He’d always preferred to watch Aziraphale eat, see the joy bubble across his features. It was enough to know that they could do this every day for eternity if they wished, and right now he certainly wished it.

He felt a little better when the coffee arrived, almost-painful heat radiating out from his stomach.

“My dear fellow, that’s your fourth cup!” Aziraphale protested, as he downed another.

“It’s good! And I didn’t complain when you ordered a second piece of cake.”

“Well, I…I was rather thinking you might like some, too.”

With a rush of giddy emotions, Crowley realized he liked the sound of that very much. He picked up his fork and sliced off a bite of red cake with thick white icing. “What is it?”

“I thought I’d try something different, something a little modern. This is red velvet cake.”

Only Aziraphale would think a flavor that had been popular for over sixty years was a little modern. Crowley smiled as he tasted it – rich and sweet and strangely light on his tongue. “You know, it’s not bad,” he said, reaching for another bite.

And a little heat rose to his face as he realized that Aziraphale was sitting there with hands folded, smile on his face – watching Crowley eat.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

They went for a walk after the Ritz, but he found he was very tired. He tried to shrug it off.

“I’ve had a busy week, and I missed my sleeping day,” he explained. “I don’t – I don’t need to sleep, you know, but I still get exhausted. I’ll be fine.”

“You should sleep, then,” Aziraphale said, tone slightly scolding. The angel seemed determined to make sure Crowley took care of himself, as if he hadn’t learned to do that long before the Garden. It turned out, being fussed over wasn’t so bad. “I can walk you back to your place. Or. Er. You can come to the bookshop. I don’t have much to offer, but there’s the sofa, and perhaps we can have a drink…”

“Bookshop sounds lovely.” He always had to fight back a smile when he remembered the many nights they’d sat in the back corner together, sharing wine, sharing stories, complaining about work, just being themselves. Actually, he didn’t have to fight back that smile at all anymore – he could wear it for anyone to see. For Aziraphale to see.

None of that today, though. Crowley was rather embarrassed to find that the moment he stretched out on the sofa, he started falling asleep, and there was nothing he could do to fight it off.

He was dead to the world before Aziraphale had even settled into his armchair, and didn’t wake up until the shop was filled with bright Monday sunlight. A fleecy tartan blanket covered him from shoulder to toe, but he still shivered, and his stomach felt strangely heavy. Too much cake, probably.

Crowley sat up stiffly, running a hand through his hair and blinking around the shop. His eyes landed on a customer, who jumped in surprise, then quickly walked out.

“Ah, you’re awake!” Aziraphale hurried over. “How are you feeling? Better, I trust?”

“A bit.” Crowley rubbed at his face. “Didn’t I have glasses?”

“You took them off before falling asleep.” Aziraphale pulled them out of his pocket. “I was worried you might roll over them in the night. You slept very heavily. Is that normal?”

He shrugged, pushing the dark lenses back onto his face. “Probably. Didn’t wake up, didn’t dream much, seems like a good sleep. Does it have to be so blasted cold, though?”

Aziraphale glanced at the old-fashioned thermostat. “I do keep it a little cool to discourage customers. You scared away three different people just by sleeping there, you know. Perhaps I should get you a permanent bed right in the middle of the floor.”

“Only if you promise to turn the heat up.” Crowley wandered closer to the window, feeling the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. That was better. “I’m…” It wasn’t a word he used often. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

“About the customers? Don’t be, they were trying to touch my first edition Verne novels and I was running out of ways to be inconspicuously rude.”

“No about…falling asleep. I know you had…” Plans? Expectations? They’d never really talked about what Our Side would mean. “…you had hopes, for our first day, you know, free.”

“And every one of them is being fulfilled right now,” Aziraphale said, with such sincerity that Crowley started to smile. “Ah, I lied. Now all of them are being fulfilled.” He took Crowley’s hands in his. “Just standing here, talking to you, not worrying about who might see us, it’s more than I ever thought would be possible. I am perfectly content as we are.” He frowned suddenly. “Except that your hands are freezing.”

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale wrapped his hands around the demon’s, rubbing them, trying to warm them up. It certainly did make him feel better, and not just because his fingers had been a little numb from the way he’d slept.

“I was actually worried…” Aziraphale started again, still staring at their hands. “Oh, I assume you have your own, er, hopes. Since you’ve been thinking about this so much longer than I. We should probably discuss that, but, well, just to warn you, I haven’t thought much about…that is, I’m not sure that I want…ohhh…”

Crowley lifted one hand to tilt Aziraphale’s face up, to look into his eyes. The heat of it was almost unbearable. “I haven’t really thought about it either,” he confessed. “Never thought we’d make it this far. Everything from this point on is just a pleasant surprise.” With his other hand, he squeezed the angel’s fingers gently. “I don’t think I’d say no to more of this, though.”

Aziraphale blushed, the heat of it rushing to fill every space inside Crowley, and his eyes dropped briefly. “Your hand is still freezing,” he finally said, pulling away with a smile. He bustled across the shop to pick up his coat. “I know, let’s go for a walk. It’s a nice, warm day. We can feed the ducks in St. James’s Park…No. Let’s do something different. Something daring.” There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he turned back. “Let’s feed the ducks in Regent’s Park.”

It was indeed a gloriously warm day, and they spent over five hours exploring every path in London’s third-largest park while a small sign sat in the bookshop window reading Out to Lunch – Back in a Jiffy.

Every once in a while, Aziraphale’s hot hand found its way into Crowley’s cold one. Again and again, until it felt completely natural.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

It had been three weeks since the world had ended and begun again, everything ticking along nicely as Aziraphale liked to stay. Crowley caught himself thinking more like Aziraphale these days, which was both worrying and wonderful.

Except that any time Crowley was indoors, he felt lethargic, cold, a little cranky. Aziraphale had miracled up a thick scarf in grey tartan. It was hideous and embarrassing and he wore it all the time even though it didn’t really help. He knew what the tartan gifts meant.

He took more hot baths than he ever had in his life, including the years he’d spent living in Bath. He soaked until he felt lightheaded, feverish even, and bundled himself up to try and trap in the heat.

Yet still, an hour later, he huddled in his seat, shivering, unable to concentrate on a game of chess, or even draughts.

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" Aziraphale asked as Crowley moved his black piece forward.

"Stop asking me that. I know how to play this, I've been beating you for centuries." He glared at the angel sitting comfortably in his armchair.

Two weeks ago, Aziraphale had summoned his favorite seat into Crowley's study, across the desk from that ridiculous throne. Despite his complaints, at the time he'd welcomed the idea of the angel being as comfortable in his space as Crowley was in the bookshop. Of sharing all those idle moments as he had dreamed for so long. Of finally opening his life enough to make room for the only other being that mattered.

Now, he couldn't help thinking how awful the chair looked, how it clashed with his decor, with his whole flat, how much he hated the way Aziraphale smirked as he picked up one red piece and, there he goes again, captured every single one of Crowley's in a rapid series of jumps.

Really should have seen that coming.

"Well, my dear," Aziraphale folded his hands. "Shall we try for best seven out thirteen, or should we switch to something more your speed? Naughts and Crosses, perhaps?"

With a sweep of his arm, Crowley knocked the board and pieces off the desk, scattering them across the floor.

"Crowley!"

The demon didn't respond. He didn't have the energy to respond - every muscle in his body screamed to just stretch out and rest.

He walked into the next room, where the heat lamps over the plants kept the air at nearly 40 degrees. All but the most tropical had already withered, and even the few remaining trembled at his approach, knowing they weren't up to his exacting standards. But he wasn't here to berate them, just to try and soak in some of the heat.

"Crowley? My dear, are you quite alright?"

He leaned against the counter, trying to will his shoulders to relax, his stomach to unknot, his brain to start functioning again. He didn't even notice Aziraphale's approach, until the too-hot hand landed on his shoulder.

"DON'T!" Without thinking, Crowley spun, shoving the angel away with all his strength. "Don't touch me, don't come near me, don't even speak to me, you arrogant sod!"

Then he tore off the tartan scarf and threw it into the corner.

Over 6,000 years, Crowley and Aziraphale had had many fights.

The everyday ones, the endless bickering and teasing, they both knew never to take to heart.

The truly fierce ones, a request for Holy Water, and a plan to run away - these had nearly shattered them, yet they'd still understood, on some level, that each wanted what was best.

The argument that night was like nothing they'd ever experienced. All the bitter pettiness of their daily arguments, but with every ounce of ferocity Crowley could muster.

Later, as he lay on the ceiling, shivering in the heat, Crowley replayed every word, crystal clear in his mind, hoping that at least the burn of his shame could warm him up.

It wasn't anger. It was lashing out.

Crowley was afraid. Something was wrong, and he didn't know what.

Crowley couldn't get warm.

He tried wearing more layers.

He tried wearing fewer layers.

Eating hot food.

Lying under a tree.

Lying in direct sunlight.

Finally, there was only one conclusion he could reach.

“I’m cold-blooded.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Aziraphale sniffed. His ego was still somewhat bruised from their argument, but he was clearly making an effort.

They sat facing each other across the café table, opposite sides. Aziraphale had ordered a slice of warm pie with ice cream melting down the sides. A second fork sat, waiting for Crowley, and the angel kept giving it significant looks, but the demon wouldn’t unwrap his hands from the enormous cup of coffee he’d ordered, the largest they served.

Aziraphale sighed and folded his hands. “Crowley, dear. I know the…transition to our new life hasn’t been as smooth as we hoped, and we’ve both said things we regret, but I’ve never felt that you were –”

“No, Aziraphale.” He took a sip of coffee. It was something American-style, hot and bitter and lacking any particular flavor. He didn’t care. He just needed absurd quantities of near-boiling liquid. “I mean it literally. Somehow, after the Apocalypse, I became cold-blooded. I can’t get warm no matter what I do.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punchline of an unfunny joke. “That’s simply impossible. How many times have you told me off for making those assumptions, just because you used to be a snake? You have a mammal body, and it does…mammal things,” he waved his hands to indicate that he still wasn’t completely caught up on modern science classifications, “including being warm…”

He trailed off as Crowley reached across the table, taking his hand. Even after being wrapped around the hot ceramic mug, it still wouldn’t feel right. “What are you always saying these days?”

“That your hands are freezing.” Aziraphale shook his head. “It can’t be true. That’s not proof…”

Crowley gestured to the plate. “I can’t eat because my stomach is too cold to work. When I do eat, I have to lay down because any extra movement takes away energy I need for digestion.” He tugged at the tartan scarf, back around his neck where it belonged. “Extra layers don’t help, because they just insulate me from the warm air. Blankets don’t help because I’m not creating enough heat on my own. Even turning up the thermostat doesn’t help because this blessed body is made to shed heat, not retain it.” He stared into his mug of coffee. “I can’t move when I’m cold. I can’t move when I’m hot. Sunlight helps for a little while, but the days are getting shorter.” He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, knowing what he was about to say would make the angel pull away, wishing it wasn't true. “I…I don’t think I like being touched anymore.”

He didn’t fight it when the hand vanished, taking its warmth with it. Crowley just slumped, closing his eyes in defeat.

The squeal of chair legs against hard floor made him glance up. Aziraphale had moved to sit beside him, pulling his chair as close as he could.

Carefully, Crowley leaned his head to the side, resting it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, letting their bodies press together. It was easier this way, a sort of passive contact, unrestrained, letting the heat flow between them.

“Are you…” He could hear the way the breath caught in Aziraphale’s throat. “You seem so certain. Is there any chance you’re wrong? Any other explanation?”

Crowley gently shook his head, letting it wobble back and forth on the angel’s shoulder. “This is how it felt when I was a snake. You don’t forget something like that.”

“At least now you know. Surely what you learned from being a snake can help you navigate…”

“I looked it up,” Crowley muttered. “A snake can handle a range of fifteen, twenty degrees easily. Human body…a little more than one degree. At 35 I’m freezing to death, at 38 I’m burning up from the inside. I don’t even know how I’ve lasted this long.” He pressed himself even closer into Aziraphale’s side. Half of him was still cold, even as his shoulder and his thigh screamed in the heat. It wouldn’t balance properly. “It’s going to kill me.”

He felt the tension all through Aziraphale’s body. “Crowley, no!”

“Fine, it’s going to get me discorporated, and I’ll wake up in Hell, and they’ll kill me.”

“There must be something we can do.”

“Maybe. It’s getting harder to concentrate every day.”

“Then I’ll look for a solution.” He offered his hand and Crowley grabbed it, grateful for the almost-too-hot touch. “I might as well, since I’m responsible.”

“What are you talking about, Angel?”

“Your body was fine, then I used it and…it must be something I did.”

“Don’t say that.” He pulled away enough to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “This isn’t your fault. I agreed to switch bodies, I knew there was some risk. And I don’t think you could have caused this. Somehow this is Heaven or Hell, still interfering with our lives.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, nodding. Crowley wasn’t sure if he really believed it or not. “Still. If this was done to you, there must be some way to undo it. And if there’s a way, I will find it.” He swallowed, turning to look at their linked hands. “But, in the meantime…It’s probably best if you turn back into a snake.”

“No!” Crowley all but shouted, anger mixing with fear. “No, Aziraphale I won’t. That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Isn’t it better than dying?”

He clenched his jaw, biting back his reply. He honestly wasn’t sure it was. An eternity as a serpent, no driving, no music, no wines, no gardening, no feeding ducks, no holding hands…

Crowley twined his fingers through Aziraphale’s, lifting up the hand clasp between them. “I fought…We fought…so long for this. I can’t just…I won’t give this up. I won’t, Angel.”

“You’re not giving anything up,” Aziraphale insisted. He brushed his lips across Crowley’s fingers and, oh, add something else to the list of things he wasn’t willing to lose. “I will still be here. My feelings for you won’t change at all.”

“They’ll probably change a little,” Crowley pointed out.

“I want to spend every day with you, talk with you, see you happy. And it doesn’t matter if you’re scaled or human or turn into a fish, that’s not going to change.”

“I won’t be happy.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But please. Give me the time I need to save you.”

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale, letting the angel do the same back, even though part of his mind screamed and squirmed to escape the heat of contact. He told himself this wouldn’t be the last time.

Crowley was warm.

He stretched out in his favorite basking spot by the window, feeling the winter sunlight play across his scales, heating him up. Oh, there were heat lamps tucked in the corners for when he needed them, but nothing beat the feel of real sunlight.

Every now and again, the door would open, a customer hoping to browse for a Christmas gift. The rumble of footsteps through his belly woke him, and he reared up his head, tongue flicking out to catch the scent of the blurry shape by the entryway.

Almost every time, the visitor took one look at the enormous red-bellied black snake and vanished soon after.

The hours ticked by, slow and sweet, like drops of honey. Crowley was aware that he should be filling them with fast-paced reckless activities of some form, but he couldn’t quite recall what…just a general sense of dissatisfaction.

Still, whatever he had lost, the best was still here.

When he’d drunk his fill of warmth, he twisted his way through the shop, sliding around stacks of books and potted plants (hissing at the ones that didn’t seem to be growing well enough). There, at the desk, sat the angel.

Aziraphale was rarely anywhere else these days. Bent over old grimoires, reading glasses balanced on his nose, pile of notes beside him. He hadn’t glanced up for any of the customers. Three cups full of cold tea sat beside him. He hadn’t even risen to get a new one in a while.

A pair of folded-up sunglasses sat in one corner of the desk. He never picked them up, but sometimes touched them as he worked.

Crowley twisted around his leg, climbing, finding his way along the chair and across the shoulders until he was draped across Aziraphale, watching him work.

“Hello, my dear. How was your day?”

Crowley hissed dismissively. One day was the same as another for a snake. “Progressss?”

“I’m close. I really think I’m close.” His voice was just a rumble, rising from his chest through Crowley’s belly, distorted, missing half the notes. He couldn’t pick up on the nuance, couldn’t tell if it was a lie or not. Just like he couldn’t see all of Aziraphale’s face at once, just the jaw, the little smile, the rest curving away in the distance.

“Ssssupper,” Crowley reminded him. The angel needed lots of reminders.

“Oh, no, I don’t think so. I really want to keep at this a bit longer.”

“Resssst.”

He held up his hands before him, letting Crowley slither from one to the next without trying to grasp. There was something about hands, something important. It was just on the edge of his memory, but snakes don’t have hands. It slipped away.

“No, I can’t rest yet. Not until…no.”

“Pleassssssse.”

“I can take a small break, but no dinner. I’m not hungry, anyway.”

When Crowley was coiled back around his shoulders, Aziraphale stood up, walking across to the little secluded corner of the shop. This was another important area, though Crowley couldn’t exactly remember why. He thought it involved a lot of sitting, drinking…water? Not water. He forgot what he used to drink.

The angel fiddled with his collection of round discs. “How about some Vivaldi, since it’s almost Christmas? You always liked his Seasons.” Crowley nodded.

He couldn’t really hear the music. Noises on the air meant nothing to a snake.

But once Aziraphale was stretched out on the sofa, Crowley made himself comfortable on his chest, and felt the deep thrum of the music as the angel sang along.

Warmth rose from Aziraphale, too, just like from the sun. It was a different kind of heat. Purer. Better.

Whatever else he had lost, Crowley still had that. And he was content.

Aziraphale collapsed across the sofa, head and shoulders wedged into the corner, too exhausted to even keep himself upright. The long black serpent lay on his stomach, watching him intently.

“Oh, Crowley,” he tried to keep his voice steady, despite the tears he could no longer hold in. “You were wrong. It was my fault. I’ve – I’ve worked it out now. Obvious, really. Serpent. Human. Two corporations, woven together.” His voice started to crack. “When we changed places I…I sort of dropped a corner. Let one bleed into the other. I – I’m so sorry.”

Crowley took a moment, processing this. “Accccident.”

“Yes, but I…” He held out a hand. Crowley didn’t like to be scratched, or petted, or held. But he did glide across the hand, bringing his snout closer to the angel’s tear-streaked face. “I could have killed you, Crowley. I could have destroyed you over something so…so foolishly simple. You must hate me.”

“No. Nevvver.”

He wiped furiously at his eyes with his free hand. They itched with fatigue as they never had before. “I’m almost there, Crowley. Just a little more. I can see where I dropped it. I can see how to separate them again. I just…just need to figure out how to secure the ends, so it doesn’t happen again.” The sobs broke through again. “I’m nearly there, my love. I’m nearly there.”

“Resssst.”

“I can’t. Not when I’m so close. Crowley I…I need you back. I want to see you human again. And I know you hate this, I won’t leave you in this form a moment longer than necessary, I just…”

“Ssssleeep.” Crowley retreated, coiling up on Aziraphale’s chest. “Ssssleeep. Lovvvve. Sssssleeeep.”

Aziraphale drifted off under that watchful golden gaze, allowing his mind the rest it needed to put the last few pieces together.

Crowley couldn’t get warm.

The angel had spent the morning carving lines and curves deep into the wooden floor, until Crowley could feel every scratch and dip through the sensitive skin of his belly. Now the angel was trying to keep him at the center of the pattern, while he ran around the edge doing – something.

There was a heat lamp, but it was too far away. Why wasn’t he under it?

Crowley started sliding across the floor, coiling and uncoiling in the direction of that delicious, life-giving heat –

The angel suddenly loomed before him, hands flapping. “No, no! I told…the center…few more minutes.”

A few minutes? Crowley was cold now. He wound to the side, planning to dart around, but the angel’s feet suddenly shifted, coming down sharply in his path.

Startled, Crowley reared up, nearly as tall as the angel, to hisssss from his maximum height, head flattened, vision suddenly clear enough to see the angel’s face: eyes wide, jaw tight. Frightened. Crowley gave another hisssss, hoping that would be enough to scare the interloper away, clear a path to the heat.

But the angel merely raised his hands, moving more slowly this time. “…sorry, my…adjust the lamp…break the circle now…start all over…” The words were murky, distorted, most of them too low or soft to be perceived. “…explained…ten minutes ago…remember?”

Ten minutes? That was a long time.

No, no it wasn’t. The cold was just making his mind fuzzy again. He gave another longing look at the heat lamp, then at another, further away, tucked safely in a corner where he could bask and hide. He felt exposed, anxious, very much in danger. What if this was some kind of trap?

Then he looked again at the angel’s face. Not frightened. Worried. Sad. Tired.

Crowley trusted Aziraphale. He couldn’t remember precisely why, but it was undeniable – a deep, profound trust. If Aziraphale said he had to stay here, stay he would.

“Fasssssster,” Crowley grumbled, and twisted back to where he’d been before. A moment later, the light from the heat lamp grew a little warmer. Still not quite enough, but better.

Two more slow circuits around the marks on the floor, adjusting things and muttering, and finally the angel sat down, facing Crowley. He held out his arms, but Crowley was in no mood to be handled, pulling back into his coils.

“I need…preferably your face.” Crowley flicked his tongue, but otherwise didn’t move. “Please…”

Reluctantly, the black and red snake moved closer, lifted his head until the angel could cup his jaw with burning-hot hands. He didn’t like it and nearly pulled away, fighting the urge to retreat.

Necessary, this is necessary. He tried to relax into the contact, tried to pretend it didn’t feel wrong.

The angel’s blue eyes fluttered shut; Crowley could just make out the tense wrinkles forming in his brow, but the stiffness in the fingers around the snake’s jaw was unmistakable. It wasn’t enough to be painful, but it was close. Crowley’s back half twisted and writhed as if ready to pull away, even while he focused his entire being on keeping his head still. Necessary. Trust him. It’s necessary.

Finally, the angel’s hands fell away, and he dropped back, breathing heavily. His eyes opened and he smiled. “…finished.”

Good.

Crowley turned and slithered under the heat lamp, stretching out for maximum comfort.

Just as he was settling in for a good late-morning nap, the angel appeared beside him again. “…you hear…finished…”

Now what? Perhaps he should go find one of the more secluded lamps, to avoid interruptions.

“…fixed you…”

Shrugging off the nap for the moment, Crowley raised his head just enough to tip it to the side. Fixed…?

The angel knelt at the edge of the heat lamp’s warmth, and spoke again, much louder. “…fixed…change back…”

Crowley tilted his head the other way. Change back…?

“Human! Crowley, human.”

It all came back in a rush. Arms. Legs. Hands. Drinking strange red water, watching birds swim, moving very fast in a large black box which made the angel very angry – human.

He reared up again.

Nothing changed.

“Hhhhhow?”

The angel shook his head, mouth working, but Crowley couldn’t hear a sound. He pushed closer, far closer than was comfortable, until the heat pits of his face were filled with the angel’s warmth, until he could see the tears gathering in blue eyes.

Crowley focused on those eyes, that shape, on every part of his life in human form that he could still make sense of.

Still no change.

Hissing with frustration, he abandoned the warmth of the heat lamp, shooting away to weave among the plants, drape himself across the sofa, even nudge his face at an open book.

No effect at all.

He couldn’t remember how to change back.

As he circled the shop again – feeling his energy sap away in the cold – he noticed the angel sitting once again at his desk. Crowley climbed up his leg, across his back, draped over his shoulders and around his chest. Felt the pure warmth, cleaner and sweeter than sunlight.

The angel wasn’t working now, of course; his chair was pointed away from the desk, as if to avoid even looking at the piles of paper. He clutched something in his hands, shoulders heaving, chest shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry…I tried…I tried so hard, but I couldn’t…I’m too late.” The voice was a little clearer now, rumbling through Crowley’s belly.

“Sssshhhhhh,” Crowley comforted as best he could, trying to nestle his head on the angel’s arms. It wasn’t a gesture he was comfortable with, but he could remember now that arms, hands, were important. Perhaps if he could get closer…

“If I hadn’t been so foolish…oh, my love…I failed you…”

But Crowley wasn’t listening. He was looking at what the angel held in his hands. He was looking at –

“Glassssssesss.”

“Wh – what?”

“Glassssess.” Crowley nudged at the angel’s hands until they parted, revealing a pair of black lenses held by silver frames. “Pleassse. Glassessss.”

It wasn’t easy to put a pair of sunglasses onto a snake’s head, even one so large as Crowley. They dangled rather uselessly down either side of his jaw, the lenses didn’t exactly cover his eyes, and where they did the world became a murky black soup he had no hope of seeing. But it felt…right.

He turned, trying to face the angel, but somehow lost his balance and tumbled to the floor.

“Crowley? Are you…Crowley?”

The voice was too crisp, too sharp, to rich. It was startling.

He shook his head and hissed, but it sounded strange. Thick. His tongue couldn’t get out because there were too many teeth.

Crowley blinked. Not because he had to, but because he suddenly realized he had eyelids.

A hand drifted over and adjusted the glasses, settling them correctly over the ears and across the nose – no that was his hand, his fingers.

His eyes slowly panned up and he was shocked at how clearly he could see the angel standing over him, looking more pale, more drawn, and just a bit thinner than he remembered, clothes a rumpled mess, eyes red.

“Aziraphale?”

“Crowley!”

Two arms suddenly around his shoulders, pulling him up onto legs he barely remembered how to use, wrapping around him, pulling him into the indescribable softness of Aziraphale’s embrace. It took him a moment to remember that he had arms of his own, that he could twist them, twine them, pull Aziraphale even closer.

He could still feel Aziraphale’s warmth pressing into his chest and stomach, but it no longer felt like a blazing fire, or the strange glow of life-giving heat. It was simply a body, pressed close to his. Two bodies trembling, shaking, shoulders heaving, breath ragged.

Aziraphale was still crying, still mumbling apologies into the demon’s shoulder.

Crowley was laughing.

They didn’t let each other go for a long, long time.

Crowley was warm.

No, Crowley was happy.

It wasn’t as easy to fit both bodies on the sofa in this form, but they managed – Aziraphale stretched out, Crowley, lying across his chest, legs in a tangle, head tucked against his throat, listening to the sigh of breath, the rumble of heartbeat.

They hadn’t talked about it. Aziraphale had finally admitted to being tired, and they just found themselves here as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I suppose I’ve gotten used to this,” murmured Aziraphale, who never used to lie on his own sofa, trembling fingers tracing through Crowley’s hair.

“I’m used to it, too,” he mumbled back, but used to it didn’t begin to describe it. This was right, this was home, and he knew it was more than a leftover serpentine instinct to bask that had brought him here, that would keep bringing him here for as long as Aziraphale would allow it.

Aziraphale’s right hand was still twined with Crowley’s left, resting on the angel’s chest. Crowely couldn’t stop studying it, turning it, running his thumb across fingers and knuckles and nails. He could feel more than just heat now, he could feel the softness, the rough callus on the side of one finger where Aziraphale rested his pencil as he wrote, the faint hard edges of papercuts. It was an entire world to explore, that hand, full of more wonder than Crowley had ever suspected.

“Might be more comfortable in a bed,” Aziraphale whispered, clearly already on the edge of sleep.

“I’ve got a bed,” Crowley said idly, still looking at the broken edges of Aziraphale’s nails. He’d never seen them like that before. Aziraphale had kept them perfectly manicured since the invention of manicures. “Lots of space, too. More than I can use. But then, all my plants are already here…” He trailed off, realizing what he was saying.

“Mmh,” was Aziraphale’s only reply. The fingers combing through Crowley’s hair were now almost still.

“S’alright, Angel. You rest. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Notes for Americans: Draughts is checkers, and Naughts and Crosses is Tic-Tac-Toe. All temperatures are in Celsius, and I hope I have them accurate.

Snake notes: I am not a herpetologist (reptile/amphibian scientist) but my cousin is, and he provided some notes on snake behavior and biology, which I've used here and elsewhere in my writing, though my attempts to render ectothermic traits onto a warm-blooded body are entirely my own.

Some fans like to HC Crowley as cold-blooded in all his forms, which is fine, but it certainly means more than just "he's a little chilly when it's cold out"! I have a full list for if I ever want to do a cold-blooded-Crowley story, but not all of them made it into this one. Relevant points include: - Ectotherms need to bask to get their heat up to a comfortable temperature before any major activity - Digesting food is a long, slow process. Snakes prefer to rest somewhere warm and safe while this happens - Bundling up can help retain heat (snake sweaters!) but only if the snake is already hot to begin with - Snakes can only actually be safely away from their heat lamps for half an hour or so (depending on ambient temperature) - Torpor is a sort of involuntary state of reduced metabolism that ectotherms enter when it gets too cold. Various other terms also apply, depending on how long the period is, and how intense the cold, but keep in mind - INVOLUNTARY. - Snakes do not like to be touched, handled or contained. Snakes are just not comfortable with physical contact the way mammals are, though they will tolerate it if you stay within the right boundaries - Do not startle a snake.

Thank you all for reading! This was originally from my Christmas Prompt fic, “Boundless Love.” I’ll post the link in the comments!

#great good omens snake-off #good omens fanfiction #crowley #snek crowley #angst with a happy ending #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #aziraphale and crowley #My writing #ectotherm #boundless love #aziraphale #aziraphale to the rescue #protective aziraphale #hurt crowley

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erideights · 5 years

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Through history to get to you. (2)

Summary: Reader's an angel casted out of heaven because, well, she's weird. She's in love with Crowley and, of course Crowley is in love with her. Our poor Aziraphale is just fucking tired of seeing how neither of them realize the feelings of the other.

Part one: here

Pairing: Crowley x Angel!Reader (Good Omens)

Word Count: 3219

Warnings: None, I think.

A/N: Okay so I actually have to wipe out some details because tumblr said it was too long to post it. Bitch, wtf? I've seen fics with 8K but yeah, you do you. For the record, I could (and I would love to) write a 3rd part if you guys like this so, let's go!

What for any human being were seconds, for him seemed like hours.

The hours days, and the days weeks.

How could such a vain human feeling as that one destroy his world piece by piece and rebuild it upside down?

His heart was beating so hard inside his chest he truthfully believed it would come out of it at any moment.

But yeah, often, —from time to time—, Crowley also remembered past times, crucial moments in his life.

Crucial moments with her.

How each interaction by her side throughout history had achieved the impossible: to fall in love with her a bit more, a bit deeper, every-single-fucking-day.

41 AD, we find ourselves again in the large and great Rome, its taverns still full and its people enjoying the wealth of their lives, but this time, the perspective of the universe will turn 180 degrees and will present us his point of view.

Just nipped in for a quick temptation, he thought, a simple job, going in and out, enjoying the best concoction he could buy and leaving as he had come; without friends, without insubstantial talks of any kind with drinking companions or beautiful ladies to enjoy a night of pleasure.

He would leave the same way he came there; alone.

Having clear his priorities and how events would develop, he should add that the presence of Aziraphale didn’t surprise him. Not at all. They had the strange tendency to meet once every certain number of years and exchange a couple words, like two old friends who meet in the darkness of the night to become a distant memory when the sun rises.

However, he saw her.

A young woman with long hair, smooth and immaculate skin and so bright, Crowley could confuse her with one of the many stars that he, before falling into darkness and the shelter from Hell, helped to build.

Not only did she stand out for her colorful choice of attire, which he no doubt saw reflected in him, but for her presence; It gave the impression that she could change the world if she wanted with a single smile of hers.

But Crowley didn’t see her smile, not yet.

She nipped her bottom lip nervously, eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s, who after inviting the demon to eat, had excused himself for a second without giving reasons. Without saying why.

She was the why, or so Crowley guessed, taking a long sip of the drink in his hand to hide a small, amused grin behind his pottery; what could it be that would hysterise so much the nerves of that beautiful woman?

He was dying to know it, and long before he had even known her name, he was already thinking of her with more interest than, perhaps, he should.

1538, oh, the beautiful Venice during the heyday of the Renaissance in Italy, what a joyful time for artists, aristocrats, noble European families with their ornate clothes and eccentric homes.

Its intricate canals were full of life, of gondolas with lanterns as companions and lovers enjoying the calm offered by the night while the musician, unknown to his people but key to the romantic atmosphere that reigned there, dedicated his poems and songs to the most beautiful of the ladies, the one who lived in his memory, who stole his heart and prevented his rest when trying to sleep.

Oh, Venice, cruel your final sentence, the destruction that awaited you behind the darkest corner, because a demon without bad intentions but with a job to fulfill walked for your cobbled streets and through your low buildings, the smell of salt flooding his nostrils and filling his lungs until exhale a deep sigh that would be lost in the night air.

He couldn’t help but think that scenario would have been to the liking of his friend, the book-loving angel, because if he wasn’t misinformed, the magnificent city housed the first public library in all Europe. He could already hear Aziraphale eager about all the books he could read during his stay, or see reflected in his eyes the affection that the celestial being professed towards all the knowledge of the universe stored in those leather covers full of sheets of paper.

He’d thought of her, too. Crowley always thought about Y/N when visiting a new city, how he would enjoy walking hand in hand with her when discovering the hidden beauty in its streets or hearing her melodious voice, probably excited to discover a new artist to idolize; she loved art.

The problem was that each and every time he was thinking about her in that way, he felt disgusted with himself. He hated it. He hated that warm feeling that spread from his heart to every one of his nerves when he thought of her, when he met her soft gaze or, when by chance, he felt the brush of her fingers on his skin.

He hated love.

He was a demon, for fuck’s sake! He shouldn’t be able to feel love. He shouldn’t want to feel love. He shouldn’t even think about love.

But there he was, making a fool of himself whenever he could be with her.

He hated it, but at the same time, He needed it. He needed her.

Melody of soft, sweet violins then slid through the air and between the voices of those who walked down the avenue to reach the demon, who with slow but sure steps was heading towards his destination, ready to start the mission assigned to him and be able to move quickly to another place. Or enjoy the experiences Venice could give him, whatever first seemed to crave his exquisite persona.

A huge mansion stood out among all the houses at the end of the road, its eccentric facade screaming loudly that it belonged to Italian nobility that little wanted to leave to the imagination of others; showing off was a luxury that not everyone could enjoy. And so, its tall and ornate doors, wide open so that everyone could look inside, let the light escape from it to illuminate the street, successfully attracting the gazes of children, families, onlookers and other spectators who, by chance, passed by.

Two vast guards, whose clothes gave the impression of imitating the fates of The Death, made sure that no one who didn’t have an invitation could go inside.

Crowley, for example, was one of those people not invited to the party, but bold of anyone to assume something like that could stop him, because with a small, subtle and smug smirk adorning his lips and a snap of his fingers, both guards nodded at once and stepped aside, imitating for him a small corridor to get to the inside.

But that smile? Vanished from the moment he put a single foot in that place, feeling his whole body assaulted by a violent shiver that ran from head to toe and held his breath for more seconds than he would have wished.

He knew by heart that feeling, and from the moment he felt it ruffling his skin, he knew he was fucked up and that, most likely, he wouldn’t accomplish his mission. It couldn’t be that easy, right?

A deep and heavy sigh, followed by a shake of his head, accompanied him to the true interior of the luxurious home, crowded to the unthinkable by hundreds of people of high social status in the Italian community, their faces hidden behind masks of thousands of colors and different forms, their bodies, at the same time, wrapped in clothes, jackets and dresses of an exquisite quality that of course, matched the theme of each of their costumes.

A venetian masquerade wasn’t exactly the best scenario to search and identify someone from among all of its guests, but soon his slitted eyes scanned the huge room with hysteria running his veins and an iron pressure tightening his mischievous heart.

The positive side of all that? His mask —black, with golden and red details; what an unexpected surprise— fitted perfectly to a large part of his face, making unnecessary the use of sunglasses so that his peculiar eyes didn’t draw attention to him and, therefore, helping being able to see perfectly normal in the dim light of the hundreds of candles that illuminated the ballroom.

Couples dancing to the tune of the tender melody were gathered in the center of this one, the rest occupied by groups that chatted lively, young men waiting their turn to dance with the lady of their dreams and some more… unfortunate, who only dreamed from their corner with a glass of champagne between his fingers and his sad expression hidden behind a venetian mask.

Some collide against him, too absorbed in his search to bother to dodge people or find a safer route to move, but would he apologize? Never. Not only because Crowley hadn’t apologized in his entire life, but because he didn’t see it necessary to do so. After all, the reason for his hasty movements was far more important than anything that those idiots could ever imagine.

However, when he saw her, everything stopped.

Even his heart.

She had her back to him, her beautiful silky hair pulled back in a high bun that left a pair of curls falling down her shoulders, one on each side, towards her chest.

She wore an apple-green dress with white and gold details here and there, the tight corset making it inevitable to notice right away her beautiful body and the huge skirt attached to it, giving her the look of a gorgeous european princess.

No, from his perspective he couldn’t get to see her whole face, —he barely reached part of it thanks to a couple movements of her head—, but he knew it was Y/N.

There was no doubt.

She laughed, chatting with those she supposed were acquaintances of the angel and the cause and reason why she was there, that among all the times, among the hundreds of masked dances that Venice was witnessing, she was there, the same day, in the same place as him.

Oh, destiny was some capricious bitch and he ended up being a mere puppet that would dance to its tune.

Clearing his throat by positioning himself just behind her —so close that he would only have to put his hands on her waist and turn her around to finally kiss her— he successfully attracted the attention of those around them, who gave away strange glances at the demon; some confused, others suspicious, others distrustful.

The one Y/N gave him when she turned around and their eyes met for the first time in some years was the only one that really mattered.

Her hypnotic eyes, behind that mask that so gracefully embraced her sweet features from the middle of her forehead to below her eyes, opened wide recognizing the gold ones of Crowley, who without thinking twice, took the left hand of the girl, lifted it to his lips and left a kiss right on its back.

"May I have this dance?" He asked, more like a mockery for those presumptuous around him than as a formal request to the angel in front of him. It was easy to appreciate how his eyebrows were raised upwards in the slightest in a subtle grin and how that small and mischievous smirk that she loved so much was partially hidden only by the back of her hand that he still held against himself, and before she could prevent it, that same expression was drawn in her own features, hopelessly excited to find him in that kind of situation.

‘’I’ll be damned.’’ she answered in an incredulous, playful whisper, the demon the only being that could get to clearly hear her and, therefore, tearing a low and attractive chuckle from his throat as a result. She thought she was gonna melt in that very moment.

Saying that, Crowley rose from his bow and, pulling her hand, he led the girl —who didn’t have time to say goodbye to her company— to the center of the room, avoiding the rest of the guests as much as possible and when they arrived, the demon separated the angel from him, throwing her gently in the opposite direction to attract her to his body just a second later in graceful and elegant move thanks to the grip he had in her hand, making the chest of Y/N softly collide with his own.

In the blink of an eye, Crowley's free hand was at her waist and hers, on his shoulder, an amused expression adorning her face. ''I thought demons didn’t know how to dance.'' She teased, raising an eyebrow, her eyes fixed on his at absolutely every moment.

''I thought angels didn’t dance at all.'' he remarked in a flash, as arrogant as always, rocking the girl to the sound of the music that echoed between the walls of the room.

‘’Touché.’’

Not that much passed in silence between them until Crowley raised his voice again, trying to relieve the tension that was gradually forming inside his chest because, of course, she didn’t feel the same. Or so he thought.

Also, not looking at her lips having her so close to him and without his sunglasses that could conceal such act became more difficult each passing second. ''Are you going to tell me what are you doing here or will I have to take a guess myself?'’

''The question is not what I’m doing here,'' she said firmly, twirling in the demon's arms as the rest of the ladies swiveled in the ones of their partners as if that were a choreography with hundreds of dancers in perfect synchrony, only that in her case, when she resumed her position, her voice became just an audible whisper that went straight to the ear of the ginger, the soft velvet of his ornate jacket caressing the palm of her hand when gently pulling it towards herself to bring him closer to her. ''but what are you up to, Crowley. Nothing good, I assume.''

The hit of her breath against his skin and the seductive tone the woman used made every hair on his body stand up and his breath trapped at the beginning of his throat, unable to fight her words with some intelligent and sarcastic comment for his part.

He could only watch, in silence, as Y/N parted a couple inches to be face to face with him again, a smirk on her lips as she knew, she’d won that round.

‘’Touché.’’

Nowadays. Again. Almost 500 years later.

''Crowley?'' Her voice echoed through the walls of the luxurious flat while the front door —its white glass showing a dim light inside— opened wide, braking just before reaching the back wall. ''I just saw your message, is everything okay?''

Not too many minutes ago she’d received a "strange" message from the demon asking her to go to his apartment as soon as possible, making the angel inevitably frown, worried, and teleport there with a simple snap of her fingers.

The strange thing definitely wasn’t him sending her a message, but everything else. It was 2 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday night, there hadn’t been any serious event that required her attention —or so she thought— and in general, it was Crowley who always, no matter what time, was looking for an excuse to drive his beloved car through the streets of London to the destination he wanted.

That it was she who should move this time was... odd.

The only source of light in the room was a small lamp placed on the huge red marble table that occupied the center of it, which barely came to illuminate enough to know if she was or not alone there.

She didn’t have to raise her voice again, anyway, because the ornate throne next to the table slid back carefully and the demon could be perfectly made out from the rest of the shadows in the room.

‘’I’m sorry.’’ It was the first and only thing Crowley said once he turned around and fixed his gaze —which seemed to shine with its own light— on Y/N, who astonished, raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips in a thin and incredulous expression; it was the first time in her life that she’d listened him ask for forgiveness, no matter what or whom.

''What are you sorry for, hm? What have you done now?'' She asked in her usual playful tone, waiting for the most elaborate and mind blowing response ever from the redhead.

But it never came.

He moved quickly to erase the distance between them and without stopping to reconsider his next step, —although she could swear, she saw a glimpse of doubt and fear in his eyes—, Crowley took her face with both hands to caress her cheeks and kissed her right away, giving her all he got.

No, it wasn’t tender, romantic or typical for the first kiss you give to your first love. It was hungry, animal, passionate, needy and desperate, as if he’d waited his entire life to be able to taste her lips and lose himself in them while his heart hammered his chest and deafened his ears.

In fact, that was exactly what happened.

And he didn’t expect Y/N to kiss him back in that very moment, because an act as impulsive as that should have shocked her to say the least, but she did, and before they could really think about what was happening, the demon had his angel cornered against the wall, her hands lost in his reddish hair and his, squeezing and pressing her hips against his own body with such force he suspected, could leave bruises on her skin.

But she didn’t mind.

His kisses were all she ever dreamed of and more, a slight taste of whiskey and coffee lingering in his mouth while doing everything possible to steal her breath and make her addicted to him; she was intoxicated, she couldn’t think of anything else.

She didn’t have time to be shocked or to ask herself the most obvious question: why now.

And that's why, when he parted just enough to lean his forehead against hers and breathe on her lips, a heavy sigh left her without any oxygen in her lungs, displaying her annoyance at the lack of his wet touch.

''Am I going too fast for you?'' He asked, the same fear she saw in his eyes minutes ago now in his voice; it was, again, the first time in his life that he looked so worried about messing something up.

His slitted, golden, demon eyes scanned her face for any sign that would make him stop, so close that the image faded irretrievably, and when in his place he found the same craving he felt in his veins, he dampened his parted lips, knowing there was no going back.

‘’If anything, you’re being too slow.’’

#good omens #crowley #crowley x reader #good omens one shots #crowley x fem!reader #good omens prime #crowley x angel!reader #good omens crowley #ineffable

517 notes · View notes

callunavulgari · 4 years

Text

TOP 25 FICS OF 2019

1. these roads will take you into your own country by @notbecauseofvictories | American Gods | Laura Moon/Mad Sweeney | WIP | 33k

Here’s a joke for you: a Muslim, a zombie, and a leprechaun walk into a bar in Misery, Indiana. No one stares, because no one in the puckered, shitty asshole of Misery, Indiana gives a fuck. The Colts are playing.

Heather Says: So. It’s funny that another of @notbecauseofvictories‘s stories is at the top of my list again this year. Keep in mind this list is sorted by when the fic was read rather than favorites (because that would get real complicated real quick). Clearly there must be something about January. There’s just something about the writing that is easy to slip into, be it a Star Wars fic or a Labyrinth fic or even a fic about Johnny and the Devil. This was lovely and I can’t wait until it’s finished.

2. eighteen wheels on an uphill climb by @honkforhankcon | Detroit: Become Human | Hank/Connor | 91k

Hank is going to die. He’s going to die right here in Kentucky, 53 years old, halfway to broke, and tragically sober. Survived only by a nine-year-old St. Bernard and the 31-year-old twink who delivered the fatal blow.

Heather Says: I don’t think that this is the first DBH fic that I sought out after beating the game, but it is the first that I loved enough to make it to this list. I didn’t think that I would go for a modern au for this fandom, certainly not a modern au wihere Hank is a truck driver and Connor is a sex worker (albeit briefly?) but here I am.

3. Fuck pride (pride only hurts, it never helps) by ImogenGotDrunk | Detroit: Become Human | RK900/Gavin Reed | 41k

After the android uprising, Connor becomes a permanent fixture in the DPD. That’s fine. Gavin can accept that. The dipshit’s more human than he used to be, and a decent detective to boot. Gavin can deal with him being around. What Gavin cannot deal with is Connor’s replica; two inches taller, blue-eyed, and with a mouth that Gavin doesn’t know whether to punch or take between his teeth. The RK900 model has been assigned as his partner for the foreseeable future.

Heather Says: I also never thought that I’d like a fic with Gavin in it. But I got curious about all the Reed900, and well, this fic really won me over. The writing is fantastic, and it softens Gavin while still keeping him believable. Also, well, I like the enemies to lovers thing.

4. Almost Cool by @blacktofade | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane | 30k

While filming the Yuma Territorial Prison episode, Shane gets bitten by what he thinks is a bat. Spoiler alert: it's not.

Heather Says: This is actually the first thing that I read for this fandom. In fact, this is the fic that got me into Buzzfeed Unsolved in the first place. I’d seen a lot of art and gifs and fics pass my way, but I was only ever slightly interested in what I saw until this fic came through my inbox and piqued my curiosity.

5. Pride by @astolat | Game of Thrones | Jaime/Brienne/Cersei | 22k

Jaime didn’t understand why Cersei suddenly insisted on trimming his hair and shaving his beard, but he also didn’t care to fight her on it, even though he’d just as soon have kept the beard: it was bitterly cold in the small tower room with its arrow-slits.

Heather Says: Wowza. This fic was intense. I’ve always loved Jaime and Brienne. I’ve loved them since the second book, which was read at least a few years before I started loving them in the show. Adding Cersei to their dynamic would have probably been almost impossible to pull off if it was anyone else, but @astolat lives to surpass my expectations.

6. Skin and Scales by Ernmark | The Penumbra Podcast | Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla | 18k

The man glares, and this time, Damien is certain it isn’t a trick of the light: those eyes are violet as amethyst. He wears disdain like a second skin–- or, perhaps, like the scales that he is missing. “Lord Arum?”

Heather Says: I was one of those people who skipped through all of the Second Citadel episodes during my first listen through of Penumbra. The stories were good, but the pull of Juno was too great. A couple months after I finished, I went back and listened to everything I didn’t. And let me tell you. Lizard monster. Honorable knight. Bookish girlfriend. Poly. It hit every single button I had and then some. This fic really hit the spot when I ran out of story.

7. someone you like by caela | She-Ra | Adora/Catra | 5k

catwithabat u think ur so hipster but u just look like a lesbian 27m she_ra @catwithabat bc… i’m a lesbian. lmao 5m

Heather Says: Noooot usually a big fan of high school fics. Namely because I’m not in high school anymore and well, after you read so many in your teenage years they sort of lose their luster. This one was phenomenal enough to change my mind.

8. Sands of Time by @tirsynni | Legend of Zelda | Ganondorf/Link | WIP | 98k

Link awakens in the desert with no idea how he got there, to encounter his worst enemy...except it was the King of the Gerudo, not the King of Evil, he faced.

Heather Says: I have seen a lot of really good Link/Ganondorf art over the years, but never really stumbled across a fic that didn’t have judicious amount of non-con involved. But the Breath of the Wild 2 trailer happened, and everybody started drawing really pretty art, so I went looking. And lo and behold, @tirsynni saved the day with this gorgeous time travel/fix-it fic.

9. killed with kindness by veterization | Persona 5 | Akechi/Akira | 52k

Goro can't quite figure out why so many people keep acting like they're his friend. (Or: the one where the Phantom Thieves decide to know thy enemy, befriend thy enemy, love thy enemy, crush on thy enemy).

Heather Says: I’ve read a couple of veterization’s fics over the years, and to date they have never disappointed me. They published this in June, and I think I clicked on it mostly because I was bored and hadn’t read any good P5 fic yet. This was basically just what the doctor ordered, and I was really happy to find something where Akechi’s story went ever so slightly different.

10. paper thin by @ebonybow | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane/Sara | 9k

Shane’s new neighbors are a morning-sex kind of couple.

Heather Says: So I went into this one knowing very little about how Sara fit into things. I didn’t know she was Shane’s girlfriend. I’d never even seen her, but I clicked because I like poly and I trust the author. I was 100% not disappointed. There’s also another fic with a very similar dynamic here, which is also aces.

11. damn.nation, now available on itunes by @kaikamahine | Good Omens | Aziraphale/Crowley | 11k

When lowly tempt-pusher Amphora (formerly of Stairwell 7B North, before she Fell,) gets the notice that end times are nigh, she gleefully quits her job and cancels her Netflix subscription and takes her place among the legions of hell. This, it turns out, was a bad plan.

Heather Says: Elizabeth may have only written one fic this year, but she made it a damn good one. I’ve always loved her OCs especially, so I was pretty tickled that this is 10k+ of outsider pov. Also, demons! Demons are great! This demon is great! I want like 9 seasons and a movie about Amphora, just saying.

12. The Dragon and Her Wolves by hapakitsune | Game of Thrones | Jon/Sansa/Daenarys | 60k

When the truth of Jon's birthright is revealed, control of the North and Daenerys's claim to the Iron Throne are both called into question. To preserve their tenuous alliance and secure her rule, Daenerys puts aside her personal feelings to arrange a marriage of political convenience between Jon and Sansa Stark.

Heather Says: What do you mean season 8 didn’t exist and the show totally ended with a three way relationship between the two most powerful women in Westeros and Jon Snow? Never been a big fan of Jon/Sansa before this, but this is another of those writers that I would literally trust if they wrote a fic about a fork and a spoon.

13. never tell me the odds by @wildehacked | Wolf 359 | Eiffel/Hera | 9k

“I tried Star Wars," he says, adjusting the phone under his neck, "and it was way underwhelming.”

A shaky breath from her end. “Well, where did you start?”

Heather Says: I don’t remember which of @wildehacked‘s fandoms I started reading first. Most recently it’s been The Magnus Archives (more on this later). The point is, they’d written Wolf 359 fic and it had Hera and Eiffel and it was literally everything that I’ve been looking for since the series ended.

14. Find Me Somebody by raiining | Good Omens | Warlock/Adam Young | 11k

“You left me,” he said. “You both left me, for him. And I can’t even blame you, because I’d have left me for him too.”

Heather Says: There was an Art. The art was lovely. So I went looking, because that’s what I do when faced with beautiful art depicting a rare pairing. And I found the holy grail. Like, possibly my favorite Good Omens fic? Ever?

15. flirting with fire by @brawlite | Stranger Things | Billy/Steve | WIP | 7k

Steve's a cop, Billy's a firefighter. It's not a grudge, it's just a regular old small town rivalry.

Heather Says: Okay so brawlite has written a lot of great stuff this year (more on that later), but I read this in bed at the beach house this August while I was reeling from both a horrible sunburn and like seven hours of mild to moderate day-drinking while everyone else was still throwing back shots right outside my bedroom door. Jaws was playing on the tv and I wasn’t even paying attention to it, because THIS. Long story short, I’ve been thirsty for more ever since.

16. gold, when you find me by mmtion | The Flash | Iris/Barry | 53k

It's not that Iris hates The Flash, per say - more that she hates writing about The Streak in a weekly, pun-heavy comic based on The Flash.

Heather Says: I never would have thought that a canon pairing would make it to my Top 25 list, but here we are. I like Iris/Barry a lot better when they don’t grow up together and spend a lot of time playing the Superman game, apparently. Also, this was really well-written, and sexual tension has never been something I’ve felt from Barry and Iris, but I felt it in this fic. Just. Damn.

17. never gets old by @brawlite & @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger| Stranger Things | Billy/Steve | 78k

Falling in love with a cam boy named KingSteve isn't the smartest thing Billy Hargrove has ever done, nor is it the most healthy -- but the good choice is rarely ever the fun choice, and Billy is all about living life fast and loose.

Heather Says: Told you I’d come back to it. brawlite and toastranger are a fantastic team. last year was cherry pie and under the covers, this year it’s camboys and cop/firefighter dynamics. Also, I have a really strange fascination with fics where a character has an instragram. It’s really, incredibly strange. Also also, every time I see this fic title I get that one Discovery Channel song stuck in my head. And no, it probably isn’t the one you’re thinking.

18. ways to save the world by @wildehacked | The Magnus Archives | Martin Blackwood/Jon Sims | 19k

“I left you,” Martin says softly.

Heather Says: And we’re back at wildehacked too! The Magnus Archives was a thing that happened to me. This is I think the first fic I read for it while listening, and it was so very close to what we got in canon. I think when it comes down to it though, I still prefer this fic, even if the ending of this season was pretty fantastic.

19. The Denial Twist by beethechange | Buzzfeed Unsolved | Ryan/Shane | 35k

“This is kind of surreal,” Shane says, taking a sip of his tea. It’s piping hot and delicious, except it tastes like hot chocolate and not like tea at all. “Sort of—Wonka-esque, right? Or Alice in Wonderland.”

Heather Says: While the vampire one is my favorite both because it is excellent and because it was my first, this one was bizarre and sexy and also I read it like only a month or so ago! The dancing was my favorite part, but having dreams to work with made this story fantastically interesting and I loved every second of it.

20. silver in our lungs by taywen | Spinning Silver | Miryem/The Staryk Lord | 4k

The marks had been with Miryem for as long as she could remember. There were a number of them, all the same shade, following one after the other around her left wrist. They were pale as old scars, though they felt no different from the rest of her skin, and her mother claimed that Miryem had been born with them.

Heather Says: I really like soulmate aus. There’s so many different ways to twist them and the way they can sometimes change the dynamic entirely and other times not change them at all is just fascinating. I’ve been hoping there would be more Spinning Silver content on ao3 and running into this while I was trying to decide what I wanted to do for yuletide was a real treat.

21. you got me begging, begging, i'm on my knees by plalligator | The Queen’s Thief | Attolia/Eugenides/Costis | 5k

Costis has a particularly enlightening evening. (or, that struggle when you're a guard who's in love with your rulers and it turns out you would kind of like it if they bossed you around a little)

Heather Says: I accidentally re-read the King of Attolia and it made me consider ships I had perhaps not previously considered. This was really lovely and just steamy enough.

22. something more alive than silence by pageleaf | The Queen’s Thief | Attolia/Eugenides/Costis | 21k

It was a good thing that six months after the king had promised to halve the guard, he still hadn’t done it, because since then, there had been two attempts on the king’s life.

Heather Says: I want to only type the words AGONIZED NOISES to describe this fic because that’s basically my headspace when I get 21k of a shiny new ot3, but I mean. Really. This is super good and maybe my favorite yet? Why didn’t I start reading this fandom when I first read the books?

23. Timing it Right by DragonBandit | The Bright Sessions | Mark/Damien | 14k

The dragon chooses, Mark knows that as well as any boy born in a weyr. He'd never considered what that would mean if the dragon picked someone you hated. He's starting to think that was a mistake.

Damien's gold rises at Whitney. Mark tries to make things right.

Heather Says: This should actually be somewhere back in March, but I apparently closed out of the tab at some point. I never really got into Pern much. I have the first three books, but got most of the way through the first one a long time ago and then never picked it back up. I didn’t think I would like this, mostly because of the fact that I hadn’t gotten into the books, but was surprised to find that I absolutely loved it.

24. Keep It In Your Sights Now by LuckyDiceKirby | Shades of Magic | Lila/Kell/Holland | 9k

Holland travels with Lila and Kell. Somewhere along the way, they reach an equilibrium.

Heather Says: I love the new things I’ve discovered during my yuletide trompings. I don’t think I ever actually considered this pairing when I first read the books, but I am just so enamored with the idea of the three of them together. Like, why did I not realize that potential back then? This was lovely, and I loved it, and I want so much more out of this pairing than what ao3 has to offer me.

25. Charioteer by petrichoral | The Queen’s Thief | Gen & Costis | 13k

Captured in battle and stuck in the Mede capital, Costis has given up all hope of seeing his country again. But Eugenides has a habit of turning up where he's least expected.

Heather Says: Technically this shouldn’t be on here because I only read it today, but it was really wonderful and so canon typical. Gen and Costis were perfect in it, Irene was perfect in it. Everyone was perfect and nothing hurts.

31 notes · View notes

pengychan · 5 years

Text

[Good Omens] Winging It - Psalm 91:4

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: If you think I have an actual plan, ineffable or not, for where this fic is going, think again. 'Winging it’ is not just a title: it’s precisely what I’m doing.

***

Aziraphale had no intention whatsoever to open the shop that day.

He hadn’t even planned to stay in it, because a new Korean restaurant had just opened in Holborn and he was dying to try it, metaphorically speaking. Normally it would take some twelve minutes via the Central like - or the Piccadilly line if he felt like walking for approximately one minute and fifty-seven seconds longer from his shop - but that day, according to the radio, there were severe delays on all Tube lines due to signalling issues.

‘Signalling issues’ meant, in that one specific case, that all screens were inexplicably showing obscene phrases while loudspeakers refused to broadcast any announcements, opting to blast out I'm In Love With My Car at full volume instead. Engineers had yet to figure out how to make it stop, as turning off all power hadn’t worked. Signals meant for train drivers kept blinking quickly, spelling out SOS in morse code over and over.

Aziraphale was… reasonably certain it had been entirely Crowley’s work, both because it would fit his style and because, the previous evening, he did tell him not to bother with the Tube.

“No need to get underground, Angel. I’ll come pick you up in the morning,” he’d said.

And now he would be late, most likely, lamenting the insane traffic he’d be caught in after forgetting, somehow, that traffic jams tend to happen when London’s public underground transport grinds to a complete halt.

Would he ever learn better? Aziraphale rather hoped not. He found it endearing, although he wouldn’t subject Crowley to the humiliation of being told as much to his face; and, right now, it gave him some extra time to pop into one of his favorite bakeries and have a bit of a late breakfast before Crowley got there. He’d get an extra croissant for him to try, he thought as he went to open the door and stepped out. Maybe he’d eventually get him to chew his food instead of swallowing it whole like a snake, wouldn’t that be--

Before he could finish that thought, Aziraphale fell. Azirafell, if you will. He stumbled, really, on something right at the doorway - a heap of clothes, it looked like. Not as bad as a fall from Heaven would be, but the meeting with the pavement was still an unpleasant experience.

“Ooow! What was-- oh. Oh dear.”

What he’d mistaken for a heap of clothes left at his doorstep was, in fact, a heap of clothes. Only with a body in the clothes. Not the dead kind of body, hopefully. But really, it was a bit worrying how someone stumbling over him hadn’t even made him stir.

Oh please, sir, don’t be dead, because then I’ll want to miracle you back to life and that is frowned upon without permission. Not that I know precisely what my standing with Heavenly authority is at the moment, but I’d really prefer not to meddle with it any more than necessary.

Lifting himself from the pavement - he’d miracle the smudges off his clothes later - Aziraphale went to crouch next to the man, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him. “Sir? Sir, are you-- oh.”

Aziraphale had always found the smell of blood uniquely unpleasant and if not for his angelic nature, the sight of his own reddened palm would have made him feel physically sick. But at least the man was alive, because he had felt life, beating steady in his ribcage. Who knew how he’d come to be hurt like that - stabbed, perhaps, knife crime in London was getting quite awful - but he’d come to the right place. He’d heal him, and be on his way.

A quick glance - no, no close enough to see anything yet; but oh, how many people had walked past without even noticing him? - and Aziraphale lifted his hand to heal the man. Only that he chose that moment to stir weakly, to turn, and the blessing he’d been about to utter died in Azirapale’s throat when he saw his ashen-pale face. Or at least, a good part of it.

It was Gabriel, and not the Gabriel who occasionally delivered him a nice dinner when he was peckish but too enthralled by a book to get out to a restaurant. It was the Archangel Gabriel, passed out at his doorstep. Wounded, bleeding and absolutely, entirely, impossibly-- human.

No. No, it couldn’t be. It was unheard of - surely, he was wrong. It was only someone who looked an awful lot like him, Aziraphale thought. But as he reached for his face, and gingerly pulled up his eyelid, he found himself looking at a familiar, distinctive purplish eye. Only that now the pupil shrank at the light, and he made a choking sound, still unconscious. His brow was covered in cold sweat, hair sticking to it.

The blood on his back. Where his wings would be.

Celestial nature or not, Aziraphale found himself feeling… vaguely sick. Not sick enough to return his rather delicious dinner to the world, but enough to decide he could do without croissant that morning.

“Gabriel?” he called out, mind reeling. There was no reply, except for a shuddering breath when he turned him, accidentally putting pressures on… whatever had been done to his back. Whatever had been done to his wings.

You know what’s been done to his wings.

“Sir? Is everything all right?”

Ah, of course, the curious chap. There is always a curious chap - no curious enough to check on the man motionless in a shop’s doorway, but enough to wonder when a second man is kneeling over him and it might already be too late. With a brief shake of his hand, Aziraphale miracled the blood on his palm away and turned to glance back. He smiled.

“All is going wonderfully,” he said, causing the man to pause and blink, his expression turning vacant. “Actually, if you could help me bring this gentleman inside and then forget everything that happened to go your merry way, that would be brilliant…”

***

Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked displeased.

In itself, that was nothing out of the ordinary: perpetual brooding was only fitting their position, after all. It would be a very cold day in Hell when demons went around looking pleased, and that was not the day: temperature was holding steady at around 62 degrees Celsius, which would be 143 degrees Fahrenheit for fellows across the pond. Not quite the fiery burning pit mortals imagined, but still hotter than the highest temperature ever registered on Earth, despite humans’ clear determination to match it in the near future.

However, something was slightly out of the ordinary. Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies and Prince of Hell, looked extremely displeased.

“An angel fell.”

“So it’s been reported, my Lord.”

“And it’s not here.”

“No, my Lord.”

“Why. Is it not. Here.”

Beelzebub growled. The flies around their head buzzed. Dagon looked at Hastur. Hastur looked… very uncomfortable. Good. He squirmed. Even better.

“I… I don’t know, my Lord. I only heard whispers, you know they never speak the names of the Fallen again--”

“Because they’re not our names anymore,” Beelzebub said with an impatient wave of their hand. “We will name it. It is ours. All the Fallen are ours.”

“But it should have-- landed here,” Dagon spoke up. “All the Fallen do.”

“Maybe it’s not Fallen?”

Two pairs of eyes, plus the fragmented ones of several flies, turned back to Hastur.

“I mean, cast out of Heaven, but didn’t turn up in Hell? Maybe it fell, but didn’t Fall.”

A fallen angel, yet not Fallen. It would be unprecedented, an amusing puzzle to solve… and Beelzebub hated amusing puzzles to solve almost as much as they despised fly paper.

“If it was cast out of Heaven, it’s ours. The other side doesn’t get to change up the rules now - I demand an explanation, and a new soldier for Hell,” they snapped, and stood. Not much of a difference in terms of height, but it did make Hastur step back reverently. “Bring me the Messenger,” Beelzebub ordered, their voice a low buzz.

Hastur blinked.

“... The phone, for Satan’s sake,” Dagon snapped. “Bring us the phone.”

***

“Come ooooooooooon.”

Crowley’s phone rang while he was in the middle of a long groan, forehead firmly pressed against the wheel. The result was a long, continuous honk that was lost in the midsts of dozens more long, continuous honks. Bloody traffic.

“I don’t deserve this,” Crowley mumbled, ignoring the fact he was the cause behind all of it and perhaps he did, after all deserve some of it. Why had he done that, anyway? He didn’t really have to do anything, with Hell doing its best to forget he even existed and thus not sending out any orders anymore. It was a matter of mere habit, at that point. Everyone is supposed to have at least one bad habit, demons most of all.

Maybe he should take on smoking, but Aziraphale would so protest the smell and-- ah, right. Aziraphale. Phone. He was late, wasn’t he? With a sigh, Crowley tapped the screen to take the call, face still burrowed against the wheel - though he muted the honk for the sake of being able to speak.

“Bit of traffic here, Angel. I’ll be there in-- give me half a hour, and--”

“I, uh, think we might have to reschedule.”

Aziraphale, suggesting they delay trying out a brand new restaurant? That alone set off more alarm bells than a gang of chimps in charge of putting out a grease fire. Or Boris Johnson in charge of managing Brexit, which was basically the same thing.

Crowley immediately sat up straight, turning his full attention to the phone. “What happened?”

“Nothing! It’s just... oh, I suppose something did happen. You see, I was about to walk out - you know that really good bakery across the road? It opened where that Patisserie Valerie used to be, a small independent business, and they make the most delicious croissants. They use less butter than they would in Paris, they’re a bit more like an Italian cornetto, and I thought you’d--”

“Angel.”

“Right, right-- I’m getting side tracked. As I was saying, it’s a small independent business and they have it so hard these days, I figure that if needed I could give some help--”

Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes behind dark lenses and drove the car forward for a grand total of three meters before stopping again. It was the greatest gain he’d made in fifteen minutes.

“Aziraphale. I am in the middle of one of the worst traffic congestion this city has ever seen--”

“Oh, I do wonder who caused it. Clearly the work of a wily demon who did not pause to consider consequences. Or did he?”

“That’s entirely beside the point,” Crowley protested. “What I’m saying is, we are going to that restaurant. We can miracle the bakery some clients if need be, no reason to reschedule--”

“Ah, it’s not about that.”

“... No?”

“Gabriel is here.”

Oh. That arse - the utter and complete bellend who had tried to have his angel destroyed in Hellfire. The memory of his words as he believed he was sending him to his complete annihilation - Shut your stupid mouth and die already - was enough to make Crowley hiss in fury. He’d have been worried, too, if not for the fact Aziraphale’s blabbing about bakeries wasn’t the sign of someone in distress or in imminent danger. And he probably wasn’t listening to the call - maybe he was outside the shop.

“Fine, fine, change of plans - we’re meeting at rendez-vous point number 3. Then we’re going--”

“Listen, it’s best if we reschedule and you come here. Gabriel--”

“Has no business being there. Tell him to go to Heaven,” Crowley snapped.

“Well, I don’t think he-- can.”

“... Wait. What?”

“I’m not sure why-- well, this is unprecedented.”

Crowley blinked, mind struggling to grasp what he’d just heard, and he didn’t even realize immediately that the line of cars ahead of him had begun moving. The car behind him suddenly honked, and Crowley waved his hand. The BMW’s engine died in a sputter of sparks and smoke, and the Bentley moved another couple of meters.

“Did he - Fall?” he asked. It seemed absurd - no one had Fallen in so long - and he was too surprised to have time to feel any sort of satisfaction over it.

“Yes and… no.”

“... Did you drink?”

“Only tea. Just… try to get here.”

“All right. Then we’re heading out, because whatever happened to him we’re not rescheduling.”

“Crowley, he’s in quite a state. I can’t just walk out and leave him here in the shop like this.”

“Of course not. First you kick him out.”

“Crowley.”

A sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll come see what this is about.”

“Thank you. I am quite confused--”

“So I can kick him out.”

“Not while he’s like this! It wouldn’t be-- nice.”

“I’m a demon, not being nice is usually my thing. And he tried to destroy you.”

A pause. “... When he’s better, surely, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Crowley grinned. “Now you’re talking,” he said before ending the call and advancing another bloody meter, wondering just what the Heaven was going on.

***

“That is classified information.”

“Don’t classified me, Michael.”

“It is policy and you know it.”

“You were always ready to throw policy out of the window when it suited you, though. Or else this back channel wouldn’t exist.”

Beelzebub’s voice was odious as always, buzzing through her brain, oozing malice. Michael clenched her jaw, but had nothing to retort to that other than empty phrases and falsehoods.

Gabriel was always best at those - “There are no back channels, Michael” - and that was why, between the two of them, he was the messenger and she was the warrior. They worked well together. But Gabriel was no longer there, nor one of them: for all intents and purposes, the Archangel Gabriel had ceased to exist the moment he’d been cast out of Heaven. His duties were divided up between herself, Uriel and Sandalphon; his name would be spoken no more.

“I know one of yours fell,” Beelzebub was going on. “Don’t bother denying it. What I do not know is why has it not showed up here, in its rightful place. It’s been a long time since we got a new Fallen. We’re ready to throw it a party.”

“With sulphur involved, I imagine.”

“Our side quite enjoys sulphur.”

Not Gabriel. He would hate every second of it - but there is no more Gabriel, is there?

No Archangel Gabriel. No back channels. Michael shifted the phone on her other hand, trying to block out the memories of cries and pleas, ripping noises and ragged sobs.

“Plus, since when do you concern yourself with what a demon would enjoy? This one is no longer your concern, and given that Crowley has gone native-- yes, Hastur? Ligur who? Oh, yes. Him. Given that we lost two demons last week, it seems only fair we claim this new one.”

And do what with him? Michael’s mind went back to the trial of the demon Crowley, of the test they had made to ensure what she had brought truly was holy water. She remembered the usher being thrown in, screaming, pleading, asking what it had done to deserve destruction.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Please! Please! No!

Michael hadn’t thought much of it, then; it was the kind of thing demons would do, and she would not flinch for the fate of a lowly hellish creature. Mercy was not for them. But now…

It hurt it hurts it hurts please stop it stop it please– Michael, please!

“He’s not yours.” Michael’s voice rang out suddenly, sharp as glass - sharp enough to make Beelzebub fall into a confused silence for a few moments. When they spoke again, their voice was a low buzz full of anger… and what might have been genuine curiosity.

“Oh? And how come?”

“Because he’s not like you.”

“... Do I hear an Archangel defending the honor of a demon?”

“He’s not a demon,” Michael snapped, causing them to fall silent again on the other side of the line. “He’s not one of yours. You can’t have him.”

Another few moments of silence, followed by furious buzzing. “We’ll see about that,” Beelzebub seethed. “I’m done wasting time with you. I demand a meeting with Gabriel, at least he can--”

“He is unavailable,” Michael snapped, and ended the call before throwing the phone on the ground and crushing it under her heel.

***

After putting the phone down, Aziraphale could only sit and… well, wait.

The shop was silent, the way he liked, except for the slow, regular breathing of someone sleeping in the middle of the room, where he’d miracled a carpet into a mattress to lean Gabriel onto. His breathing hadn’t been that quiet only ten minutes earlier, when he and the… volunteer had laid him down on his stomach: it had been labored, short gasps and shuddering exhales.

Once alone with him again, Aziraphale had miracled his clothes away and he’d seen… precisely what he’d expected to see, really, but that didn’t mean he’d been prepared.

On Gabriel’s back, over the shoulder blades, there were two gaping, bleeding wounds. Something had been torn from there, leaving behind a mess of mangled flesh and, Aziraphale was rather sure, the tiniest glimpse of exposed bone. It was unsightly and quite serious, but healing it was, for an angel, a simple enough matter.

And he had healed them: a gesture over the wounds, and they closed… but marks had remained, dark and ragged scar tissue where angelic wings had been torn away. Those were not the kind of wounds dealt by a mortal, or a mortal weapon; those were wounds only a supernatural being - angel or demon - may have caused. It wasn’t like anything mortal could harm an angel like this, and of course the missing wings were only a part of it.

Along with them, Gabriel had been stripped of his celestial nature. It seemed impossible, but proof was before his eyes. How could that have happened? Who had done such a thing? And why--?

“Nnnhh…”

Gabriel had groaned, shifted weakly. He hadn’t lifted his head, despite having been healed; Aziraphale suspected he had not yet adjusted to his new condition. Going from angel to mortal would probably feel like going from the power of a nuclear power plant to that of a depleted battery in energy saving mode.

“Gabriel,” he’d called out, crouching next to him. Gabriel’s barely open eyes flickered towards him, the only part of him to move, cheek still pressed against the mattress. He seemed to struggle to put him into focus, but then there was something - a spark of recognition. He’d known who he was, at least. “You’re safe here,” Aziraphale had said, like he had the slightest idea of what or who had caused it. His shop didn’t even have the defenses to keep a crazed old nipple-counting witch hunter out while he was on a conference call with the Voice of God. Maybe he should take precautions, given the fate he and Crowley barely avoided by deception.

If this had been a trap, I would have been fooled entirely.

Gabriel had worked his jaw, but not a word came out. He’d tried to lift his head, and Aziraphale pushed it down. “No, no. Don’t try to get up,” he’d said, and glanced briefly at his back again. “... What happened?”

For a moment there was no reaction, then Gabriel’s eyes shifted back on him. He looked dazed, but this time he managed to reply. “My wings,” he rasped. “Can’t feel my wings.”

“Yes, that would be because-- er.” He’d made a vague gesture and tried to change the subject. He ought not to feel sorry for him, after what he tried to pull with Hellfire, but ah, he was soft. Maybe it was a good thing that Crowley was coming. He was the one there when Gabriel had tried to destroy him, after all. He would have more sense than him. Maybe they should kick him out before he caused them problems. “Who did this to you?” he had asked instead.

Part of him had expected the name of… some sort of demon, perhaps; for what reason they would do this to him he couldn’t begin to imagine, because it just wasn’t how they operated, but-

“Michael,” Gabriel rasped, and Aziraphale blinked down at him, not comprehending.

“Do you want me to call Michael?” he’d asked. Just what he needed, dealing with her now. Was she going to blame him for this? Of course she would. He had no intention to drop by in Heaven and face her, but maybe a quick phone call--

“Michael--!”

Gabriel had tried to rise, faltered, and fell heavily on his side. His eyes were wide open, staring at him and yet at nothing, chest rising and falling quickly. It was so uncharacteristic of him that it had taken Aziraphale several moments to recognize it for what it was: absolute, blind panic.

“No no no no no--”

“Shush,” Aziraphale had said, and he’d held out a hand in front of his face. The panic had faded and his features smoothed in a vacant expression. “Now, you’re going to sleep. And you’re going to have--” the most wonderful dream, he would usually say in such cases, but he’d held back. All right, he may be soft, but even he could tell Gabriel did not deserve wonderful dreams. “... A reasonably pleasant dream,” he’d finished lamely.

Oh, Crowley would be so disappointed.

And Gabriel had gone to sleep, sure enough, naked from the waist up and scars on his back in plain sight. Aziraphale had put a blanket on him - so he wouldn’t get cold, he thought, but the truth was that looking at those scars made him uncomfortable - and then he’d called Crowley.

And now he waited. As the minutes ticked by, Aziraphale leaned his chin on his hand, staring at the still, sleeping form of what had been an Archangel until very, very recently. He thought back of his expression, the name that had left him, the terror in his voice.

Michael. Did Michael do this to him?

The thought seemed absurd, but then again he’d never truly expected her to gift Hell some Holy Water to destroy a demon; he had never truly expected his own side - no, not my side anymore - to try and destroy him with Hellfire. He’d never known them as well as he thought he did, and how could he? He was on Earth all along while they stayed in Heaven, pulling the strings of a world they did not understand or care about.

But I was the odd one out. The curious fellow who’d stay on Earth rather than take promotions to go back upstairs - Gabriel was one of them.

Why turn on him? Why cast him out? Why make him human, instead of having him Fall the traditional way - and why would they be so brutal about it? What reason could there be? His thoughts kept going in circles and oh, that was going to give him such a headache, wasn’t it?

Well, for Heaven's sake, we are meant to make examples out of traitors.

Crowley had quoted Gabriel’s words to him with a shrill, mocking voice over a glass of wine; while the thought of what they’d barely escaped was rather chilling, it had made him laugh. It made him chuckle now, some tension leaving him. Crowley was on his way, however slowly in the traffic, and it made him… a bit less worried. They’d figure something out, they always did.

They had worked out how to face the wrath of Heaven and Hell and come out unscathed; dealing with an ex angel who hadn’t fallen as much as landed squarely on his face on Earth shouldn’t a huge problem.

He wasn’t wrong on that. It would turn out to be a huge annoyance.

***

"He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart." Psalm 91:4

***

[Back to Prologue]

[Next]

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable bureaucracy #crowley #aziraphale #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #archangel michael #winging it

137 notes · View notes

quinoaquinao3 · 4 years

Text

Unknowable (1/11) - dark!Crowley fic

"Oh, angel," he purred dreamily, "too good, too good for me," and Aziraphale wondered briefly whether he should be worried by how quickly Crowley got lost in this again, how easily his hesitance and caution melted away, how quickly he forgot to worry about doing the wrong thing. But Aziraphale didn't want to think about that right now, he didn't want to be smart and responsible and to play it safe. He wanted to indulge - to bathe in Crowley's praise and adoration, so intense it could only stem from something dark and dangerous, an unhealthy obsession. But God, it felt so good if he let it.

Mind the warnings in the tags, please :) Human AU with a dark-ish Crowley and endless angst.

Chapter 1: You Can't Control What Crosses Your Mind

Spring, 1994

Anathema met Crowley when they were both children. Crowley had just moved into the neighborhood, taking up residence in what Crowley called a house but Anathema thought was a castle - turns out, as she learned many years later, castles can be houses if you're filthy fucking rich.

Naturally, Crowley's family also owned lots of beautiful, white horses, and that's how it all started - with "the horse incident".

Anathema could hear the animal's cries from where she was playing at a river nearby, and without thinking started to run as fast as she could towards the source of distress. She was out of breath when she made it to the top of the hill, bending forward to rest her hands on her knees and take a few deep breaths as she scanned the field before her. Then she saw it - a beautiful, snow-white horse lying on the ground, tied to a post with a rope. There were angry red marks running across their body, visible even from where she was standing. The horse was attempting to stand up, struggling pathetically.

Anathema noticed two figures a few feet away - an older woman was holding a boy with dark red hair - who was holding a whip. As Anathema began to run closer, she noticed that the woman's face was stained with tears, but the boy's eyes were dry. The woman let go of the boy suddenly, pushing away at him halfheartedly, and when he fell back to the ground she walked quickly to the injured horse. Anathema hurried over to the boy. As she offered her hand and helped him up, she noticed small blood splats over his clothes and hands.

When Anathema's mother came looking for her more than an hour later, the two kids were playing in a tall field of wheat. Her mom promptly dragged her away from the still blood-covered boy, and when they got home, she sat her down and told her to never go near him again. Your father saw it, she said, he beat that horse, nearly killed the poor thing.

As soon as Anathema finished her cereal the next morning though, she ran over to where she last saw the boy, and found him not far off. "I'm gonna follow you forever and make sure you never hurt another horse!" Anathema screamed at him then, and proceeded to do just that.

She followed him around the entire day. Crowley rarely spoke and was just so strange, Anathema thought, not at all like her other friends, but there were so many fun things to do in the castle Crowley lived in that Anathema soon forgot all about it. And maybe her dad was wrong, anyway. She was old enough now to know parents weren't always right about everything.

. . .

More than twenty years later, Anathema was still by his side. Crowley never hurt another horse again - at least as far as she knew - but he was still... him. He was still that same boy, with that sometimes unnervingly empty look in his eye that seemed to come to life at the wrong time and in all the wrong ways.

Despite all that, Crowley did seem to genuinely care about Anathema, and even went so far as to tell her he loved her a few times. She took those confessions with a grain of salt and didn't particularly enjoy hearing them in the first place - she'd learned that love meant something very different for Crowley, and wasn't sure she wanted to be on the receiving end of it. But he wanted to "be good" - he told her so often and meant it, as far as she could tell. He also trusted Anathema to teach him what that meant. And she tried, for years and years, keeping Crowley close - because he was her friend, her best friend really, but more importantly... he was her responsibility. If Crowley ever... if anything ever happened to someone, Anathema would blame herself.

So this was her life. Probably forever. Because although he did seem to be improving, even managing to feel something good every now and then, Anathema could never really be sure. She could never really know. Maybe he was just getting better at what Crowley used to call 'the performance' - swearing he only ever did it for other people, not her. Indeed, Crowley didn't pretend, not with her. Oh, no. She got to have the absolute mis-fucking-fortune of knowing him.

Fall 2002

"Always tell me the truth, always always always," Anathema told him many years ago after finding a girl Crowley had sworn he had no interest in, passed out from drinking and locked in Crowley's dorm closet. "You said you didn't want to hurt her. Now tell me the truth, all of it."

And Crowley did as he was told - told her the truth, all of it, uncensored, with none of the usual sugar-coating. Anathema watched him as he spoke, Crowley's face as neutral and dead-looking as ever as he described... unspeakable things, awful things, and Anathema was kneeling in front of a trash can, emptying her stomach before Crowley even got to the juicy parts.

"You said the truth," Crowley said from behind her, defensively. "And I wasn't going to do any of those things."

Anathema stared at her half-digested lunch in the trashcan. She didn't want to turn around, couldn't face him, not yet. "I know," she said. Lied. Because she didn't know, not at all.

How could she possibly trust this man wouldn't do the things he'd described when he was capable of thinking them in the first place? A normal, healthy person wasn't capable of coming up with that sort of shit and- and... fuck, Anathema cursed under her breath - she couldn't let Crowley see her right now or he'd know, he'd know she was thinking those hurtful things about him. Though the fact that she just vomited merely from hearing his unfiltered thoughts might have tipped him off.

(Every now and then, Anathema swore she could sense the dark energy radiating from him, sinister and malevolent and unpredictable, and then she'd hear those... godawful screams of the white and red horse in her head and remember the blood-stained hands on that little boy, and it would all just be... too much, just too much for such a young girl to bear all on her own, and she'd be unable to stop the frustration and fear and hatred and disgust that she sometimes felt for her best friend from overpowering her love for him and becoming visible on her face. And in those moments she just went by instinct, curling her lips in disgust at him, slamming her fists against his chest, hurling objects in his direction, screaming hateful accusations at him or doing any number of things she later regretted but dammit, she just wanted to hurt the- the vile thing in front of her sometimes. Not the way he wanted to hurt others, of course - her need felt... righteous, like something she had to do, like it was good. Like pouring holy water on a demon or cutting a poisonous serpent's head off with the sharp edge of a shovel. And when she succeeded in hurting him, when her cruel words managed to shake up his shell of a soul enough for him to feel it, it would be only moments before she was apologizing and telling him she didn't mean any of it, 'but at least it made you feel something, right, this is good, it's a good thing, Crowley' and he'd nod and she'd be forgiven, and they would both try their best to do better until one of them failed again and the cycle repeated.)

Her thoughts were interrupted by a light touch on her shoulder then and she jerked violently, jumping forward and away from the touch, spilling the contents of the trashcan as she scrambled over it before turned around. Now facing Crowley, she saw something that - perhaps - looked vaguely like hurt on his face. It was too strange, too Crowley for it to be his 'performance' - he could do better than that. He seemed to recognize her reluctance.

"Sorry, sorry, it's fine, I'm fine," she said, trying her best to hide the fear and anger and revulsion she still felt throbbing in her chest. Crowley looked unconvinced.

"You're a bad liar," he told Anathema, who held his gaze.

"Yeah... You aren't though, are you?" she returned unkindly, more of a statement than a question, and Crowley was the first to look away.

"I don't lie to you," Crowley said quietly at his feet, keeping his body limp and slow as he shuffled slightly back and away from her, trying to appear harmless - just the way Anathema had taught him throughout the years. (1. "could you not freaking loom, Crowley?", 2. "stop staring at me like that", 3. "fuck, don't- don't touch me, you-!", 4. "don't raise your voice like that, it scares people".)

Ah shit, thought Anathema, he saw it. He's gonna crawl back into his shell and send out some... hologram, and play a recording of some emotion he saw somewhere, on someone else. She finally got up from the floor, standing to face him.

"Right," she sighed as she cleaned some of the sick off her shirt and pants. "You don't lie, you just don't tell me things."

"I can't tell you every single thought that crosses my mind, how would that work?"

Anathema felt a spark of anger. "Don't play stupid, Crowley. You know exactly what sort of things I'm talking about."

Crowley's eyes darted away again, and he was clearly trying to think of a way to get out of this and ah, here we go, she thought, wily fucking bastard. Anathema felt like punching him for the millionth time since they've known each other.

"You know I can't always tell," Crowley said, looking at her now, his eyes big and vulnerable and his voice soft and innocent. "That's why I need you, Anathema."

Motherfucker, she thought, her hands forming tight fists. "Don't pull that shit with me, Crowley, or I swear to god I'm gonna walk away right now and fucking disappear."

Whatever emotion Crowley was attempting to simulate on his face was gone with a blink, and Anathema was too fucking pissed off to shiver. That wicked energy of his was suddenly pouring off him in waves.

"You're not going to leave me," he said, quietly, calmly - confidently, the fucking bastard - and Anathema could hear the threat behind it. She pressed her lips into a thin line.

"You sound mighty sure of yourself there, friend," she hissed, an unkind tone to her voice. "And you're gonna make sure of that, are you?"

They stood there, watching each other, neither willing to admit to the other that they were afraid.

"Yes," Crowley replied, finally.

Anathema's nostrils flared, face contorting in anger. "How you gonna do that, Crowley?"

He was almost like a statue, unmoving and silent.

"You gonna lock me up in your closet? Huh? Gonna keep me like a fucking pet?"

Crowley said nothing, but the words that were coming from Anathema were having an effect. Snake - meet shovel.

"Yeah, you've thought about that, haven't you? Any other sick fantasies involving me I should be aware of? All that- all that- fucking- psycho shit you wanted to do to that girl? What's stopping you from doing that shit to me, huh? Why don't you just bash my fucking head in right now and-"

For what seemed like the longest moment of her life, Anathema actually thought she was going to die. So many thoughts ran through her head in those few seconds that they seemed like a fucking eternity as she stood trembling in her friend's strong hold. And on the question of fight or flight, she was, it would seem, in favour of the third option - freeze in complete terror. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think. She opened her eyes when she felt a warm palm slowly and softly drawing large circles on her back. Air rushed into her lungs again, kick-starting her brain. The circles on her back continued, and slowly but surely began to relax her taut muscles. He's hugging me, she thought in disbelief. She heard Crowley whisper something but she couldn't make it out though the loud drumming of her heart.

"What?" she managed.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh."

Crowley squeezed her harder then, pressing her closer, only to loosen the embrace again when Anathema tensed. He kept moving his hand on her back.

"You said to tell you the truth. All of it," he said, sounding a little desperate.

"Yeah. I did, didn't I," Anathema returned, trying to chuckle but it sounded more like a sob. Christ. This was life with Crowley. The man who felt barely anything but made you feel so intensely a mix of emotions that did not belong together. Like affection and disgust. Love and fear. Anathema swore to herself she would be more prepared next time, she wouldn't get this hysterical again when Crowley was honest with her. (Which is what she told herself every time.) "I can't control what crosses my mind," Crowley said to her once, and Anathema told him that sounded like a lazy excuse. Crowley agreed.

But it was Anathema's responsibility to know his thoughts, wasn't it? That meant she had to be able to handle hearing him speak about these things and, more importantly, he had to be willing to speak of them and that meant she had to do better. She had to stop punishing him for thinking.

She felt the hold tighten again, only slightly.

"I won't ever harm you. Not you. I swear it."

Despite everything, Anathema believed him. That was the last time Crowley ever threatened her for a long, long time.

But then... that man came along.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22316332

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xoxoemynn · 5 years

Text

A Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven

Life gave me a literal and metaphorical beating recently, and I decided if I couldn’t have Aziraphale hugs, then Crowley definitely should. Discussion of triggers and PTSD, but mostly just gentle tenderness. Thank you to @lizardkingeliot for holding my hand as I literally cried through this one and then making me laugh with her beta comments. You can also read on AO3.

Crowley hates the sound of whistling.

Although hate is probably the wrong word.

Hate generally implies some level of conscious thought. One hates the smell of the fish market, or irritatingly dense customers who are evidently incapable of taking a hint and realizing they are not wanted in the bookshop, not now, not ever.

No, hate isn’t the right word.

Frightened by?

That’s not quite it either, although it’s closer. He’s not scared the way someone may be scared of thunderstorms or a particularly long-toothed rat. Rather, he’s scared as that rat would be of a hawk soaring overhead. It’s a fear that comes from deep inside, woven between his cells with a damp, sticky thread. From the moment that rat sets one tiny pink paw outside, he knows to fear the shadow the hawk casts.

It doesn’t matter that he’s never seen the hawk up close.

It doesn’t matter that he’s never seen the hawk swoop down and snatch up his mother or brother or cousin.

The shadow is enough.

The shadow is the threat.

The shadow awakens that primal instinct to run, to escape, to seek safety anywhere but here. And as the shadow grows rapidly denser, that instinct builds upon itself, layer by layer, crushing the rat with the weight of it, so that by the time he feels talons pierce through his soft chest, he doesn’t know which he fell victim to: the hawk itself, or the terror that preceded it.

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.

The end result is the same.

Once, as a snake, Crowley had been cast in the role as the predator, tempting Adam and Eve to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, dooming the world to sin.

But now, in his human body, he is the prey. And it’s not celestial harmonies that threaten the demon’s existence, but a simple jaunty whistled tune.

Not that Crowley would ever admit to such a thing. In fact, if Aziraphale were to hazard a guess, he’d say Crowley would be quite proud of himself, thinking he had never let on to the fact. And, granted, it may have taken Aziraphale a few thousand years to figure it out, and he highly doubted anyone else would have noticed. But when your closest friend is a fellow immortal being and you’ve spent the past six thousand years performing miracles, tempting humans, and preventing the would-be Armageddon, you tend to pick up on a few things.

The first time Aziraphale thought something might be amiss was in 1787, in a small pub in Galway. Crowley was there on assignment tempting some farmer or shepherd or the other, and Aziraphale had been craving a hearty mutton stew. They sat together, Aziraphale enjoying his meal, Crowley enjoying watching Aziraphale enjoying his meal as he regaled him with tales of his temptations for an hour or so. Then the barmaid returned.

“How about another?” she asked, taking their empty glasses.

They both nodded, and she headed back to the bar, whistling as she went.

Aziraphale turned back to Crowley. “What were you saying about the Fitzgerald brothers?”

Crowley shook his head, as if startling himself out of a daze. “Hmm?”

“The Fitzgeralds. How ever did they get the cow off their roof?”

“Oh, well they… some sort of contraption, with a whosit and a whathickey and it’s…” His voice trailed off.

“Crowley?”

“Sorry.” Crowley coughed. “Just remembered. Urgent temptation in Beijing. Really better be off. I’ll pay next time.” And with that, he was gone.

It is a memory Aziraphale keeps safely tucked away, the same as he does with his first edition of Les Misérables written in its original French. Not at the forefront where it might taunt him, incessantly begging him to reveal its secrets, but in a protected place so he might revisit it when he has mastered enough of the elusive language to properly appreciate it. Every so often, on a whim, he comes back to it, thinking that perhaps this time, if he applies the scraps of knowledge and experience he’s gathered since his last attempt, he’d finally be able to make sense of what’s hidden before him in plain sight. Ultimately, though, these attempts only lead him to frustration, and he puts it away again until the next urge strikes.

It takes nearly a century before Aziraphale gathers enough new evidence to break new ground in decoding Crowley’s cryptograph. They were at a small nursery in Soho; Crowley wanted to purchase some new plants, and Aziraphale always enjoyed joining him on these journeys; the scent of the flowers and herbs mingling in the air was beyond heavenly.

“I have to say,” Aziraphale said, “this is a rather delightful hobby you’ve taken up, Crowley. Some of God’s greatest works are the vibrant plants She created. They bring about such a sense of peace and tranquility, reminding us of the profound partnership we share with the beautiful earth we were given.”

“They remind us of something, all right.” Crowley held up a small green plant, inspecting it rather like a farmer would a prize steer at a livestock show. “This one will do.”

He brought it over to the cash register, which was currently unattended.

“Oh, one moment, sir!” came a voice from around the corner. “I just need to wash my hands, spilled a bit of soil back here.”

Then came the sound of running water, and then the sound of whistling.

And then the sound of the ceramic pot cracking in Crowley’s hand and smashing to the floor, followed a moment later by the soft thud of the plant as it joined the broken shards.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped. “Are you all right?”

Crowley’s face was pinched, a vein throbbing near his temple. He was breathing very hard, and Aziraphale had the impression that while he may have been a mere arm’s length away from him, he might as well have been on an entirely different planet.

“Crowley!” he repeated, louder this time.

Crowley coughed. “Pot was obviously defective,” he muttered. “Quality’s utter shite these days.”

“Is everything all right, gentlemen?”

With one eye on the approaching shopgirl, and the other on Crowley still evidently frozen on the spot, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Instantaneously, the pot re-formed, the soil hopped back into its home, and the plant was safe and secure once more.

“Here,” Aziraphale said, handing it to Crowley, “it’s as good as new.”

Crowley looked down at the plant. It was the strangest thing; he didn’t even move like himself. He was tense, uncomfortable, as if he wasn’t even sure what he was doing in his own body. “I don’t want it.”

“But, Crowley!”

“I changed my mind.” Crowley shook his head once more. “I changed my mind.” And then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the shop.

“Sorry about that,” said the shopgirl as she wiped her still-wet hands on her apron. “Would you like to purchase the plant?”

Aziraphale looked out the window, where Crowley was already disappearing into the crowd of people running their Saturday errands. “Yes,” he said.

The plant stays on Aziraphale’s desk. Every now and then he catches Crowley looking at it, and he knows he realizes it’s the same one from that failed shopping excursion, but neither of them ever make mention of it.

But if once makes for an oddity, and twice for a coincidence, it is the third time Aziraphale witnesses Crowley’s reaction to whistling that he realizes this is an ingrained pattern.

And this time it’s Aziraphale’s own fault.

He’d woken up in a grand mood, and decided to keep the bookshop open a full two hours that day so he could share his love of books with the world. There was a fairly steady stream of customers in and out of the shop, and for once, it didn’t irritate Aziraphale; he was content to let them in to wander the shelves (although, of course, he’d taken the precaution of setting the price of each book to four times higher than what they had originally been marked, as to discourage any actual sales).

Because the bell over the door announcing each customer’s entrance was going off so regularly, Aziraphale didn’t bother looking up when he heard the familiar chime. Instead he continued organizing his latest shipment of books. He wasn’t even aware he’d been whistling until he caught sight of Crowley -- pale, stiff, and entirely unlike himself -- out of the corner of his eye.

“Crowley,” he said.

Crowley offered a tight, shaky smile. “Hello, Aziraphale.”

More loudly, Aziraphale said, “shop’s closed, I’m afraid! Everybody out. We’ll be open again bright and early on Thursday. Or perhaps Monday around three. Out, out!”

When the shoppers had left, Aziraphale turned his attention back to Crowley. He was holding a tin so tightly his knuckles were turning white, and his lips were moving, as though he were reciting something under his breath.

It felt ridiculous to not acknowledge what had just happened. Crowley had to realize that Aziraphale was aware of his odd reaction. But he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Where would he even begin? Hello, my dear, it seems you become petrified by the sound of whistling. Would you care to discuss it over a nice cup of cocoa?

No, he couldn’t do that. Crowley, even this strange, nearly catatonic Crowley, would immediately go on the defensive. He’d laugh it off, deny it, tell Aziraphale he’s imagining things, because why on earth would a demon be afraid of whistling?

“Aziraphaleaziraphaleaziraphaleaziraphaleazira--”

Aziraphale blinked. “Sorry?”

Crowley gave his head a firm shake and looked up with a broad, false smile. “Aziraphale! How are you?” He held out the tin. “Picked up some biscuits, thought you might be feeling a bit peckish after opening your shop after two weeks off.”

Aziraphale took the tin, noticing with some concern that while Crowley seemed more like his usual self, his hands were still shaking. “Thank you,” he said. He paused. “You know, these would go wonderfully with some cocoa. Won’t you stay for a cup?”

They hadn’t discussed it then, and they still haven’t discussed it now. Fortunately, it’s actually a fairly rare occurrence to hear someone whistling. It’s a sign of casual cheerfulness, which is not an emotion that many humans possess these days. Every so often these memories would pop into Aziraphale’s mind, and he’d wrack his brain to consider all the new things he’d learned about Crowley over the passing millennia, wondering if somewhere he’d dropped a clue that would allow this to all make sense. Alas, Crowley revealed nothing, and Aziraphale was forced to once again tuck this perplexing idiosyncrasy away with all the other details he did not quite understand about him.

Until today.

They are curled up together on the couch in Aziraphale’s bookshop, Aziraphale reading, Crowley trolling some poor hapless fools on the world wide web via his mobile. It is a perfectly lovely afternoon, and Aziraphale is enjoying the cozy domesticity of it all, when the sound of a bell ringing interrupts their interlude.

Crowley frowns. “I thought the shop was closed.”

“It most certainly is,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t know how anyone could have gotten through the lock.”

And then they hear it.

Whistling.

Crowley’s eyes widen, and he reaches for his sunglasses and hastily shoves them on his face. Aziraphale bites the inside of his cheeks. Crowley never wears his sunglasses in the bookshop anymore, and the fact he feels vulnerable enough to have to take steps to protect himself in this place where they’ve built some of the loveliest memories of their lives makes Aziraphale’s heart clench.

“Wait here,” Aziraphale says, squeezing Crowley’s hand. At first Crowley doesn’t react, but a moment later he grips it tight, so tight Aziraphale is afraid he might break bones.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, his voice hoarse.

“I’m right here, my love,” Aziraphale says. “I just want to get rid of our visitor.”

Crowley nods. His lips are moving, but while no words are coming out, Aziraphale can tell they are forming his name, over and over and over again. It is at that moment Aziraphale realizes Crowley has adopted his name as his own personal mantra, a prayer to protect him in his hour of greatest need.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

Is this how God feels when the mortals cry out to Her? Does She feel this same sense of urgency, the same primal need to protect, to wipe away all the wrongs of the world that torment those who do not deserve it? Does She feel the weight of the almighty power entrusted to her? Does it Humble her? Does it make Her stronger? Does She feel rage at those who dare hurt her children? Does She ache to comfort them?

If no, shouldn’t She?

And if yes, how does She bear it?

So many questions that only one could answer. The All-knowing, the All-wise, the All-powerful, the Author of All Things, the Alpha and the Omega, the Infinite Spirit who is in the very air that fills his lungs as he attempts to tamp down his rage and his fear and his sadness.

And even within him, She is, once again, silent.

Aziraphale understands with devastating clarity just how Crowley fell.

“I’ll be right back,” Aziraphale repeats. He kisses Crowley’s hand, releases his fingers, and then kisses him lightly on the lips. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulls on his his coat and heads to the front of the shop. “I’m afraid we are most definitely closed,” he says, “and I don’t appreciate you violating the sign and the locked door that clearly indicated as such.”

“I’ll only be a minute, then I’ll be out of your hair for another millennia.”

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale reaches inside of himself to draw upon the confident, aloof disdain he images Crowley displayed when he went to Heaven to take his punishment for him. “I thought we had come to an agreement.”

“We did, but you know Heaven,” Gabriel says. He opens up his briefcase. “Always paperwork involved.”

Aziraphale takes the pile of papers from him and skims through them. “A contract?”

“Simply putting in writing what you requested.” Gabriel removes a fountain pen from his coat pocket and hands it to Aziraphale. “You are hereby removed of all responsibilities as a Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and, as such, will be stripped of all rights and privileges associated with the position, for the duration of 1,000 years, when terms may be renegotiated with the consent of both parties.”

“I don’t recall agreeing to a term limit,” Aziraphale says.

Gabriel shrugs. “Standard Celestial Resources policy. All heavenly contracts have to have term limits.”

“You’ll excuse me as I read this closely, then,” Aziraphale says, “as I don’t believe there’s anything remotely standard about this situation.”

“Suit yourself,” Gabriel says. “Although I’m sure you’ll find the contract more than fair.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand why there needs to be a contract at all,” Aziraphale says, “and, frankly, I’m surprised you appeared to deliver it, what with how you nearly discorporated when I merely blew a bit of fire in your general direction.”

Something flickers in Gabriel’s violet eyes, and Aziraphale is pleased to note it rather resembles fear. “I oversee all changes in angelic status.”

Aziraphale frowns. “Am I to take it then that you require all fallen angels to sign such a contract?”

“Of course not,” Gabriel scoffs. “They have no say in the matter. Once an angel is fallen, they’ve fallen. A standard proclamation banning them from the Kingdom of Heaven is more than sufficient to fulfill all the CR requirements.”

“So you damn them to eternal hellfire without even presenting them the opportunity to please their case?”

Gabriel heaves a great sigh and rolls his eyes. “I should have known you’d turn into some demon’s rights activist.”

Aziraphale draws himself to his full height. He no longer has his flaming sword, but in his mind, he is holding it, preparing to charge into battle. “Answer the question, Gabriel.”

“Technically there is an appeals process where the accused would present their case, but generally speaking, the fallen aren’t especially eager to reclaim their seat in Heaven.”

“But some have.”

“Some is probably an exaggeration.”

“One?” Aziraphale asks. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear Gabriel say it.

Gabriel, too, finally seems to understand where the conversation is leading. “Listen, Aziraphale, if this is some bargaining ploy to get your buddy Crowley back into Heaven, it won’t work. Not after all the two of you have done.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Aziraphale says. “Crowley deserves better.”

It takes a moment for Gabriel to process Aziraphale’s words, and when he does, he begins sputtering indignantly. Aziraphale holds up a hand.

“And, for the record, or, I suppose, CR’s records, Crowley is not my buddy. He’s my partner.”

Gabriel’s eyes grow wide. “Being on earth for so long has ruined you, Aziraphale. I don’t even know who you are anymore. Or what you are.”

“Well, whatever I am, I’m afraid this contract simply won’t work for me,” Aziraphale says. He blows a long puff of air onto the papers, and they disintegrate into a pile of ash that slips through his fingers and onto the floor. “But I’m happy to provide a signed proclamation for Celestial Resources. Just to keep everything in order, of course.”

He finds a piece of paper and takes his time writing out what he is willing to give. He wants to drag it out even longer, because he’s enjoying how with each second Gabriel grows more uncomfortable, but he is also aware he is keeping Crowley waiting. Finally, with a flourish, he hands the paper to Gabriel.

“I, Aziraphale, Principality and Guardian of the Eastern Gate, shall retain all of my powers, and live a free life entirely of my choosing, and Heaven shall leave me and my loved ones in peace, in perpetuity,” Gabriel reads aloud. “Aziraphale, come on. You have to give us something.”

“I believe I’ve given you quite enough,” Aziraphale says. “Now leave.”

“CR will never accept this. It’s unheard of.”

“As are, I’m sure, most things written about me in my file,” says Aziraphale. “Would you care to test me? See what other things might be unheard of?”

Gabriel tucks the paper into his briefcase. “Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

“Do let CR know if they have any follow up questions, they should send them by way of a dove message,” Aziraphale says. “I won’t have any other angels stepping into this bookshop again.”

Gabriel says nothing, just closes his briefcase and turns toward the door.

“Oh, and Gabriel? You really should stop with that dreadful whistling habit. Terribly uncouth. One might think you were a human child.”

Gabriel freezes for a moment, then quickly exits the shop.

Aziraphale closes his eyes, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. “Crowley,” he calls out as he miracles the door locked, “all is well.”

He heads to the back of the shop, expecting to see Crowley right where he left him, sitting frozen on the couch. When he doesn’t see him, he briefly panics, until he realizes Crowley is just around the corner, intently examining the books on a bookshelf, running a long finger across their spines.

“Crowley,” he repeats, “our visitor is gone.”

“Is he now?” Crowley asks absently.

“And he won’t be back.”

“Hmmm.”

“Crowley.”

“You know, Aziraphale, you really ought to start organizing your books better,” says Crowley. “You have Austen right next to Fitzgerald, and then this gigantic section by Wilde, including some duplicates, might I add. I can’t tell if they’re supposed to be arranged alphabetically by author, or chronologically by the date published, or written, perhaps year written. Or if they’re just by color. Should we move all the blues to be together? Make a rainbow of books, wouldn’t that be stunning?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and places a soft hand on top of Crowley’s. “Let’s leave the books for a moment.”

Crowley exhales, and when he does, his shoulders stay fallen. Slowly, he nods.

“Good, that’s a good dear,” Aziraphale says, and leads him back to the couch.

They are in the same position as they were before Gabriel arrived, in their usual spots on the couch. Their bodies are touching, and Aziraphale is holding Crowley’s hand. But there is something heavy between them, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to break through to reach the one who has so thoroughly captured his heart and soul.

He doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation. He doesn’t know how. Six thousand years knowing each other, of being together through great floods and world wars and even a would-be Armageddon, and they’d never quite been in a situation like this. He can’t imagine Crowley being comfortable with anything he wants to say. He might shout, or storm out. He might threaten to never return. And he very well might not.

But this has gone on long enough. And now that Aziraphale has some knowledge as to the cause of Crowley’s suffering, to leave him to do so alone feels colossally unkind.

And if Crowley can be brave enough to face this every day, on his own, then Aziraphale can be brave enough to begin a conversation.

“That was Gabriel,” he begins. It’s a statement, a fact. A natural place to start. “He had some paperwork he wanted me to sign related to, ah, our agreement.”

Crowley snorts. “Just like Heaven.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale pauses. “Crowley, was Gabriel the one who cast you out of Heaven?”

Crowley stiffens. “In a manner of speaking, yes, I suppose.”

“They banished all of you during the Great War, and you filed an appeal,” Aziraphale says. “You told them that all you ever did was ask questions, that you’d done nothing wrong. And Gabriel --”

“Denied my appeal, yes.” He adopts a mocking tone. “On account that if I didn’t see I had done anything wrong, I clearly proved their point that I did not belong in Heaven.”

Crowley abruptly stands. His entire body is trembling, and he doesn’t look at Aziraphale. “I had a day. One day, to gather evidence that I did not deserve to fall. They said God Herself would serve as judge. And when I got there, there’s no God. There’s not even the bloody Metatron. It’s just Gabriel. Smiling. And he lets me speak for hours and hours, makes a huge show of reviewing my piles of evidence, then disappears to ‘deliberate.’”

He shakes his head and turns to face Aziraphale. He takes off his sunglasses and wipes his hands down his face, and when he’s done, Aziraphale can see that his eyes are watery and red-rimmed. “I stood there, waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and the entire time I could hear him whistling. Whistling, Aziraphale, like a bloody canary. And I knew, I knew the entire thing was a farce, but they wanted to toy with me. To play with me for their own amusement before damning me.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes.

“I didn’t -- I wasn’t -- I can still hear -- Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice breaks, and he crumbles, falling to his knees in front of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale draws him in close, one arm around his back, the other running through Crowley’s hair in a way he knows he finds soothing. “Shhh, Crowley, my love. It’s all right. I understand. Shhh.”

Crowley’s sobs are loud, and wrenching, violently born out of the rawest parts of his soul. He clings to Aziraphale, buries his face in his neck, releasing six thousand years’ worth of anger, devastation, fear, and betrayal into the arms of the one who loves him.

Aziraphale drops down off the couch to the floor and spreads his legs so he can pull Crowley closer to him. He rocks him gently, like a child, murmuring soft words of comfort into his ear. They stay in this position for so long that his back starts to ache, but he would gladly stay here, just like this, for all eternity, if it might ease some of the pain Crowley has been harboring.

A long time later, when Aziraphale’s coat is drenched at the shoulder and neck wet with snot and tears, Crowley sniffs and looks up. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Nonsense, my dear,” Aziraphale says. He takes his handkerchief out of his coat pocket and gently dabs the tears off Crowley’s face. “It’s not good to keep all that inside of you for so long. You were overdue for a release.”

Crowley smiles weakly and takes the handkerchief from him. “Made a right mess of you,” he says, wiping Aziraphale’s neck. “Do you want me to miracle away the stains on your coat?”

“It’ll be fine.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Right pathetic, for one,” Crowley says. “Bit humiliating to have a meltdown over some bloody whistling. Especially brought on by that stuffed shirt of an archangel.”

“That so called archangel was deliberately, unforgivably cruel to you at an intensely vulnerable moment,” Aziraphale says. “He caused you indescribable pain and openly took pleasure in it. It’s no small wonder that reminders of it would cause such a visceral reaction in you.”

“Even after six thousand years? A year, sure. A decade, maybe, if you’re soft. Six thousand years?” Crowley scoffs.

“Six thousand years of having to live with the consequences of that day. Six thousand years of reliving that moment. And with no one else in the universe who truly understands. No one to share the burden.” Aziraphale takes Crowley’s face in his hands. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, especially in front of me, do you understand?”

Crowley looks down. “You do help, you know.”

“Is that so?”

“Sometimes, if I focus on something that… that makes me feel… the opposite, it helps steady me.”

“Like saying my name?” Aziraphale asks softly.

Crowley nods. “Or reminding myself where I am… I try to memorize every detail of this shop, every trinket, every book, so if I… lose myself, I can instead imagine I’m here, in a place where I am…” His voice trails off.

Aziraphale kisses one hand. “A place where you are safe.” A kiss to the other. “A place where you are loved.” And a kiss on his brow. “And a place where you are always, always wanted.”

Tears fill Crowley’s eyes once more but don’t quite fall. “I know this is the part where I’m supposed to say something meaningful and profound, but I’m still feeling a bit shaky. I know there was never any real danger and there’s nothing more they can do, it’s just… once it starts, I have to ride it out. And now it’s rather like the aftershock of an earthquake. Still just rippling through.”

“That’s all right.” Aziraphale draws Crowley in so he’s nearly sitting on his lap and returns to stroking his hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Aziraphale,” he murmurs as he cuddles closer.

It’s one word, a simple declaration of his name, one that’s been directed at him hundreds of thousands of time. And yet now in it Aziraphale hears so much more. A plea for mercy, for understanding, for shelter. A desire to be safe and loved and needed, exactly how he is. A need to grow.

A prayer to Aziraphale, in his name, and in his name alone.

God may not have been able to provide Crowley with all these things he so desperately wanted, but Aziraphale can offer them in droves. Freely, without hesitation or regret. In a way that only he, Aziraphale, the only one whom Crowley believes in, can provide.

And he, who has found all these things and more in loving Crowley, knows all he gives will be returned to him tenfold.

A ray of soft light streams in through the window.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the top of Crowley’s head.

They shall not want.

#Good Omens #Aziraphale x Crowley #ineffable husbands #lizardkingeliot #my fic #anyway this fic was basically my therapy before I get into therapy so #I know the content may be heavy but I promise overall emotion is just gentle tenderness

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aplusjaybirdie · 5 years

Text

like real people do

read on ao3 here. @genderqueercrowley asked to see it so here you are! I’m done with it finally! Beta’d by @vowsatthewake

“Aziraphale, you bloody genius, I could kiss you!” Crowley exclaims, grin wide and free, and filled with a light that should be impossible for a demon. Life pauses for a moment, as he realizes the implications of what he’d said. Aziraphale pauses, wine-deep eyes lifting briefly up at Crowley, his soft lips barely parted, hair curling like a halo around him, catching the weak London sunlight filtering through the bookstore window and catching it alight with holy fire. Crowley opens his mouth too, though it would hurt like Falling had, did, to apologize, to reign himself back in, like he’s done so many times before, like both of them had done so many times before. Six thousand years of love and some of it had to spill out eventually, like wine out of a cup when the pourer is rather drunk, though usually only after the two of them had consumed a fair amount of alcohol. The two beings had gotten rather good at tactfully dancing around it, or reasoning around it, talking it over to convince the other (themeslves) that it had been nothing, a drunken slip of the tongue.

“Alright,” Aziraphale says, softly, barely a hint of vibration on the air, spoken like anything louder would bring down the wrath of Heaven and Hell.

And once, it might have, Crowley reflects, before the Armageddon’t.

Crowley does not need to breathe, but at this moment, this impossible, incredible, ineffable moment, it is the only thing he can do, mouth hanging open.

In. Out.

Aziraphale is pointedly not looking at Crowley’s eyes, staring determinedly at his chin instead. His back, however, is as firm as can be, and he is settled in his soft armchair like a king, hands lightly lying on the ends of the armrests, his fingers gently braced against the chair. He is assured in this; a general whose armies are merely waiting for the clarion call. There is no movement, no hesitation or regret, and in between breaths Crowley realizes three things.

In. Out.

First, that Aziraphale has finally caught up to Crowley, and in fact, Crowley realizes with a pleasant jolt to his stomach, like reaching the top of a roller coaster, teetering in the space-time between heartbeats before plunging down, knowing that you will survive and yet - that Aziraphale might be going rather faster.

In. Out .

Second, that were Crowley to release the moment like a firefly from a jar, Aziraphale would let him. The days would keep on turning, the earth would keep spinning on its axis, and the Ineffable Plan would keep being, well, ineffable.

In. Out.

Third, if Crowley was to replay the scene-though with the roles reversed- from so many years ago, where, in an old black Bentley that had survived for a century without even a scratch, he had been given something wholly Aziraphale, been trusted with something that could drag them apart forever, wrapped in a reminder, a soft, desperate tartan grasping, a Pandora’s Box that would plead for its life as a fool opened its lid, but with a Hope, a Maybe In the Future Invitation, trailing like smoke from dry ice from a thermos of the most blessed holy water. Where he had offered the closest thing he could give in return, a lift , and if he was to play out his part in the give and take and “temptation accomplished” and “hereditary enemies” and curl Aziraphale’s fingers back around the hope, the possibility in his extended palm and say “I can’t,” there might not be another chance for the rest of their lives.

In. Out.

Aziraphale is still staring resolutely at Crowley’s chin, and Crowley realizes that he had been sitting there long enough that it would be quite nerve-wracking for a being that has just put the friendship of his best friend, his only friend, now that Aziraphale has been forcibly separated from the Host(Crowley’s fault, a small voice in the back of his head whispers, perhaps Aziraphale would never have been pushed away from Heaven like a sticky child peeled off a leg). Though Aziraphale is sitting as steadfastly as ever, gaze still proud, still unflinching, Crowley’s eyes track the bob of Aziraphale’s Adam's Apple- what a ridiculous name- as he swallows almost imperceptibly.

Crowley has Made a Choice. If he is to Fall Again (but he has been Falling in Love for so many years, centuries, millennia), it will not be a vague saunter downwards. It will be a purposeful march to arms, to serve in the armies of Their Side, the only side that matters anymore. The rallying cry of “to Aziraphale!” has been shouted and Crowley would rather be damned- again- than leave him to fight whatever battles he must alone.

Aziraphale did not seem to have reacted to Crowley as he smoothly, though not necessarily without great difficulty, removed his sunglasses and thus pulling away the emotional wall that is always in place, unless he is drunk or alone or both, or on very rare occasions otherwise. He leans in, moving like he is in a dream, and his somewhat less plush chair finds itself a great deal closer to Aziraphale than it had been previously, allowing his palm, miraculously free of the sweat that had beaded there in just a few moments ago, a few wingbeats of soaring, falling, twisting thoughts, to rest on Aziraphale’s cheek. His fingers, long and thin and as bony as a skeleton’s(Aziraphale had once called them slender, beaming fondly as he held the tips of Crowley’s fingers in his own. Although both of them had been drunk at the time, Aziraphale had been rather more so, and Crowley had done his best to convince his heart that if it was going to beat so fast it might as well not beat at all) were allowed to tenderly wrap one golden-white curl around themselves, and somehow, miraculously, Crowley was allowed to purposefully (slowly, hesitantly, seeking permission the whole while, yes, but purposefully) march his lips on a pilgrimage to Aziraphale’s own holy pair.

At some point, Aziraphale’s eyes, thick with some undefinable emotion, had transferred from Crowley’s chin- no, not his chin, his lips - to Crowley’s eyes, and Crowley is reminded yet again that he is a Principality, a Nation Unto Himself, and thus is capable of moving with all the undeniable deliberateness of its ruler as he moves to meet Crowley in a kiss as soft as a rumble of thunder in the distance, followed- or, do they happen in the same moment? who can tell- by an arc of wondrous electricity, searing and sweet, along the places where Crowley’s atoms meet Aziraphale’s atoms and it feels like nothing has since Crowley spread stardust through the heavens, so many, many years ago.

Like any lightning bolt worth it’s stuff, the kiss is too short to really be comprehended, leaving behind only ghostly after images and a brief whirl of panic in which one's brain must catch up to the fact that it is still in fact in existence, and has not been blotted out for daring to be the tallest thing, the most favourable target around. Crowley’s brain, despite being of an altogether different and more powerful type than usual humans’, went through the same process, thudding about in a trembling, wild panic that brought to mind- well, a mind that was not struggling to catch up with six thousand years worth of love being wrestled and tugged and squashed down and suddenly freed in an instantaneous rush- the origin of the word “panic,” back to the Greeks and the half-goat immortal Pan, who actually happened to be a particularly wild demon who, unsurprisingly, as he was a demon, hated Crowley.

Aziraphale’s eyes had fluttered mostly closed, and one of his hands had settled on Crowley’s hand-the one resting on Aziraphale’s cheek- with the grace and warm regality the hand’s owner had used when on his chair, the other tangling and lacing and tangling again in Crowley’s other hand, his somewhat shorter and infinitely warmer fingers possessive with Crowley’s. He is mine, said his hands, and nothing could take him away from me.

Aziraphale had once pulled Crowley along with him to one of the original performances of Romeo and Juliet. It was exactly the sort of thing any proper demon would scorn and scoff at, and so perhaps that was why something of it had lodged itself in Crowley’s heart. He’d seen it dozens of times throughout the centuries, and had it read to him once otherwise, in secret, stolen moments, hiding away from everyone, those who might have ever cared most of all, and memorized it as quickly as he could, lining his soul with it’s gentle sighs.

(He still absolutely could not stand the other tragedies of Shakespeare, and overall thought the funny ones much more deserving of attention.)

Whatever the cause of Crowley’s shaking voice, the Bard Himself would have been moved to tears with the tenderness with which Crowley and Aziraphale held each other, the vulnerability of voices that shook themselves into stability. Their faces were inches apart, if that, and each murmured word puffed against the others’ face, caressing them and warming them with love.

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:” Crowley’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, the bursting of his heart prolonging the s’s into an adoring hiss. “My lips, two blushing pilgrims stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Aziraphale was smiling, soft lips curving up like a beam of sunlight- or moonlight, who can tell the difference after all? Crowley is in love- and if Crowley’s voice was a half-remembered dream brought to life, then Aziraphale’s was a loving caress, sure and impossibly soft, a fire in a hearth, tamed only because he wanted it to be, wanted to warm Crowley and bring him joy, a scratch of loving laughter because here was his demon, reciting him love poetry because who were the original star crossed lovers if not they?

“Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this. For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,” here he moved his hand, and Crowley’s too, so that their palms hung in the air against each other, fingers entwined, “and palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.”

Crowley’s throat was dry.

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?” he croaks, heart beating fiercely , and he is glad that he does not technically need his heart to survive because he does not think it’s working correctly.

“Ay, pilgrim,” says Aziraphale, softly earnest and softly, fondly amused in one. “Lips that they must use in prayer.”

“O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do.” Crowley is not sure when, if, his words and Romeo’s became one, a needing keen, desperate want lying like a snake waiting for the moment to bite Orpheus’s bride and send her down to the Underworld, to Crowley, to keep Aziraphale there with him forever- “They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

They kiss, again, and it is just as much of a sweet shock as when Adam first came, as much as a gift as the first rain, as much as a wonder and a fierce delight as the first of anything, and all of the faith Crowley has lost is exalting in the streets of his own personal path from quiet despair.

It is rather longer than their first kiss.

Aziraphale is an excellent kisser, and Crowley is more than happy to let him take the lead. One hand stays, snaring Crowley’s hand, and the other moves from Aziraphale’s cheek down to Crowley’s side, skimming over his jacket and coming to rest on Crowley’s waist, pulling him as close as possible without toppling Crowley out of his chair. Then Aziraphale nips Crowley’s lips and Crowley involuntarily- though not unwillingly- gasps his mouth open and for a single starstruck moment, a fraction of the time it takes to blink- not that either of them were blinking, eyes closed into the kiss- they stand on a cliff edge and then Crowley’s mouth is burning with something with just a tinge of holiness, a brilliant spark that Crowley couldn’t imagine parting with, even if he were to dissolve into a demonic puddle, which he feels he is dangerously close to. Not because of Aziraphale’s holy saliva, but because, despite all his bluster and posing and brag, Crowley is ultimately a very sensitive being and being kissed so thoroughly is quite undoing him. Aziraphale does not have a snake tongue, though Crowley could have been fooled. It is light and nimble in Crowley’s mouth, darting around for surely not enough time, an eternity that feels like an instant, and Crowley misses its presence terribly in the second or so it takes Aziraphale to move his lips- which Crowley realizes taste of ozone and vanilla chapstick, a touch of wine(neither of them are drunk, and Crowley is glad) and something intensely older, something inherently Aziraphale, from Crowley’s lips to the corner of skin next to them, open-mouthed like he’s delivering a benediction(and being blessed had never been so wonderful, not for an angel and certainly not for a demon) and Aziraphale is pressing passionately precise kisses down Crowley’s face, onto his neck. He pauses for a moment at the hollow of Crowley’s throat, and it is the opposite of Falling. Perhaps, the small part of Crowley not currently occupied with the angel, his angel, kissing him like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, muses, all that is needed to turn a demon into an angel is love, true and angelic and specific love directed full force onto them, and then that small part of his brain joins the rest of it, exalting wholly in the moment. And then joins in protesting, like a wave crashing against the immovable bone-rocks of the beach, when Aziraphale stops. His thoughts had been mostly compressed into emotion, to allow for him to process the sheer amount of information and sensations flowing through his nerves. So it took some time- not a lot, mind you, but any amount of time is a lot during possibly the most important moment of your six thousand year life- for Crowley to start properly working again, and so as Aziraphale rose his head back to the level of Crowley’s, all he could manage was a sound that was most assuredly not a whimper, nor a whine(at least if you were to ask Crowley about it later), but more of a “ngk.”

Aziraphale’s cheek was warm and pink under Crowley’s hand, his breath was a little heavy, and his eyes shone like stars pulled from the undeserving heavens.

“Aziraphale, I-“ Crowley can hardly speak. He doesn’t want this moment to ever end, can’t bear to imagine what it would be like to exist without Aziraphale’s hand in his, without Aziraphale’s lips on his.

“My darling, my dearest,” murmurs Aziraphale. “My demon.” He is fond, and not long ago(no, not long at all) Crowley would have resented being called something so soppily un-demonic as “darling” but that was then and this is now. Crowley would endure a “sweetie tums” if it was Aziraphale speaking. Maybe. Well, maybe not that particular pet name; even if Hell no longer wants anything to do with him he is still a demon and he does have some self respect and Aziraphale is pulling Crowley out of his chair and onto Aziraphale’s, except the chair was not of a size that they could sit next to each other on it(funny, Crowley could have sworn that it was bigger, not that he was complaining) and so Crowley ends up kissing Aziraphale like it’s the end of the world from the angel’s lap, both of his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, fingers running through almost white curls and one of Aziraphale’s hands pressing warmly on his waist, and the other on his back, pushing Crowley in even closer to Aziraphale. Everywhere that Crowley’s skin touches Aziraphale’s there are intense tingles, like his entire body had fallen asleep and was only just now waking up. Crowley has recovered enough of his usual swagger to put his snake tongue to good use, and Aziraphale is matching him. Finally, they are going the same speed, and the wait is worth it. They are caught in a bubble of time that is purely their own, existing solely in the arms of the other. Like two halves of the same soul, bright and lasting and burning with infinite starfire. “I love you,” says Crowley. “I love you, I love you, I love you-“

“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” replies Aziraphale, pulling from his beloved books to express what he alone cannot find the words to describe. “I would love you if I never saw you again, and I would love you if I saw you every Tuesday.” Aziraphale is pressing kisses to Crowley in between quotations. “I’ve never had a moment’s doubt. I love you. I believe in you completely. You are my dearest one. My reason for life. I love you, Crowley,” and all the while, Crowley melted into Aziraphale. Demons are not used to really any amount of love, and though Crowley was more used to it than most, as he had been living with a literal being of love for several millennia, he was being inundated with the type of love he didn’t think he’d ever felt in such focus, not in Hell, not on Earth, and his memories of Heaven were foggy enough if he had felt it he couldn’t remember and so it didn’t count, and Crowley was nearing the point where he might just turn into a snake(which would be rather embarrassing) and so Crowley shut up the angel as effectively as he could by kissing him even harder than he had before and using all of his devilish wiles available, though admittedly he didn’t have much experience with this sort of thing.

Aziraphale shut up.

Which of course meant that was the moment that the bookshop doorbell rang at that moment, and Aziraphale, hardly breaking stride, snapped the sign on the door from begrudgingly open to happily closed and called towards the entrance from among where they draped around each other somewhere among the stacks,

“We’re closed!” Without waiting for confirmation that’s whoever it is has left(or rather, found themselves roughly shoved outside the door, in accordance with the sign), he turns back to Crowley, deepening the kiss, grabbing lapels and twisting fabric, pulling both of them to their feet with reckless and purposeful abandon. Every line of them scorched in a most delightful way, tingling and roaring and crashing within and around them like a tempest. Lost in each other, bits of their true forms begin to leak into the physical realm. Wings sprout from their backs with a contented, aching gasp. A nimbus of eternal, ephemeral energy lances around Aziraphale, crackling pleasantly where his skin meets Crowley’s, whose hands have slipped under Aziraphale’s creamy soft, oversized knit sweater. His fingers are rubbing little circles, little pieces of golden forever, into Aziraphale’s skin, like watching an hourglass and tipping it over with just enough sand left in the top that it never ran out. Scales, black as an oil slick, dance along Crowley’s spine, and form constellations on his shoulders, hiding beneath a leather jacket and silky smooth shirt. The whites of Crowley’s eyes disappear- their owner has better things to think of- and under his eyelids they shine with an inner light, winging their way to the height of joy. There are no words for this moment, but if Aziraphale were to try to voice what could only be described as ineffable, every word would ring with a hundred holy chords, a hundred hallelujahs, their nuances and trembling songs inaudible to the mortal ear, overlapping in whispers and yells and gentle screams in languages that haven’t existed in millennia, that won’t exist for millennia, in tongues that would break minds and addle thoughts into a twisting, writhing mass, the bastard children of Babel and things far older. The two of them hold infinity in the palms of their hands, and an hour would hold eternity, if they asked.

They had started somewhere in the twisting, purposefully labyrinthine shelves of the book shop, lazily filling out crosswords from local papers and sharing smiles over hot chocolate with too many marshmallows. Evidence of the rest of the day could be found in the books, knocked from the shelves and hastily miracled back into place and then knocked again, Aziraphale’s beloved jacket, thrown over a chair, black and white feathers scattered- one here, one there, three a few feet away, and finally in an angel and a demon snuggled together on a couch in the back room of a bookstore that ran odd hours and always smelled vaguely molding, stealing kisses and giggling at each other as late-night television quietly mumbled on an old box set, complaining that no one was paying it attention.

“I didn’t realize you remembered that much about Romeo and Juliet,” said the angel, gently playing with the edge of the demon’s sleeve, dark black- except when it caught the light just right, revealing a glowing grey- and all sharp edges and hard lines- until you touched it, when it became soft as a lover’s sigh, soft as a lamb in Eden.

“Well,” said the demon, clearing his throat. “I may have seen it a few times over the centuries.”

“Enough times to have it memorized?” asked Aziraphale, with the kind of voice that could not be used without a raised eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like the tragedies.”

“I don’t!” Crowley said hastily. “I just-” His voice softened. “It reminded me of us.”

“You old softie,” teased Aziraphale, kissing Crowley’s cheek.

“Oi, I’m a demon , I’m not soft,” groused Crowley, smiling. “Just very, very in love.” And he kissed Aziraphale back, this time on the lips.

Lovers have been feeding each other sweetly sickening coos since the beginning of time. Aziraphale and Crowley had watched, silently, as Adam and Eve whispered sweet nothings to each other, and both had grimaced slightly and turned away as nothings had progressed into rather loud and vigorous somethings.

However, nothings were more than enough to lull one particular demon into sleep, safe in the arms of his beloved like he was nowhere else, and Aziraphale was more than happy to play sentinel.

After all, he was a Principality, a Nation Unto Himself, and a good ruler will always take care of his own.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #n writes #good omens fic #i cant believe i actually wrote the words ‘holy saliva’

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awkwardlee-me · 5 years

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My Top Ten Characters

So I’ve been seeing theses ‘Top Ten Characters From Anything’ posts all over this site and since I only have one friend that interacts with me here, I’m taking it upon myself to make my own list even though no one will really see it. But anyway, here’s my Top Ten Characters. (And their not in any particular order)

Crowley (Good Omens)

I’m still fairly new to this fandom but I love David Tenant so I had to watch it. But despite Crowley being played by David, he’s still my favorite. Because after all he’s been through with heaven and falling, he still sees the good in humans. It’s like he’s never really lost his angel ways but he’s also not perfect. He’s just mischievous. He doesn’t fit in with heaven because of it but he also doesn’t really fit Hell’s requirements either because he’s not particularly evil. He was only curious. And to form a bond with an angel like that even though he knows they can be cruel. He’s charger just stuck with me with everything he does. The way he’s constantly saving or pleasing Aziraphale or his walk or the copious amounts of Queen songs or even just his eyes. I just adore him.

Steve Harrington (Stranger Things)

I’ve been deeply attached to this show from the beginning and I will admit, I hated Steve in the first season. Yes, he’s pretty, but he was a complete douchebag. But what stuck with me is his complete 180 with his character development. He knew what he had done was wrong and he worked to fix it, like helping clean the theater sign and personally going to the Byers’ house to apologize. And even though Nancy didn’t love him, he never stopped loving her. But he was respectful about it. Yeah, he was hurt, but he backed off and just wanted her to be happy. Season one Steve would’ve yelled and picked a fight with Johnathan again. And the babysitter roll! My god that’s my favorite part. He’s so good with the kids but in a more down-to-their-level way than compared to Joyce. He fits right in with their dynamic but wil also do anything to protect them, like getting the shit kicked out of him by Billy or getting beat by Russians to avoid endangering them or even smashing a car into Billy’s car. He’s shown time and time again that he’s willing to do anything to protect them and I love him for that. Steve’s just the best.

Will Byers (Stranger Things)

This kid never ceases to amaze me. I’ve been able to relate to Will more than any other character I’ve ever seen but obviously not because of the whole Upside Down thing. Being part of a tight knit group is great but it can have its downs. Sometimes you feel left out because the others are focused on other things, like significant others. I’ve always felt like I’ve been the last one to grow up in my group and it’s hard to handle when everyone else around you is moving on with their lives while you’re stuck wanting things to go back to normal. It’s goes beyond just wanting to stay a kid and play games. It’s wanting the familiar to stay and to be able to feel safe longer. So seeing Will go through the same struggle was relieving in a way that no other show or movie had been able to do for me. That and his constant care for his family, like asking if Johnathan’s hand was okay while Will himself was in the fucking hospital. I’ve always been the type of person to shove my shit aside to make sure others are okay so seeing that in a character is always nice to know you’re not alone.

Peter Parker (Marvel)

Spider-Man has been a character I’ve admired since I first saw Toby’s version. He was the first super hero I ever saw so of course he became my favorite. I wanted to be just like him and in a way, I still do. I’ve always admired how much he cares for others and how time and time again he would do anything to protect anyone. He never did it for the fam or anything, just because he felt like he needed to because he had the ability to. And I feel like that’s something we all need to think about. If we have the ability to make change and to make other people’s lives better in any way, we need to. Because it’s our job to be there for each other. Peter Parker will always have a spot in my heart and I will continue to love any version of him they create.

Tony Stark (Marvel)

Tony Stark is a close second after Peter Parker in terms of Marvel characters. He was the second super hero I was introduced to that really stuck with me. I could go on and on about how I admire this man and everything he’s done to turn his life around and everything. But the main reason I love him so much is because it was one of the first movies my dad and I could really bond over. That’s really what it boils down to. We used to watch it all the time because he was my Dad’s favorite super hero (until he left me to go love Hulk lol). There are many reasons I love Tony but I just leave it at that.

Shawn Spencer (Psych)

This is a little more of a goofy one but hear me out. This show in general has a lot of meaning to me because it’s what my mom and I bonded over. We used to have competitions to see who could find the most pineapples in every episode when we’d have marathons. I know just about every episode by heart. Shawn has been one of those characters that just brightens my day with funny little gags or references that most of the time, just go right over my head.

Burton Guster (Psych)

Because you can’t have one without the other. Shawn and Gus will always be my favorite duo. They’re always together and I’ve always wanted a friendship like they have. Shawn may be the funny and rambunctious one, but Gus is the more calculated one that gets in way over his head and ends up freaking out. The pair is like my brain. Part of me wants to go wild and do whatever while the other part is anxious of the consequences. At least that’s how I’ve always seen it.

Chandler Bing (Friends)

While this show is on the funnier side too, I’ve related to Chandler a lot. He’s got a lot of fears hidden away that are due to serious stuff that’s happened to him and like me, he uses humor as a way to cope or even hide the things that bother him or make him incredibly anxious. It’s like a nervous tick but instead of a physical tick, you crack poorly timed jokes. For a character to show that, it makes me really happy to know I’m not alone on that either.

The Doctor (Doctor Who)

I will always love the Doctor. Ten is my favorite but I love them all. I love everything they stand for and everything they do to help others. I admire them greatly and I’ve wished for years that I could go off and travel with the Doctor because how fun and terrifying would that be? I could gush all day about the Doctor but I’m spare you.

Falkor (The Neverending Story)

Last but not least, Falkor the luck dragon. Weird, I know, but I can’t help it. This movie was my childhood. I used to watch it on repeat despite the fact that the wolf gave me nightmares and was the reason I was scared of the dark for so long. But Falkor kinda stuck on me. I remember running around outside and yelling Falkor to the sky in the hopes of him appearing and taking me away. I adored him as a kid! And this movie will always have a place in my heart.

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