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thesherrinfordfacility · 8 months

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the s2 endgame

an incredibly long post that i will not apologise for but does contain multiple frames of michael sheens face, so-

the first beat, for me, that truly leads up to the kiss is when aziraphale says to crowley, "i don't think you understand what im offering you." because whilst im sure in part aziraphale was referring to the offer of restoration and - as he perceived it - what it meant for crowley (and that's what crowley denied with "i understand. i think i understand a whole lot better than you do."), i think aziraphale truly meant that crowley didn't understand what the restoration could give them. to restore crowley meant that aziraphale could give all of himself to crowley, with no fear of reprisal or comeuppance like they've had to suffer for their entire existence; "pretending that we aren't".

it meant that they could be safe, together, as two angels, and not on opposite sides in the eyes of heaven. they could work together to make things better, but they would be together. crowley was completely justified in refusing the offer, based on his own trauma and pain that heaven unforgivably dealt to him, but aziraphale wasn't necessarily asking crowley to forget or forgive that; but instead to be with aziraphale, aziraphale completely as he is with nothing hidden, nothing repressed, and nothing sequestered away in fear of retribution from heaven - or indeed in fear of rejection from crowley.

so when crowley said he understood more than aziraphale did, i imagine that meant to aziraphale that crowley did indeed see all of that, had heard aziraphale and knew what aziraphale was offering, the security and freedom as aziraphale saw it, but didn't want it - didnt want aziraphale, didn't want that version of us - anyway. crowley didn't mean it that way, of course; he meant he knew that the restoration would trap him, try to make him into an angel he no longer knew or wanted to be, and was rejecting what he thought aziraphale wanted him to be.

but i personally can't conceive any notion where aziraphale would ever have thought this - he's fallen for the not-quite-angel-not-quite-demon that crowley is now - why can't crowley see that? he just wants to give him back the same peace and joy that he had before the fall, but naively cant understand that being an angel doesn't make it so. it's not about being an angel, for aziraphale, but what being an angel could return to crowley... that it could fix the wounds that the fall left behind.

but here we arrive at "no nightingales". given the symbolism in popular culture and in mythology behind the nightingale, and the context of the nightingale in their story, it seems to me like crowley is saying that the conversation that has just transpired between them has broken something. and really broken something. it hasn't broken the love, per se - that's still there - but it's led to their own personal tragedy. their conflicting wants and needs have led to the downfall. that in crowley's eyes, there isn't a way to repair the damage that has been done. he doesn't even qualify that it's 'no nightingales singing', but the full absence of them, meaning that this has changed - poisoned - every chance of what could have been.

"we could have been us" compounds this; that in crowley's mind, there is no possibility of this now. that he knows what aziraphale will decide, what he will choose, and knows that he has already lost; and he's placing all of it at aziraphale's feet. that if the only way to see them be together is to be restored, to return to heaven, then crowley can't and will not do it - he doesn't understand why aziraphale would even entertain the thought and sees it as a reflection of aziraphale's distain for his current self.

aziraphale however sees it as an opportunity to ensure that they are safe in perpetuity, and wants to reverse the fall because the happiness and joy that he saw before is what he wants for crowley now, not realising that the two are, as of now, currently incompatible. so this line is, for aziraphale, the final deathblow; that there is no way back from this, the chance has faded to nothing even if the love between them remains - and they'll never get back the 'us' that existed before the event, let alone the 'us' that they both want now.

the wave hits aziraphale and bowls him over, makes him stagger. what he has been wanting - but couldn't initiate out of fear - is now completely impossible and will never happen. his face crumples, and he turns away, mirrors crowley in not looking at him, not letting him see the vulnerability and the sorrow. he looks to the left, into the dark and away from the light, into the space where crowley normally stands, always by his side, and not on the other side of the chasm that has now erupted between them.

but crowley does sees the face, and recognises it. he's seen it before, seen the expression of when aziraphale hears his sentence and resigns himself to his fate, and despairs in kind that this rift of both of their makings has put in on aziraphale's face. but he also sees it as a mark of hope; can I change his mind? can I offer him something that I haven't offered yet? he can feel the last burning embers of doubt, and he could stoke it. build to a full fire, to an inferno. words haven't worked, they never work - "it's always too late" - but in this case, just one time, action might. so then crowley - oh, crowley - makes up his mind. he has to know, whatever happens, that he did everything that he could possibly do to cling to this dream, this fairytale, where they might get to be together.

and it's pure desperation and determination, the swan dive off the cliff not knowing how far it'll be until he reaches the bottom. there's the smallest chance he might catch an updraft and fly. but the kiss - whether he intends it that way or not - is a temptation. and he's so good at that, isn't he? he tempted aziraphale into eating, he tempted him into dispatching a child... he knows he can do it, and he knows that aziraphale can succumb to it (whether it's because angels can in fact be tempted by demons, or because aziraphale can be tempted by crowley). he has nothing else to lose, but everything to gain, and that everything is slipping through his fingers, "you can't leave this bookshop", so what does it matter if he tries to keep aziraphale in the last way he knows how?

and even then this time, it's more; it's physical, it's raw, and it's human. their common ground. he's the serpent of eden, he tempted eve to the apple, he brought about the fall of humanity. crowley has gone beyond tempting aziraphale with sly words, assurances, and logic; this time, he's putting everything into it, giving it his all, so neither of them can ever say he didn't try. temptation was literally his first order, his first command; his most powerful and yet destructive capability. and each one, on aziraphale's part, has led to manifestly chipping away at aziraphale's divinity, his angelic core. each one has made aziraphale into the person he is today, the person that crowley loves, so whilst it may not be the right thing to do, it's the best chance he has to reach him.

so crowley grabs him, wheels him round to face him, and pulls aziraphale into him. there are no words, there's no gentleness, there's no finesse; it's practically animal, carnal and rough, and everything that - in all likelihood - neither of them wanted when they imagined how this moment would be, if it ever came. and throughout the whole thing, crowley does not move. his grip does not lessen, his mouth does not move, his expression does not falter; it's like he's serpentine again in all but form, constricting and gripping his prey into subjugation. it's instinctive, and unconscious, probably involuntary, but it leaves aziraphale with such little room, no space to breathe.

aziraphale visibly seems to struggle - somewhat physically, but certainly emotionally and mentally - and we can see that predominantly in his expression. he at least almost seems like he's trying to pull away, or create some space between them. it's not how he likely imagined their first kiss - if they ever got to have one and if aziraphale indeed ever imagined it - to be; it's not right, and it certainly doesn't feel like love. love may be behind the wheel, but what is slamming into him in possession, and anguish. i can't believe that aziraphale doesn't know or feel that, not going by the way he reacts. there's also the fact that - as far as we've seen - the last time crowley gripped him by the lapels and got this close to him was at tadfield manor, when crowley was all but raging at him, "im not nice, im never nice; nice is a four-letter word". it's an unmistakable parallel, and it may be that that four-letter word is swapped out for another one, it certainly doesn't feel like it in the moment.

but then aziraphale relaxes, rocks back towards crowley, and returns it. he grips at his back, at the space where resides his wings, and gives back crowley what he's asking for. it might be that aziraphale is trying to be kind - giving him the confirmation that he returns his love even if he can't act on it - or it might be because aziraphale actually realises that he likes it, this kiss, and the brutality of it. it might even be that he knows that this may be his only chance to show crowley that it's reciprocated; that he feels the same way. but it may also be, in addition to any or indeed all of the above, that aziraphale subconsciously succumbs to the temptation. gripped and bound, with nowhere to go, he surrenders to his fate - the freefall - and allows himself for a moment to sink. but then he steps back out of it, reins himself in, lifts his hands again from crowley, and crowley finally lets go.

crowley lets go, and stands back to see what it might have changed. did he tempt him, did he succeed? will his angel stay? it felt like he will, he felt his hands and how he surrendered - he didn't imagine it - and it might have worked in crowley's favour. it worked with the ox. it worked with the antichrist. there's no reason it wouldn't work this time, right?

until aziraphale steps back. he steps back, places that distance, the chasm, between them again, and looks for all the world that the heavens have caved in, crashing and splintering all around them. a look of utter despair, almost a plea that what happened didn't happen, because it changes everything. it puts what can't happen into the open, makes it more than the abstract. it's longing, and it's sorrow, and it's heartbreak that this could have been what they'd have.

but the fog starts to lift, the shock has settled in, and horror sweeps over; it's disbelief that crowley made that move, and made it in the way he did. it's waking up, coming-to, reality starts to seep back in. it's looking down at the board, and seeing a check on the king, a challenge that aziraphale never saw coming -

- and then it almost becomes fear and panic, backed into a corner, and not necessarily because someone could have seen them, or because crowley has now put something fundamentally physical to what they are (although i believe these could also be contributory to his reaction), but it's the dread of having to refuse and deny what crowley has put out between them, dangling between their fingers waiting to be held.

aziraphale begins to bargain, starts to try reconciling what just happened, and whether anything can be salvaged. he's had a tiny piece of what their future could hold for them, and he has a decision to make. he starts wavering, starts to oscillate between the decision to follow his head and do what he feels is the right thing in the long-term, or arguably betray the person he has become over the millennia, deny himself what he thinks is the right thing, and instead follow his heart; grasp at crowley, and the future he laid out before him.

he looks to crowley for guidance, he's lost, suddenly unanchored in a churning maelstrom. trying to gauge what move he should take - does he surrender the king, or move it to evade the check?

either decision means that the game is up or is only a matter of time before it folds; he either risks their safety by staying, or risks losing crowley by going. there isn't another option, there isn't another way, and aziraphale is teetering between the two. neither are options that he wholeheartedly wants to take. he begins to trying to speak, trying to get out words that are choking him, trapped in the snare of Things Unsaid. words to explain, to placate, to beseech, to plead, and it starts to really hurt.

and what hurts about it the most is that he's about to deny crowley. in the full scene - you can't get it from just the frames - his expression is complete heartbreak. he wants to explain why, even now, when he wants to stay more than anything, he has to choose heaven. why he has to choose to continue evading the check, why he has to continue to fight. and it's the prospect of hurting crowley in the process, of prolonging the pain, that is tearing him apart.

except. except. he's just realised what crowley was doing. it was desperation, and fear for losing aziraphale, and a last ditch attempt to cling to what they have and what they could have. all of these thing, out of love.

but what aziraphale realises is that it was manipulation. it was temptation. this one means something deeper, something darker, because to aziraphale it was calling him to betray who he truly is. and suggests that who he truly is isn't enough.

his gaze flicks up from the floor, and he finally makes full eye contact, staring crowley down. it's disbelief all over again; that crowley would resort to that trick, the trick that crowley knows is aziraphale's personal, heartfelt weakness, and one that he will - and demonstrably always has - succumbed to.

it's the disbelief that crowley would take this power and use it to mold and ply aziraphale into staying, when crowley should know that going - to "make a difference" - is the most aziraphale thing he could do. if crowley loves him, exactly as he is, why would he try to make aziraphale betray that?

the anger, the sense of betrayal, sets in, and spreads like hellfire. it relaxes his face, almost bringing him an eerie serenity. because he's seen that not only does he have to break the check (tirelessly continuing the chess metaphor), but he's going to fight back. he's seen that he can instead take the piece threatening him, and checkmate in kind.

it's the scorched earth option, but one that will demonstrate that he's not one to falter under the eyes of a challenge; he will stand his ground, roots digging into the earth, and will not be moved. he takes a breath, about to move his piece that will end the game. it will make crowley lose, but it was lost already; the game was up as soon as he told aziraphale he understood what aziraphale was offering him. because whilst crowley was talking about a place in heaven, aziraphale was talking about us.

and to aziraphale's mind, crowley was so unwilling to hear him, so ready to reject whatever narrative meant he would have to love aziraphale more than he hated heaven, that crowley would stoop to essentially trying to trick aziraphale into staying. into betraying who he is at his core.

instead, aziraphale steels himself; he knows who he is, and he will be enough. the acceptance of the situation, what it will mean when he 'wins', will do something unspeakable, but it must be done. he has to show his own claws, show how much it hurt. aziraphale takes a breath, even has a small smirk, and places the final piece.

"i forgive you."

#the take noone asked for but youre getting anyway #round of applause for mr sheen tho yeah #good omens #crowley meta #aziraphale meta #feral domestic/final fifteen meta #s2 meta

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aziraphales-library · 5 months

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hi, can you recommend some pics with first kisses? 🫶🏻

Hey. You can check out our #kissing and #first kiss tags for fics you'll enjoy. Here are some more first kiss fics...

Floatin’ like a feather by Lilyofthevalley26 (T)

Crowley sat back in his seat, listening to Aziraphale rant on and on and thought this was one of his better ideas this century. There was a fondness in his gaze that he couldn’t quite hide, and was once again glad for his sunglasses. He leaned forward to pick up the teacup in front of him, absentmindedly turning it into scotch and settled in for another night of indulging his favorite person. It was his favorite pastime after all, making Aziraphale happy.

run across the river (just to hold you tonight) by hope_in_the_dark (T)

In which their first kiss happens differently (and they have five percent better communication.) Based on that one ask where Neil said he meant to give us a Wild West flashback but couldn’t because of budget reasons.

Not A Bang, But A Kiss by elviscossiet (M)

In which Crowley kisses Aziraphale goodbye like a good husband should. Despite not being good. Or a husband. Or even in a relationship. --- It was, in fact, the perfect kiss for beings who had kissed countless times before and knew there would be countless more kisses to come. Which was why Aziraphale was so shocked. For as much as he'd wanted them to, they had never kissed before.

Budding Romance by Raven_with_a_Pocketwatch (G)

In which Crowley starts growing flowers in his garden and giving them to Aziraphale.

I’m Berry Fond of You by IneffableDoll (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley go blackberry picking and are fucking adorable about it. Honestly, just send me your dentist bill now, I take full responsibility.

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better by elf_on_the_shelf (T)

Armageddon came and went and Crowley is trying his hardest to get whatever it was that he had hoped and dreamed for millennia to have with Aziraphale going. Unfortunately for him, the angel is not there yet. Unfortunately for both of them, Crowley, despite him being a darn optimist, really can't wait any longer. This is a fic that explores all of their inner turmoil and means to address as much as it can of their past trauma. It's a fic about healing old wounds and the both of them getting to be better supernatural entities all on their own before they try their hand at any type of relationship. Or: Crowley gets therapy by means of tough love. Aziraphale has a long - and I do mean long - talk with himself.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #first kiss #fluff #mod d

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siobhans-world · 5 months

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A little fanfic I wrote. A romantic picnic:

“Ah! See Crowley, I told you we’d go for a picnic someday” Aziraphale said as he wafted the tartan picnic blanket down to the ground “Are you sure you want to pick this spot? It's very secluded here, although the view is beautiful, there are more people over there…”.

“Maybe I just want to be alone with you, angel, it's been so long since we've been alone” Crowley retorted quickly. He sat down on the blanket, shaded by trees and looked out at the beautiful lake in front of him.

“Quite right” Aziraphale nervously agreed “Let me pour you some wine”

Aziraphale opened up his luxurious hamper and anxiously poured Crowley a little glass of red wine. His eyes flitting between the glass and Crowley. He marvelled at Crowley's form as the ex-demon stretched out his long legs on the blanket, his jeans tightening and leaning back onto his elbows, a little portion of his torso peeking out above the rim of his jeans. He clearly wasn't dressed for a picnic, but it didn't matter.

Aziraphale, catching himself, his eyes lingering in that area, quickly glanced away and handed Crowley the glass. Their fingers touched in passing and Aziraphale flinched away much too dramatically. He wanted so much to touch and hold Crowley, but he was also aware that Crowley was still hurt by their first kiss. There was much to talk about and wounds to heal, and a confident Aziraphale felt finally ready to share his feelings. He was hoping it wasn't too late.

Crowley smelled his wine and sipped, looking out at the view. He watched Aziraphale as he reached in the hamper for cheese and grapes. “It's been a while since I've eaten human food” Aziraphale smiled excitedly and he went to take a bite of the cheese.

“No you don't do it like that, here, let me show you” and Crowley reached for the food “You pair the cheese with the grapes, see” Crowley leans towards Aziraphale “open your mouth” and a flushed Aziraphale let Crowley feed him. It was mind-blowing. Suddenly he was ravenous, and all he wanted was to eat and drink and be with Crowley. He was so happy to be back on Earth with the man he loved. The one person that made everything better.

Aware that Crowley's fingers touched Aziraphale's mouth to feed him and then Crowley had sucked his own fingers clean, felt very erotic. Aziraphale had to contain himself.

“We need to talk” Crowley said, bringing Aziraphale back down to earth. He still hadn't looked at Aziraphale since they got there and he was very guarded in his posture. He looked out to the lake and continued “I'm sorry… about what happened in your bookshop that day… I scared you and it's not really how I pictured it going… but you don't have to worry, it won't happen again, I just want you to be happy”.

Aziraphale stared out at the water, slightly irritated, wanting to grab Crowley and make out with him right there, “Please, Crowley… Can I tell you something?” he inched closer to Crowley.

“I've thought about that moment over and over, replaying in my mind how badly I… we both handled it, and if you’d turned around after you left… well…” he stifled “I might have… I’m sorry I'm not good at this” he choked back the lump in his throat and poured himself a wine “Well, we’ve never been very good at communicating have we?” they both laughed and briefly locked eyes then looked out to the water again, taking in the breeze.

“I mean you never said… you never told me you loved me” Aziraphale paused, thinking he'd scared Crowley. Crowley downed his glass of wine “I have, angel. Every time I’ve told you I won't leave you on your own, it means I love you. Whenever I've rescued you and there have plenty of those occasions, it means I love you, that was my way…”

“Because I do Aziraphale, I love you” Crowley looked down a catch in his throat “I still love you”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. He put a finger under Crowley's chin and turned his head so that they could face eachother. He gently removed Crowley's glasses, set them down to take in Crowley's beautiful yellow eyes. Crowley's skin tingled where Aziraphale touched him, just wanting to kiss him again, but also guarding himself nursing a still broken heart. He had nothing left to lose.

“I need you to look at me when I say this, because I want you to know…” Aziraphale said softly, building up courage “I don't want you to be sorry about kissing me. If we ever get the chance to do that again I would wrap my arms around you and I'd never let you go…” Aziraphale continued reasoning with himself ”I've been in love with you for a long time… I've wanted to kiss you for 6 thousand years… and I didn't realise how much I buried my feelings until… maybe the 1940’s?” he thoughtfully questioned himself and smiled, and Crowley smiled back. “Since then it's just been… well” Aziraphale breathed heavy “I wake up and I think about you, I go to sleep and I think about you. It's hard” Crowley spat his wine in surprise and giggled. “Oh you know what I mean, Crowley” Aziraphale sighed and playfully pushed him. He continued “And when Beelzebub and Gabriel held hands I had this awful feeling”

“OH I KNOW!” Crowley clapped back “Jealousy, rage inducing jealousy” he threw his head back and lay on the blanket getting comfy “They've had it so easy compared to us”.

“But here we are” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale and held out his hand, gesturing to Aziraphale to hold it. Aziraphale reached out and put his hand in Crowley's, intertwining his fingers with Crowleys, tracing the shape of each of Crowley's fingers and savouring the moment, both of their hands a little warm and sweaty with nerves through the very frank conversation they'd been having.

Crowley tugged at Aziraphale's hand, pulling him down next to him so they could both lie together and look up at the drifting clouds.

They gripped each other's hand tightly, not wanting to let go. It felt right, it felt like the two of them against the world. They lay there for a few minutes just taking in the moment.

Aziraphale eventually turned to his side wanting to take in the sight of Crowley's skin and dazzling eyes in the sunlight “I love you” he whispered, pained and furrowed his brow feeling guilty for how he'd treated Crowley in the past. Crowley turned to his side to face Aziraphale. He put one hand under his head to prop himself up and the other hand on Aziraphale's cheek, caressing his soft skin. Aziraphale's piercing blue eyes made Crowley's feel breathless.

Crowley leaned in and parted his lips, he pulled Aziraphale close and tenderly kissed him, lingering there for a while.

Aziraphale’s whole world stopped, feeling Crowley's soft lips on his. Then they softly parted and Aziraphale inhaled, taking in this magnificent beautiful being, butterflies in his stomach. He twisted his head slightly to kiss Crowley's palm that hadn't moved away from Aziraphale's cheek. The two of them looked deep into each other's eyes, their foreheads now touching. They both smiled widely and sighed. Aziraphale's eyes filled with tears and Crowley wiped them away, pressing his lips to Aziraphale's forehead.

He lay back, pulling Aziraphale onto his chest and wrapping his arms around him. Aziraphale put his head on Crowley's chest, his heartbeat was racing like Aziraphale's. He put his hand on Crowley's stomach and drank in Crowley's warmth and smell. Crowley's hand met Aziraphale's, and their fingers intertwined again. The two lovers held onto each other tightly and felt at ease like they always had when they were together before, but this time they had opened their hearts to each other without any fear. It was a truly perfect day.

#aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow #goodomens2 #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #crowley #aziraphale #good omens #gomens #fanfic #romance #go fanfic

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theclaravoyant · 9 months

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oh you've GOT to do ineffable husbands(/wives/partners) + slow dancing. pretty pleaaaaase

AN ~ *screams* this prompt was made for them. hold me.

prompt me the soft prompts meme or otherwise, muse permitting

“Not so fast, Angel - You still owe me a dance.”

After it all, a smile touches Aziraphale’s lips. There’d been no time for it, of course, when it had all gone down but he could hardly blame Crowley for wanting his pound of flesh anyway. So he dances, and recites -

“You were right. You were right. I was wrong. You- You were right.”

They’d saved the world together, at least for now, and so Aziraphale knew he was already forgiven. Even so, the ghost of the burning lump in his chest brings tears to his eyes. He had been so, so wrong. So profoundly, painfully wrong. The fact that he’s here doing this silly little dance again - he’s never been so grateful for the way his knees tremble when he bows. He’ll stand here, arms outstretched, head on the proverbial chopping block before Crowley for the rest of eternity if he has to.

But Crowley takes one of his hands, and gathers Aziraphale up against his chest.

“Actually,” he offers, “I had a different one in mind.”

The pin drops onto a record, warbling soft music into the night. Crowley doesn’t release his tight embrace, but something about it all makes him step and sway and Aziraphale follows.

“I’m sorry too, you know,” he says. “I’m sorry Heaven…”

Was a burning trash heap after all.

“... wasn’t what you thought. I know it hurts.”

Because they’re Saying Things, now. It stings, but Aziraphale kind of likes it. He inhales sharply, cheek pressed against Crowley’s chest and there’s tears in his throat.

“Yes,” he confesses. “It really does.”

Crowley kisses the top of his head, and wraps an arm around him as if maybe he could shield him from all this. He wishes he had someone to hold him after his Fall but this- this is better, somehow. He can appreciate it better now. Something deep inside him knits back together, some of the bitterness sloughs off the wound. He feels it lift, breathing easier all of a sudden, and Aziraphale breathes easier too.

They dance. And it’s slow and terrible, a poor excuse for a dance, but it’s what they need more than anything else right now. It’s dark outside, and quiet, and the record plays on uninterrupted for a long while. Their breathing falls into rhythm.

“This is nice,” Crowley muses eventually. “Can kind of see why humans have been doing this for thousands of years.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale smiles, and looks up at Crowley. His eyes shine in the dim light. There’s a lot in them - of thought, of love, of beauty - and it makes Aziraphale feel impossibly brave.

So he rolls up onto his toes, and presses a kiss against Crowley’s lips.

Crowley catches him, barely a flickering of being off-guard before he’s pressing back and holding, cherishing, lengthening the moment just a little. His heart hammers, and Aziraphale treasures the sound.

“Can kind of see why humans have been doing that for thousands of years, too.”

#ineffable spouses #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #good omens #gomens fic #good omens 2 #good omens spoilers #clara's fic tag #prompt me stuff #renewgoodomens #give me s3 or give me death

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cucumbermoon · 9 months

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I Forgive You

I'm going to start by saying that I am new to Tumblr. This is my second post ever and I might not being doing it right. But Good Omens 2 has me bursting at the seams and I just have to talk about it. I absolutely adore reading everyone's meta posts, so here's a little one of my own.

"I forgive you."

I have seen a lot of people talking about how devastating and cruel it was for Aziraphale to say that, but I disagree. I don't think he was saying it instead of I love you. I don't think he was saying it to shame Crowley, or because he wasn't ready and was trying to shut Crowley down. I think he said it because he meant it.

He forgives Crowley. Aziraphale offered him something he thought was unbelievably wonderful, a chance to be together, in the open, sanctioned, safe, maybe even happy again like Crowley was as an angel. Yes, we know it wouldn't work. We know Crowley isn't that person anymore. We know there's no way Crowley could go back to being that innocent joyous angel he once was, and we understand why. But Aziraphale doesn't, not yet, and from his perspective, he just offered Crowley the greatest gift in the history of the universe, and Crowley turned him down. Turned him down, then kissed him to show him what they were really losing. Ignored all of Aziraphale's reasoning, all of his generosity, all of his love. Just threw it away. But the key is, Aziraphale isn't angry at him.

He forgives him.

This is foreshadowed in the first episode, when Aziraphale tells Maggie he's very good at forgiveness. He really is good at it! He forgave Gabriel, protected him when he came to him in need, because it was the right thing to do, and Aziraphale wants to do the right thing.

I'm not on anybody's side in the ineffable divorce. I agree with everyone who says that they both are wrong and they both need to grow and learn to communicate better. I don't think Crowley was wrong at all to turn down Aziraphale's offer, but I do think it's important to understand that from Aziraphale's perspective, Crowley is turning his back on him, on Earth, on humanity, on goodness, on love, all of it. Aziraphale wants to make things better for everyone - not just himself. And Crowley is too jaded, too wounded to think that's even possible. He isn't going to try. He's going to run away. He's going to break Aziraphale's heart.

And Aziraphale forgives him.

#good omens #good omens spoilers #go2 spoilers #go 2 speculation #good omens 2 #good omens meta #ineffable husbands

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kaesaaurelia · 7 months

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better to reign in a soho bookshop

For @whumptober day 16, using the prompts “don't go where I can't follow" and the lyric prompt, “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

Continued from Day 5, wherein Aziraphale returns to Earth, hoping some allies he’s contacted will be able to help him, has a big fight with some archangels, and is horribly injured leaping in front of Crowley, who wasn’t supposed to be there, Day 8, wherein one of Aziraphale’s angelic allies (and an old enemy of Crowley’s) rushes in to distract the Metatron while Crowley scrambles to save a horribly wounded Aziraphale, and the three of them manage to get away from the archangels in the Bentley, and Day 15, wherein Aziraphale reveals that he's stolen the Book of Life, and Crowley reveals that one of Aziraphale's wounds means he's probably going to Fall.

CW for explicit sexual content; mention of past Satan/Crowley.

Of course, it wasn't as easy as all that. Crowley was torn between the desire to just look at Aziraphale and drink in the fact that, for however long, he was back, here, with Crowley, and the desire to keep himself away from Aziraphale so he wouldn't pelt him with all the irritating questions he wanted to ask, and of course, the desire to ask those irritating, often angry questions. And also, obviously, he wanted to kiss Aziraphale, but given how well that had gone last time, he didn't dare.

Instead, after a few moments of reassuring himself that Aziraphale, whatever his injuries, wasn't just going to vanish again, Crowley said, "Someone should probably bandage those wounds, at least."

"Ah. No," said Aziraphale, "unfortunately."

"Well. Let's do that," said Crowley, and he busied himself with unbuttoning Aziraphale's once-pristine white shirt, now stained with red, and carefully helping him get it off. There was still a nasty gouge on his chest, a matching one on his back, and things were probably still repairing themselves in there, but Cerviel's miracle had stopped the bleeding and it seemed to be in effect still. The other wound was a thin slice along his collarbone, barely a graze, but from the way Aziraphale reacted when Crowley touched it, it must be excruciating. "Have you got any bandages here, angel?"

"There are some in the downstairs bathroom, there's a first aid kit there," said Aziraphale. "For liability purposes, in case a customer gets hurt or something."

"You mean in case a customer trips and cracks their skull open, because you keep the lights too dim for humans to see well in the back of the shop," said Crowley.

"For liability purposes," Aziraphale insisted.

Crowley stood to go find the first aid kit, but as he approached the door he overheard bits of a slightly-too-loud conversation. "Hang on, angel," he said, and ducked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him. "Exssscuse me," he hissed at the speakers, two woman-shaped persons he did not recognize from behind.

They turned, and Crowley saw Nanael, Principality of Vienna, and Nisroc, who was not technically a Principality anymore, having Fallen with the Watchers. She had been keeping an eye on Los Angeles as payback to Vehuel ever since the two of them had faked her death a couple centuries ago, since Los Angeles had somehow slipped through the cracks of Heaven's bureaucracy.

Nisroc clapped her hands and favored him with a sharp-toothed smile. "Crowley! How are you?"

Crowley did not like Nisroc even a little bit, so he did not feel bad saying, "Shut up. Aziraphale's trying to ressst." Technically Crowley had struggled tooth and nail to get Aziraphale to try and rest, but now that he was in a bed he seemed to agree it was for the best whether or not he was actually trying.

"Is he all right?" Nanael asked, in a quieter voice. Crowley liked Nanael much better, but this was perhaps because they had only met once and she'd probably assumed he was Aziraphale's human lover. She was looking at him now as if she wanted to ask about that, but he didn't care to go into it just now, because there would be accusations of kindness when all he'd really done was drive her around a bit in various stolen cars while she'd had her miracles turned off. Deceiving an imperiled angel and implicating her in crimes was a fine misdeed, Crowley had told himself at the time.

"Not -- it'ss complicated. He'sss hurt," said Crowley. "Michael got to him."

"Oh fuck her," said Nisroc, although at least she was keeping her voice down. "We're gonna do some baking because we're stressed the fuck out and also I'm not allowed to leave the bookstore anymore. Any requests?"

"Why are you not allowed to leave?" Crowley asked, suspiciously.

"Got into it with Moroni about scones," said Nisroc mournfully. "I'm right, by the way."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Nisroc rolled her eyes and made a scoffing sound. "Look, it was one little free personality test, it wasn't cult recruitment, it was like, one of those ones where you pick from a bunch of song lyrics you're not familiar with and it tells you what kind of frog you are. I made up the song lyrics," she said, "and also the frogs, but, come on. I can't believe Moroni would snitch on me like this over scones. We've been pen pals for centuries."

"You made up the frogs?" Nanael asked, sounding disappointed.

"Do I look like I know anything about frogs?" Nisroc asked.

"Look, I don't care, jussst. Be quiet," said Crowley.

"Sure, sure," said Nisroc. "What's Aziraphale's favorite dessert, though?"

Crowley's mind went blank and all he could think about was watching Aziraphale devour sweets with such delight and appreciation that Crowley ought to be at least a bit jealous of them, only he wasn't, because he'd been staring, because it was fucking hot. "A-all of them?"

Nanael laughed. "He will like whatever we make, I think. Even if it isn't very good."

"Oh honey, don't worry, it'll be good," said Nisroc. She had been Beelzebub's private chef for a while, and Crowley had to admit some of the stuff at those feasts had smelled pretty good, even if an alarming amount of it had incorporated bugs and/or human flesh. "If you could go ahead and see what we've got in stock and what we'll have to miracle in, that would be great, though?" Nanael nodded happily and went, leaving Crowley alone in the corridor with Nisroc.

"Hey, so, sorry I uh, tried to eat you all those times?" said Nisroc. "I promise it wasn't personal, I was just trying to make my quota, you know?"

"We were all trying to make our quota," Crowley said. "Most of usss didn't end up permanently on display on the Mexican flag and coat of arms over it, though."

"Wait, what?" Nisroc pulled out her phone and tapped on it a few times. "Oh my god, I didn't even realize? Wow, they did not make any effort to get your look right at all. I am so sorry. Just. Godawful."

"You're ssorry they didn't get me right but not for dragging me into the middle of a lake to eat me?" Crowley demanded.

"Well, I mean, I look fucking fantastic on this flag," she said, looking down at her phone, "but you're..." She expanded an image on her phone and squinted at it. "...kinda squirmy and pathetic and green, so like. I mean, did they even look at you? Anyway, you totally fucked me over in the end there, the feathered serpent thing was a really good personal branding strategy, so... well-played? Like, I absolutely thought you were just Satan's little favorite but you actually are that good. How did you never get promoted?"

Crowley tried not to be flattered, because he wanted to keep hating Nisroc, but also an apology was worth nothing compared to telling him he was clever, even if both were insincere. He tried to work out if Nisroc was being insincere, but if she was, she was selling it well. "Well. I mean. I was Satan's favorite," he admitted, "just.... I don't think he wanted anyone else to realize I was clever."

She laughed. "Sucks for him you found someone way better, I guess." She glanced at the bedroom door before venturing on, more seriously. "Look, uh. Aziraphale was super nice to me right after I Fell, and it meant a lot to me because I was pregnant and miserable and scared, but, uh, I also definitely bit off two of his fingers the very next time we met?" She had the decency to look ashamed.

"Yes," said Crowley, irritably. "I was there." The fight had been over him, apparently; Nisroc had wanted to feed Crowley to her son Grendel.

"Yeah, but you were out cold," said Nisroc, "so I figured, no shame if you didn't remember. Anyway, I dunno what strings he pulled to get my baby out of Heaven but holy shit, I owe him, and, and --" She looked perilously close to crying, and Crowley didn't know what he was supposed to do with that, not when Aziraphale was Falling and there was nothing he could do about it. "Look. Whatever I can do. I'll even be quiet and stay out of the way, and you know that's not my jam at all."

Crowley considered telling her about Aziraphale; that he was probably Falling, that it was an uncertain kind of Fall and not one to Hell, necessarily. He considered telling her about how Lucifer had Fallen, how the lake of fire had come from him, and what he'd told Crowley about it, and what little Crowley believed of that. But he wanted Aziraphale all to himself right now, and he was tired of all these other people laying claim to him. "Sstay out of the way," he said.

Nisroc gave him a little nod. "Sure. Okay." She did not leave, though. "What's your favorite dessert?"

He boggled at her. "What?"

"Maybe Aziraphale likes everything, but we could make something you'd like," said Nisroc.

Crowley had never once considered this. "I. I don't. Something with apples?"

Nisroc appeared mildly annoyed that he didn't have an extremely specific request, but then she shrugged. "We'll make it work. Oh, and..." She waved a hand as if she was casting something up into the air, and nothing changed, exactly, but the sound and the shadows were different; everything felt hushed and a bit somber -- not in a funereal way, but in a respectful one, as if this was a great library or a museum. "I can keep things peaceful out here, at least," she said. "Anyway. Probably don't tell him I said hey, since he still thinks I'm dead, I guess? But if I could've said hey, I would've."

And before he could even consider thanking her, she turned and headed back to the kitchen.

Crowley tried to put the whole weird conversation out of his mind as he hurried downstairs to get the bandages. He found them quickly, slipping back through the main room of the bookshop unnoticed. Cerviel seemed to be talking about what he thought they should do if Heaven staged an aerial assault on the bookshop with the angel Moroni, a small turtle demon Crowley had never seen in his life, somebody Crowley thought might be the Principality of Berlin, and someone who, as far as Crowley could tell, was just a pale, scruffy human man who needed more sleep. He hurried back up the stairs, not wanting to be pulled into whatever nonsense was going on there. He was at most a dabbler in aerial defense.

When he got back to the bedroom, Aziraphale's eyes were closed, and Crowley panicked for a moment, but his chest rose and fell, and Crowley made a face at his own stupidity.

"Angel?" he said, quietly.

Aziraphale's eyes opened, and he sat up, making a pained face. "Who were you talking to out there?"

"Someone you were kind to," said Crowley, "one of the other Principalities."

"They're not giving you any trouble, are they?" Aziraphale asked.

"Nah," said Crowley. "I'm not even the only demon here. At least one of them's a human. What did you tell them?" And why didn't you tell me?

"Ah. Well. The first thing I did was fix the mess Gabriel had made of all our -- rather, Heaven's," he corrected, "communications with the Earth agents," said Aziraphale, as Crowley started working on covering the wound on his chest. "So when it came time for me to leave, it was fairly simple to let everyone know what Heaven was planning to do to Earth, and it's been my experience that the more time you spend on Earth the less you want it to be destroyed. I imagine the demons are people who've been working closely with other angels; I wouldn't have been able to send them messages."

"What about the human? Also, move over, I've got to get the one on your back," said Crowley.

"Heaven's been... hm... outsourcing its work to humans in some places," said Aziraphale, wincing as he moved. "The pay is abysmal, and they're contract workers so they get no benefits, of course, not even recorporation. I reached out to them separately and told them they probably ought to ignore my message but I suppose some people are going to show up to the apocalypse whether or not they can do anything about it." He frowned. "I suppose we were those people, once upon a time. Oh, I'm sorry I dragged you into this again, my dear," he said.

Crowley froze. "What do you mean, dragged into? I got a call from Muriel telling me to come right to the bookshop and not to go looking for you, and --"

"Yes, well, I assumed they'd go after you if I left," said Aziraphale. "Use you as a hostage or something. I was planning to take something from them that was important to them, after all. I assumed you'd be in, in, outer space or wherever, by now, but Muriel said --"

"Outer ssspace?" Crowley was fumbling around trying to get the adhesive tape straight on the second bandage but he gave up and miracled it before standing so that he could look Aziraphale in the eye. "Did you think I'd jussst... run off?"

"Well. You always seemed to want to," said Aziraphale, looking pained.

"With you," Crowley said. "I wanted to run off with you. No point in doing it otherwissse."

"Ah," said Aziraphale, going pink. "Well. I assumed you'd rather be safe than --"

"I would rather be with you," said Crowley, "but you wanted me to be an angel again and --" He looked at the wound from Michael's sword. Had it got bigger? Deeper? No, he was imagining things. "Well. I suppose in a bit neither of us is going to be an angel. Ssorry about that."

"Crowley, I wanted us to be together without Heaven or Hell hurting you. And I thought --" He swallowed. "Well. I thought a lot of naive things about Heaven. But I love you." His voice was shaking now. "You, as you are, with your inconvenient questions and your appalling driving and your lovely eyes and your kindness that you pretend isn't there."

Crowley found he could not look Aziraphale in the eye; he had his glasses on, so at least he had that small mercy, but he was still alone in a room with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale was confessing his love, his love, and Crowley didn't know what to say about it, so instead he looked away and said, "Sss'posse I should bandage the cut from the sssword now, yeah? Jusst. Jusst so you don't touch it by accident."

There was a long silence. "I suppose you should," said Aziraphale, sounding very unhappy about it.

So Crowley found himself crawling onto the bed so he could get at that side of Aziraphale's chest, and carefully trying to cover the long, shallow cut without touching it, and also without looking at Aziraphale's face. Which mostly meant he was looking at Aziraphale's chest, which was soft and covered in white-gold hairs, and listening to Aziraphale's breath hitching as Crowley's fingers got too close to the wound, and when he was finished, because he supposed he had to, he sat back and looked at Aziraphale and, very grudgingly, said, "I... love you too."

Aziraphale's intake of breath and his hopeful expression were -- they were something. They were doing something to his chest that was a little bit overwhelming. "I -- I thought maybe. But even now?"

"What do you mean even now?" Crowley demanded, appalled. "Even now. You've gone off for a few years to do ssomething ssilly in Heaven and you think I'm going to jusst -- I've -- felt like thisss for thoussssands of yearssss and you think -- even now? I'm --"

"Oh," said Aziraphale, looking astonished for a moment. "Oh. Well. Good." Then he grinned at Crowley. "I do love it when you get so flustered you're hissing every other word, my dear." And he leaned forward a bit and pulled Crowley down by his tie and kissed him and this time, this time there was no crying, no tragic choice to tear them apart, there was only Crowley leaning forward, overbalancing a bit, and accidentally headbutting Aziraphale in his desire to get closer to him. Aziraphale winced as Crowley scrambled back.

"Ssorry, sssorry, fuck," said Crowley. "I. Fuck." He fumbled to take his sunglasses off, threw them aside, and kissed Aziraphale again.

This third kiss was just as desperate as the first one, but it was a different flavor of desperate, an I haven't seen you in ages and who knows how long we even have kiss, and Crowley pushed Aziraphale back down onto the bed, on hand on his cheek and the fingers of the other against his chest, careful not to touch any of his wounds.

They parted and Crowley looked down at him. Aziraphale was beaming like he wasn't Falling, like he hadn't been made into an angel kebab an hour or so ago, like they hadn't had a vicious argument and parted ways for years. "I've missed you," said Aziraphale, taking the hand that had been on his cheek.

"Yeah," said Crowley, who was suddenly painfully aware that he didn't know what he was supposed to do now. What did you do when the love of your life finally articulated that he returned your affections, and that they were wanted? He had not planned for this moment. The before he had much experience of; the after had been the subject of daydreams and also somewhat more carnal fantasies, but the middle... nothing. His body was reminding him of those other fantasies, though, noticing the warmth of Aziraphale's flesh, remembering the feel of his lovely soft mouth, hearing his heavy breathing. "Aziraphale...." His voice came out rough and a bit wobbly.

"Kiss me again?" Aziraphale asked, and Crowley could deny neither himself nor Aziraphale, so he did. Aziraphale's hand on his chest became a hand slipping under Crowley's shirt, which emboldened Crowley enough to trail his own hand down Aziraphale's chest and between his legs, where he found that Aziraphale was very hard.

Aziraphale moaned as Crowley squeezed his cock. "Do you want --"

"Please," said Aziraphale, and Crowley fumbled one-handed with Aziraphale's trousers while Aziraphale unbuttoned Crowley's shirt. Crowley shed jacket and shirt without bothering to separate the two, then pulled Aziraphale's cock out. He gave it an experimental stroke, and Aziraphale gasped; then he knelt and slid his lips over the head and Aziraphale swore, which was extraordinary to hear and weirdly erotic in and of itself.

Crowley wasted no time in taking the whole cock in, and Aziraphale's hand tangled in his hair, and, fuck, he hadn't realized how much he would like that when Aziraphale did it -- or quite how tight these trousers were -- until now. His own hips jerked involuntarily against the bed and he moaned. "Crowley," Aziraphale gasped and thrust into him, the fingers in Crowley's hair tightening, thus perpetuating the most pleasurable feedback loop Crowley had ever been subject to.

Crowley savored the ridiculous things Aziraphale said about Crowley's beauty and his fiendishness; the biggest downside, really, was that his mouth was too full to make fun of Aziraphale for any of them. When he came, Crowley mostly managed to swallow it, though some of it ended up spilling down his chin. "Crowley, darling," said Aziraphale, stroking his fingers through Crowley's hair, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You were..." He trailed off, and reluctantly, Crowley sat up, wiping his chin off with one hand. "I have wanted you so very much," said Aziraphale.

His pulse was pounding, and the sight of Aziraphale flushed with pleasure -- pleasure Crowley had given him -- just made him want more. But his eyes lingered on the bandages he'd just applied. "Fuck. Should -- should we be doing this?"

"I don't know that should really comes into it anymore," said Aziraphale.

"I meant because of your, your, um." Crowley gestured at the bandages. "Because you're hurt."

"Oh. Well. If the Fall wasn't going to kill me I don't think any -- any acts of physical love are going to finish the job, as long as we don't get too wild," said Aziraphale, looking mildly embarrassed. "And if it is going to kill me," he said, scowling, "I refuse to let it take this away from us."

"Well. In that case, I'm going to -- I mean, if it's all right -- I'm going to fuck you," said Crowley. He didn't know why he should be so flustered, they'd got all the confession stuff out of the way, wasn't it supposed to be easier now?

Then Aziraphale looked him up and down, eyes lingering on what Crowley now realized was an extremely visible erection. "I thought you'd never ask," he said.

Crowley vanished the rest of their clothes away with a gesture so he could spread Aziraphale's legs. "We're ridiculous, aren't we?" he said. He eased a couple fingers, miraculously slick, into Aziraphale's arse.

"A bit," Aziraphale gasped. Crowley pressed into him, trying to make Aziraphale gasp again, and was rewarded with a startled "Oh!" as Aziraphale's hips jerked forward. He experimented a bit further. "Really, Crowley, stop teasing me," said Aziraphale. "Haven't I suffered enough today?" For about half a second he managed to look very pathetic and tragic, but then Crowley moved his fingers and he just looked desperately horny.

"Jussst trying to make ssure I know what I'm doing, angel."

"I -- but you haven't -- I thought you --"

"Not the -- I haven't..." Crowley was embarrassed suddenly at the accidental admission. "I mean, I've. Lucifer and I... But he didn't want me to fuck him. Undignified, or ssomething. And I didn't want -- humanss weren't...." He trailed off.

"Well, I'm happy to be as undignified as any-- hnn, Crowley, that's.... oh."

"Think I've got it," said Crowley, grinning. Aziraphale looked quite helpless in the face of pleasure, and his dick was already half-hard again. "Ready?"

"Crowley, if you don't get on with it right now --"

Crowley withdrew his fingers and, one frantic, fumbling moment later, pushed his dick into Aziraphale, eliciting a sharp moan. Crowley had intended to go slowly at first, but Aziraphale felt so fucking good around him that he ended up clutching Aziraphale's thighs and fucking him a little frantically for the first few thrusts. He shifted his hips a bit, and Aziraphale's little gasps of pleasure became whimpering, and he forced himself to slow down a bit, the better to savor the way Aziraphale felt and looked and sounded.

"Don't stop, don't stop," said Aziraphale, who was trembling, hips moving like his entire being depended on just how much of Crowley's dick he could get into himself at every thrust. Crowley began jerking Aziraphale off to the same rhythm, and fuck, they should have been doing this before, they should have been doing this ages ago, Crowley hadn't seen such ravenous desire from Aziraphale since he'd tried food, and Crowley'd certainly got himself off enough times thinking of that night. Both of them came too quickly, but by mutual agreement Crowley miraculously waived the need for a refractory period several times over; they deserved this, he thought, and Aziraphale clearly agreed.

Afterwards, they collapsed together, breathless, Crowley still inside Aziraphale and their bellies sticky with Aziraphale's come. "Oof, ssorry," said Crowley, pulling out of Aziraphale and rolling off to the side so he didn't hurt him.

"Come back here, I don't want to have to lean on this shoulder to kiss you," said Aziraphale, and Crowley, happy to do as he was told for once, leant over to share a sloppy kiss with him. "You're so lovely when you're happy," said Aziraphale. "Practically radiant."

"Shut up, you ssoppy basstard," said Crowley, laughing. He kissed Aziraphale again. "Fuck. I really do love you," he said.

"You sound surprised," said Aziraphale.

"I'm not," said Crowley, "it just keeps. I dunno. Hitting me in the chest." He looked over Aziraphale again, and wished he was not so wounded. "You'd better be all right, angel. If you're not I'm taking it up with God."

"Oh, please don't," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, I won't be an angel any longer. I'll be... whatever Lucifer is, I suppose. Not a demon, exactly." He made a face. "If it's all the same to you I'd rather just be a demon, though, I never did see the appeal of ruling in Hell."

"Serving in Hell's not great either," Crowley reminded him.

"No, I suppose not," said Aziraphale. "I don't have to, do I?"

"Have to what?" Crowley asked.

"Reign in Hell," said Aziraphale.

"I mean. Do you want to challenge Satan to a cosmic arm wrestling contest?" he asked.

"Not really," said Aziraphale. "And Hell seemed extremely uncomfortable last time I was there."

Crowley couldn't tell if this was damnation with faint praise, or praise with faint damnation, but either way it seemed a bit of an understatement. "Then don't do that," he said, snuggling up as close to him as he could without touching the bandages. "Maybe you can reign in a Soho bookshop instead."

"I don't want to reign," Aziraphale said.

"Then you can read and eat cake," said Crowley.

"Are you falling asleep?"

"Jussst. Closing my eyes," said Crowley. "Definitely sstill awake."

(In a few moments, he was not.)

#whumptober2023 #no.16 #don't go where i can't follow #lyric #good omens #fic #nsfwhump #aziraphale #anthony j crowley #ineffable husbands #fallen principality nisroc #text #fiction #kaesa op #nsft #man sorry this is so late I had a bunch of irl shit happen in a big clump of Things Happening so I lost my buffer #and then it took forEVER to write

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i-llbedammned · 9 months

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Stupid Good Omens and having me write angsty porn. https://archiveofourown.org/works/49071904

Title: Just Tonight Wordcount: 1275 Crowley was there, just there. Lips pressed against his, grabbing his collar. And oh sweet light it felt good, better than it had any right to feel. It was angry, it was painful but it still felt right, like something that should have been there since the beginning. Almost without meaning to Aziraphale opened his mouth, shoving his tongue into Crowley’s mouth a little deeper, feeling the wonderful forking of his tongue. He pulled him closer, just a little, pressing his hand tightly to his back. “Stay with me, angel,” growled Crowley, breaking the kiss but still staying so close by. “I-I can’t. You know I can’t.” Aziraphale breathily replied, hands past Crowley’s thin shoulders and holding on to the front of the suit jacket. “I want to, but I can’t.” He felt the demon pull away, begin to get distance. No, that wouldn’t do either. Despite the tears already welling in his eyes, he rushed forward. Put his hands on either side of Crowley’s head as the demon began to turn away and pressed his lips to the demon’s. Gentle, insistent kisses. Like he was trying to drink in this moment for all it was worth. He found his hands moving down, under the demon’s suit jacket and grasping him close. Crowley felt warm, like the sun on a decent spring day when it kissed your skin just right. “I can’t stay, but we have now.” “It will change nothing.” Crowley looked through his glasses at the angel, not questioning. A growling statement. “No, no I suppose it won’t.” Aziraphale looked away but he felt Crowley pressing closer, closer. His legs backed up til his back was against the bookshelf. The demon’s hips pressed against his, bony frame taut against Aziraphale .A long tongue ran against Aziraphale’s neck, making him moan softly as his eyelids fluttered closed. The angel wound his hands in the demon’s hair and once more let his lips find Crowley’s. More, more. Hands quick, darting like vipers were under his tan coat, urging it off. Aziraphale let it fall to the floor, but didn’t open his eyes. Even after the kiss was broken, he kept his eyes closed for a few moments, savoring the sensation of hands moving over his body and the rough sound of his own breath. Aziraphale’s silver-blue eyes opened and Crowley was looking down at him hungrily, a wicked grin dancing upon his face. “Show me how you want me, angel.” “You-you already know I do.” “Yeah, but” Crowley’s face scrunched up, “Show me. If I’m only going to have tonight, I really want to hear it.” “Oh you are a miserable demon!” Aziraphale growled, but he pressed his lips to the nape of Crowley’s neck. With a little force he bit down, leaving a small trail of tiny bites. His soft hands untied the silver tie around Crowley’s neck and he felt his pulse quicken. This was hardly Aziraphale’s only time with someone like this, but oh it was demon and worse than that it was Crowley. Crowley, encouraged by the bites, moved quickly, unbuttoning his vest then Aziraphale’s vest. Vests off, followed by shirts. Bare chest to bare chest now, mouths desperately moving against one another like they would never see each other again. Which they might not. Belts off, though when things were moving this quickly it was hard to tell who moved first. Then pants came off and underwear. Two bare forms, clasping each other tightly, kissing each other desperately. Crowley manifested first, choosing a lovely cock for himself. Aziraphale followed in suit, deciding on a wider member but of similar length. Almost reverently Aziraphale moved his hands to Crowley’s cock, giving it a stroke that made the demon gasp. Crowley went to return the favor but Aziraphale knocked his hands aside. “Let me taste you, dear boy.” The angel dropped to his knees. “Please.” The glasses came off Crowley as he looked down at him, feeling himself harden under the insistent strokes. “Let me. Let me sit down first.”Crowley let his long legs flow downward and halfway lay down upon the bookshop floor. Always his snake eyes stayed upon Aziraphale, who stood now looking down upon him with an impish grin. The angel laughed, a small thing but a contrast to the tears that would be to come. He dropped to his knees and began to crawl forward. With a devious grin he licked the entire length of Crowley, releasing a deep hiss of pleasure. “Oh you are being so good, my dear boy.” Aziraphale whispered, taking the member deep into his throat slowly before Crowley had time to respond. Long fingers wound through his blonde hair as he took Crowley again and again into his throat. Meaningless whispers in tongues that no longer were spoken by the tongues of man but were certainly moaned in pleasure on the floor of a bookstore. Over and over again. “Oh fuck, Aziraphale. Oh angel, oh yes.” Crowley writhed, drinking in with utter joy the look of Aziraphale’s mouth upon him. The angel inserted two fingers into Crowley’s rear and the demon arrived, spurting cum on the floor of the bookstore. Aziraphale crawled on the ground, letting his tongue find every bit of cum and eagerly drank it, from the floor or from Crowley’s hips.

“Turn around, dear boy. Let me have a go at it.” “No.” “Wh-what?”The angel kept working his fingers inside, slow steady pulses as Crowley gently pushed him to the ground. The demon climbed on top of him, positioning himself over his member. “I need to see your face. I need it, angel.” A small bit of miracle for some olive oil, just to make things easier to slide in. Into Crowley he gently went as the demon swung his hips downward. Oh sweet light he looked beautiful like this. “You don’t know how often I dreamed of this.” Aziraphale gasped as the angel’s hips began to thrust. “Certainly were silent enough about those dreams.” Crowley grunted. Kisses, deep kisses that made Aziraphale want to cry and scream and never leave this bookshop. For a moment Crowley’s dream seemed so perfect, on the floor in the misty afternoon light. Just them. Together. That was all it needed to be. “Hells bells, you are beautiful when you are being fucked. Tell me how did my cock taste?“ Crowley was insistent with his hips. “It was truly divine.” Aziraphale panted out. Crowley’s hands were around his face now, cradling his chin, his neck, pressing his chest down into the floor. Harder, harder. Faster, faster. Aziraphale felt something twinge in him, a great pressure that rose up and then burst as he spilled his seed deep within the demon. Crowley watched his face, moaning with pleasure, watching him carefully and trying to inscribe every look to memory. “I-Crowley. That was. That was.” Aziraphale started, but couldn’t finish a thought. Unmanifested genitals but both still bare upon the floor as Crowley placed another kiss upon his lips. This one gentle. He thought Aziraphale would stay and a sinking pit of guilt slipped into Aziraphale’s stomach. He told him from the outset this would change nothing, that he still had to go away. Even though he didn’t want to. Yet all the same the demon hoped against hope that he would change his mind. It broke Aziraphale’s heart. The angel got up, feeling the tears begin to return. “Just one minute, I’m going to get a drink of water.” Miracled up clothes. Quickly, quickly. Before Crowley could see him and he would lose his resolve. This was the one chance to change everything. He only hoped Crowley would forgive him in the end.

#good omens #Aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands

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nimpseudo · 9 months

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Complicated aroace feelings about complex ?ace characters...

Disclaimer: I adore Crowley and Aziraphale's love story and celebrate all artistic interpretations of it, including the explicitly romantic and even sexual ones (while giving the latter a respectfully wide berth). So please don't get the wrong idea here.

As a serial projector of my own identity onto my favorite characters, I dreaded an onscreen kiss.

From a storycrafting angle, and especially from a representation angle, a kiss on the lips was destined to happen. I came to this conclusion two years ago, and—without any knowledge of the leaked content, for the record—I absorbed the finale in wide-eyed terror at what I knew I was about to see. Ironically, this probably fortified my heart against the emotions of that scene better than rosy shipping goggles would have (but I was still a wounded wreck for the rest of the night, so who knows).

After reading a lot of thoughtful and brilliant meta, rapidly scrolling past that gif often enough to slightly desensitize myself to the sight, and finally rewatching both seasons, I’ve backed down from my extreme initial reaction: no, the kiss was not an indefensible act of violence committed by the writers against Crowley's character, channeled into further violence by Crowley against Aziraphale, with a synchronous target lock on my personal hopes and dreams and queerplatonic headcanons. Calm down, self.

I described it in a separate personal reflection as "perhaps a mutually desired gesture that happened to crash into being at precisely the wrong moment, doomed by a fatal under-negotiation of wants and needs. I still feel sick at the prospect of watching it again, but that was very obviously the intent." This remains my conciliatory stance on the scene. Nevertheless, I think there's insight to be gained through an aromantic lens.

So how's this: I do see the kiss as a violent act of weaponized affection; but the hurt flies out in all directions—including and especially back inward. Moments earlier, Crowley exposed the raw depths of his vulnerability to Aziraphale, yet he still couldn't manage to say what he needed to. At least one thread in his tangled ball of impulses in that surge forward is, I think, punishing himself for this failure. Forcing the consequences of his verbal cowardice.

Because inevitably, this attempt to speak in blunt, desperate, ill-fitting symbolic gesture rather than words* blows up in his face. It’s a bomb exploding between their lips, wrenching open the cracks in their communication patterns in a voice-swallowing chasm. And I think it’s devastatingly powerful to deliver that through an act of physical intimacy that neither of them truly desired in the first place.

The aromantic reading lives on for now**—I choose to believe—and it's every bit as painful as the romantic one. Happy hiatus.

* in a way reminiscent of the apology dance, honestly. As much as I love that scene, choreographed prostration is in no way a "proper" apology, lol. But that's on both of them.

** All that said, I have made my peace with this new fictional reality, and I will join the rest of the fandom in clawing at the walls for tender post-reconciliation kisses in Season 3.

#Good Omens #Good Omens 2 #aroace

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holycatsandrabbits · 3 years

Text

Love’s Endless Light: A Good Omens serial romance

YOU HAVE REACHED THE END!

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Chapter 12: Love Unfailing Dwells Ever Here

2019, Soho, London, England

**Note: this is a T-rated love scene. It remains SFW.**

One day in 1143 AD, Crowley had informed Aziraphale that Hell expected them to have a fight over something or other, he couldn’t remember what now. What Crowley did remember was that first, of course, he and Aziraphale were not actually going to fight; second, that Crowley had therefore suggested that he wound himself slightly with his own dagger to make it look like they had; and third, that Aziraphale had not taken kindly to that idea, and that he’d lashed out a hand, faster than Crowley could track, and caught Crowley’s wrist. Drop it, the angel had said, about the dagger, and Crowley had obeyed. He also might have squeaked, but he tried not to remember that part.

Aziraphale was a trained and talented soldier. Crowley had never been afraid of him. In fact, he’d been sort of ridiculously not afraid of him, and now that Crowley understood things better, he guessed that was probably because Aziraphale didn’t project the aura of soldier so much as guard. Someone protective, not aggressive. Certainly other demons and humans seemed to perceive Aziraphale the same way. But Aziraphale had, on a few occasions, gotten just a little aggressive with Crowley, and every time, Crowley had nearly swooned.

Crowley was not proud of this. Not the swooning, not the reason for it. He was a demon, for Hell’s sake, a monster, a beast. Who desperately wanted to be manhandled by an angel.

Aziraphale was just such a bloody contradiction, all soft and lovely, gentle, kind, pleasant, but he could also lift Crowley like he was no heavier than a dictionary, and make weapons burst into flame. (Crowley suspected it didn’t even have to be a weapon; Aziraphale could probably set a ballpoint pen ablaze if he felt the occasion called for it.) He could fight so well that neither he nor his opponent would get hurt, but Aziraphale would still win.

Every time Crowley saw Aziraphale do something like that, reveal his cleverness and competence, it made him feel a little unstable, kind of shivery, and altogether too warm. Those moments would unhelpfully record themselves in Crowley’s memory, coming back to him unbidden when he was alone and had the opportunity to, ah, explore exactly what kind of physical effects such situations had on him.

Crowley, of course, had not told Aziraphale this, and wasn’t sure he was ever going to. Anyway, right now, Crowley was in the bookshop with an amorous angel, and saw no reason to interrupt anything they were doing with a plea for manhandling.

They’d dined at the Ritz, walked home, and then Aziraphale had given Crowley a beautiful smile, free of the anxiety that had plagued Aziraphale as long as Crowley had known him. “I suppose we’re free now,” Aziraphale had said, looking at Crowley with his blue eyes sparkling. “We can do whatever we like.”

“Whatever we like,” Crowley had echoed.

Obviously, that had been kissing. They’d spent most of last night at Crowley’s flat kissing and Crowley was absolutely certain that even if the kissing went on for eternity, that he’d never tire of it. Kissing Aziraphale was a blending of things that were unimaginably large, like Love and Devotion and Friendship, and also things that were finely detailed: the soft feel of his lips, the way he liked to curl his hands around Crowley’s jaw, the give of his cushioned body under Crowley’s fingers.

Crowley’s secret came out on its own when they collided with Aziraphale’s desk and Aziraphale effortlessly lifted Crowley up to set him on it. Because Crowley squeaked.

Aziraphale looked startled, like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Nope. No, nope.”

“Your face is very red,” Aziraphale pointed out, because of course he would.

“Um,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale was not very romantically experienced. But he was also not stupid. Aziraphale slid his hands under Crowley’s arms and lifted him slowly off of the desk. The only thing for Crowley to do then, of course, was to wrap his legs around Aziraphale’s waist. When Aziraphale gave a little groan and pressed his mouth against Crowley’s neck, Crowley squeaked again.

“You like this,” Aziraphale said, his mouth muffled against Crowley’s skin.

There didn’t seem much point in keeping up pretenses anymore. “You’re strong,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale laughed. “You don’t weigh anything.”

“Feels like you could do anything with me,” Crowley said. Aziraphale pulled back to look at him, seeming surprised and a little worried. “But I know you won’t,” Crowley told him. “Aziraphale— you have always made me feel safe.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wet, and he kissed Crowley fiercely. Eventually, Aziraphale even carried Crowley up the stairs to the flat above the bookshop, still as if lifting Crowley was the easiest thing in the world. They spent the rest of the day, the week in bed. Sometimes just talking, finally putting words to things that had been communicated only by looks and smiles, by silence instead of speech. Searching through the past for answers: how long had they loved? When had admiration become desire? How many times had they been achingly close to a kiss?

If someone had told Crowley in Eden that this angel would be the love of his life, Crowley might have actually believed it. There was an air about Aziraphale that made you think that he could love you, that he would hold and protect you, even at great cost to himself.

If Crowley had been told that he’d spend most of eternity trying to make sure that Aziraphale suffered no cost for that kindness, he would likely have accepted that too, even as a demon. Because what price could you put on love? Certainly it was worth sacrificing your pride, your rules, your side for something like this. For someone like this.

*********

YOU HAVE REACHED THE END! Thank you so much for reading!

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Read on Ao3

Coming Aug 20 to Tumblr & Ao3: my next serial romance: "Tollense"

A history professor falls in love with his best friend, a 3000-year-old vampire. It's not Good Omens, but the tropes are similar, so I hope you all will like it.

Want to create fic, art, or other works based on this series? Please do! Just dm or tag me.

My previous Good Omens serial: Mr. Fell’s Bookshop

My Carrd

*********

Image text: Love’s Endless Light by Dannye Chase (HolyCatsAndRabbits) Chapter 12

As Aziraphale and Crowley slowly fall in love over the millennia, Crowley discovers that Aziraphale is keeping a very dangerous secret.

#Dannye writes #good omens #Love's Endless Light #Good omens fanfic #complete Good Omens fic

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isauntervaguelydownwards · 2 years

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to save a child (it does not hurt)

A demon does not heal, not from wounds inflicted by mortals nor from wounds inflicted by other celestials, and Crowley would carry the scars earned in defence of a child for the rest of eternity.

cw: implied torture, child abuse, scarring.

pairing: crowley/aziraphale

fill for @febuwhump day 16: "does that hurt?"

”Does that hurt?” Aziraphale asks, thoughtlessly, and in front of him, Crowley freezes. Crowley who had just gotten lashed in defence of a child, Crowley who would probably need to request a new corporation once this one had bled out – all because he owed the angel a favour.

“Of course not,” Crowley lies through his teeth, not even once considering telling Aziraphale the truth of the matter – that yes, it did hurt, it hurt almost as much as falling had, not physically but at another plane of existence.

No child should ever be whipped.

---

“Does that hurt?” the angel asks, hand hovering just above the scars on Crowley’s back, the pale white marks crisscrossing underneath fresher ones, some of them infected and on the verge of cracking again.

Crowley, on his stomach in front of the hearth, because even thinking of lying on his back is enough to make him gasp for air, tenses, the slight motion cracking the scabs just that little bit more.

“Of course not,” he lies again, the déjà vu hitting him heavily. He can’t tell the angel that sometimes, most times, he wishes he had never fallen; not because he enjoyed being an angel ever so much more than he enjoyed being a demon, but because a demon does not heal.

A demon does not heal, not from wounds inflicted by mortals nor from wounds inflicted by other celestials, and Crowley would carry the scars earned in defence of a child for the rest of eternity.

To protect a child, he did not mind.

---

“Does that hurt?” Warlock asks innocently of his Nanny, once. With a child’s curiosity, he reaches out to touch, to poke, one small finger tracing daintily across the mass of thin scars crisscrossing her shoulders.

He is the first to ever touch them, apart from Crowley herself, and it surprises her how sensitive the scar tissue is, the light touch making every nerve ending close to the scars light up in almost-agony. It is with an effort even Crowley is surprised at that she manages to stifle her gasp and prevent her knees from buckling.

“Yes,” she admits, spinning on her heel to catch the child around the waist, lifting him up and continuing the spin. Warlock’s peals of laughter ring out in the room, the child happier than ever now that the only one whose attention he has to bear is his nanny’s.

“I’m sorry,” Warlock says, and then, “Kiss better?” with all the sincerity of a child who doesn’t really know what’s going on, but knows that someone they love is hurting – and kisses help with the little pains and all Warlock wants is for his nanny to be not hurting.

This darling child.

---

“Does that hurt?” Aziraphale asks once again, not long after the apocawasn’t. The scars from the whippings, centuries upon centuries ago, remain on Crowley’s skin, but now they are hidden beneath large burn marks from where he had not managed to avoid falling bookshelves, from where he had kept the flaming Bentley going with sheer grit and miracles.

The bookshop hasn’t been burnt, it doesn’t look like, but Crowley has, and some things not even Adam can heal it seems.

“Not anymore,” says Crowley in response to the angel, turning his head to smile over his shoulder at him.

Maybe Adam burnt the infection out of him, maybe he gave him back a touch of celestial power to heal himself, or perhaps She had just decided that Crowley didn’t need extra pain what with how much he punished himself already.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says, coming up behind Crowley, absently kissing his shoulder and wrapping his arm around the demon’s waist.

“I’m not – they are earned in saving lives, and I would have carried the pain longer still had I needed to,” he replies, tone matter of fact.

It had hurt, the scars had pained him for centuries, but no one short of Her could have healed him – so why tell Aziraphale, who would only beat himself up about it?

Crowley had done it to save the children, but he would never damn Aziraphale.

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #type: text #fanfiction #my writing #fanfic #febuwhump2022 #febuwhump #febuwhumpday16

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areyougonnabe · 4 years

Text

Short Term Memory

But there can often be a lot of “thinking you love someone” before the loving truly begins. — The Man In The Red Coat by Julian Barnes

Now I am superlatively, actually awake. — The amnesiac composer Clive Wearing

Aziraphale knows it in Eden.

He watches the demon, Crawly, sprawled loose-limbed underneath the boughs of an eternally blooming magnolia, lazily swatting at the plump bees that buzz around his head, and knows he is in love with him.

On this plane, in this body, Aziraphale is subject to all the forces the Almighty has created. Gravity, yes. Electromagnetism, the strong and weak nuclear. And, it seems— love as well.

Adam and Eve certainly didn’t take long to get down to it, after all. Aziraphale, having observed the Garden and its inhabitants closely, knows of no possible love other than the kind that blossoms at first light, and does not wither ever after, even as the sun falls below the horizon. That is the only reference he has to compare this feeling inside him to, the sensation that throbs deep within him when he lets his eyes linger on Crawly, on the dark pool of him beneath the tree.

“I love you,” he whispers, so softly not even the bees can hear, just to know how it feels.

***

On the Ark, Aziraphale thinks of how foolish he was, to believe that he’d loved Crawly after just a few scant days in a garden, hardly even speaking to each other. Longing gazes and yearning sighs does not a true love make.

He hadn’t known then, not really, the true appeal of an argument that went on long after sunset, ideas and perspectives finding purchase before being wrestled triumphantly to the rhetorical floor. He hadn’t known all the different tones of Crowley’s voice, the demon’s magical ability to parrot and mimic, to mock and decry, to leave Aziraphale wheezing with laughter one moment and incandescent with offense the next.

But now that he does, now and only now— can he believe himself to finally, fully be in love with Crowley.

***

In Rome, Aziraphale cannot countenance his own sheer idiocy.

How could he have possibly loved Crowley, when they’d never shared a meal together? It was a childish infatuation, before this moment, before he’d ever seen food make its way past those full lips, before he’d ever seen that tanned throat bob as it drank down a dark wine.

Crowley’s hair is shorter, now, too, and Aziraphale finds it almost laughable he’d thought what he felt for this demon was love, when only on this day has he first seen the pale nape of Crowley’s neck, the full uncurtained juncture of his ear and jaw.

They order course after course, jug after jug. Aziraphale does not want the night to end, because now, and only now, for the first time in nearly four thousand years, does he really and truly know that he is in love.

***

It is the fourteenth century, and Aziraphale has not seen Crowley in ninety-six years. Every year that passes without sight of him, in this monastery high on a mountainside, hurts deeper than the last.

It was pure folly to have thought himself in love, in those times he could go centuries without seeing Crowley, and not have each separated year be a brand new wound upon his heart.

Love is only really proven by pain in its absence, surely. So only now, assigned to this most sacred of places, where Crowley could not tread even if he wished to, is Aziraphale absolutely positive he knows for the first time what it actually means to love.

***

London burns, and Aziraphale gathers his precious books, his artifacts and keepsakes, into a bag that rightfully should not be able to fit them all, and escapes outside the city walls.

There is a familiar dark shape waiting for him there, lingering in the shadow of Aldgate. Aziraphale can smell the telltale scent of Hell on Crowley, the acrid stench of a bad deed done well clinging to his smoke-stained skin.

He doesn’t need to ask where Crowley has been. His own side has warned him, in many recent holy missives, about increased activity from Below during these tumultuous times of plagues, wars, dissidence. He knows Crowley had something to do with the flames now consuming the city; to ask for details would be to invite pain. So instead they exchange mumbled pleasantries, avoiding each others’ gaze, but not willing to separate, not just yet.

“A pity,” Aziraphale is saying. “All those homes, and oh— St. Paul’s! That interior was simply divine…”

Crowley grimaces, ash-faced, and shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course.”

Silhouetted against the smoke, Crowley is wicked, and foul, and demonic, and Aziraphale loves him. Oh, he does, he does, he does.

Only real love could withstand such conditions, such determined attempts to exterminate it. Whatever Aziraphale felt before this awful day, it was untested and as such untrue.

It is only now, faced with such inarguable evidence of Crowley’s nature, and feeling a tide of affection rise within him nonetheless, feeling the urge to gather the demon into his arms and hold him there, whisper words of forgiveness and comfort, does Aziraphale know that he is finally in love at last.

***

It happens again, and again. Aziraphale curses his own stupidity, as each and every time his past self is proven idiotic, infantile, naive, simply misled. His heart bears a succession of false claimants to the crown of love, each overthrown in turn.

He did not truly love Crowley until Paris, when the demon snatched him from underneath the hanging blade of Mme. Guillotine, for love is only love when it surprises, amazes, does the impossible.

He did not truly love Crowley until St. James Park, when he refused to provide him with the means to his own destruction, because love is not love if it bends to every harmful whim, accepts every poor decision without question.

He did not truly love Crowley until the bombs fell on St. Mildred’s, because in that moment he knew Crowley must love him as well, and love is only love when it travels both ways, amplified by actions on both ends, miracles done in the maintenance of it.

He did not truly love Crowley until he handed over a thermos full of holy water, because love is not love unless it is trusting, rather than rigid and unforgiving.

He did not truly love Crowley until they shook hands in the back room of his darkened bookshop, promising to save the world together, for love can only really be love when it is committed to, promised, sealed with a touch.

***

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, between kisses to Crowley’s cheeks, his throat, the corners of his lovely mouth, here in the darkness of the demon’s flat on the night after the end of the world. “Crowley, I love you.”

“How long?” gasps Crowley. “How long have you loved me?”

“I— if you must know, I don’t believe I ever have, not until this moment. Not really.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re lying, you’ve loved me longer than that—”

“A childish crush. A mere obsession. Darling, I swear, I never truly loved you before now!“

“That’s not true. You’re being ridiculous.”

Aziraphale finds it in himself to be primly offended, even as Crowley’s fingers find the buttons of his shirt, opens them, and press into Aziraphale’s skin, shockingly cool as they travel up his chest, exploring him, claiming him.

“I’m not!”

“You are, though. You wanna know how I know? That you’re wrong? I’ve watched you. I’ve known you, better than anyone. That— that damn look in your eyes, it hasn’t changed in six thousand years, no matter what you think. I’d’ve noticed if it had, believe me. You’ve loved me from the very start, angel. From the beginning.”

This revelation does not square with Aziraphale’s understanding. It does not slot neatly into his narrative. “But I know,” he insists. “Everything before now, before this moment— it was nothing. It was all in my head. I feel it now everywhere, my dear.”

“I can tell,” Crowley smirks, his hand now traveling downwards. The smirk turns into a smile as he finds purchase, and Aziraphale gasps, shudders, clutches Crowley tighter.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Crowley goes on, “seeing as we’re here now, after all.”

“Oh, but it does! Love is not love unless it is spoken aloud, and only now am I speaking it, so only now do I truly love you, Crowley—”

“If I let you believe that you’re right,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale remembers their friendly sparring as the Ark traversed those many waters, remembers how naively thought he knew love then, “will you keep saying it?”

“Saying—”

“That you love me.”

“Clearly, you’ve—ah!— known this whole time,” Aziraphale says, still managing petulance even as Crowley’s swift touch between his legs increases in speed, sending shocks of sensation rocketing upwards, “so why do you need me to prattle on?”

There is silence, for a moment, just the sound of breathing from the both of them, coming heavier now, the sound of fabric rustling between them, and the sound of skin on skin, hot and human.

And then Crowley speaks, right into Aziraphale’s ear, in a voice so low, so close, it makes Aziraphale shake with the dearness of it, or maybe that’s just the rising tide of pleasure inside him—

“Let me count the ways. Because it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve heard. Because I deserve to be told, after all this time. Because—even though I’ve known, all along, doesn’t mean I ever really let myself believe. Because I love you, too.”

Aziraphale falls apart, then, beneath the weight of Crowley’s affection, physical and otherwise, cresting over into ecstasy, unlike anything he’s known, from his own touch or that of others.

“I take it back,” he gasps, winded, “what I said before, now I love you, now I really love you, Crowley—”

And he goes on, until Crowley throws his head back in joy, lets out one of those pure, gleeful laughs, and cuts him off with another kiss.

#my writing #THIS TURNED OUT WAY LONGER THAN I EXPECTED HERE HAVE IT #i'll put it up on ao3 tomorrow #good omens #rated M below the cut fyi

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aziraphales-library · 3 years

Note

Hello! Could you recommend me any fics in which Crowley can’t believe that Zira is still alive after the Armageddon’t? Thank you! ❤️

Hi! Here are a mixture of fics in which Crowley can’t believe Aziraphale is alive or is dealing with the trauma of thinking Aziraphale had died. I hope they’re what you were after!...

You’re a dream, darling by Somedrunkpirate (T)

There are two very important facts:

1) Aziraphale is dead.

2) None of this is real.

-----

Crowley’s throat tightens. “My angel,” he says. “My best friend. He’s dead, you know.”

Aziraphale blinks and then blood drains from his face. “No, no. Crowley. No. I’m here. I’m right in front of you.”

“I know,” Crowley says. “Isn’t it amazing, what a dream can do?”

November Rain by FeatherBlack (T)

After Armageddon, Crowley has a few more scars than he accounted for and no temptations to keep him distracted from the pain of losing Aziraphale to the fire—even if his friend wasn't really gone.

Aziraphale, for what it's worth, thought Crowley might need some time alone to figure out what he wants to do with the rest of their eternity on Earth.

As per usual, he was wrong. Hopefully he can make it up to Crowley before it's too late.

In The Moment by Kat_Rowe (T)

The problem with severe trauma is that you tend to think you're just fine. Until the second you're not. Sometimes all it takes is one bad day, when everything gets away from you and your ability to cope decides to go AWOL.

When Crowley has one of those days, his first since the day the world didn't end, he goes to Aziraphale for comfort. Things get worse before they get better, then they get worse again.

Aziraphale thought Crowley was happy, and starting to heal. When he wakes up to the sound of screaming, he starts to understand that neither of them are quite all right. Healing takes more than emotional support, even if it helps. But having someone to love and accept you helps so very much, and makes the future, and the present, worth fighting for.

a wounded work of art by song_of_fate (T)

Crowley never recovered from the trauma of losing Aziraphale to the fire. Even if it didn't happen that way, even if Adam set the Bookshop right again...a part of him was shattered that day.

Now to make sure that Aziraphale never, ever realizes just how badly it broke him.

Still Waking Up by sleepymccoy (T)

Aziraphale has noticed Crowley's odd behavior. Since the Apocalypse he has spotted Crowley outside the shop, just watching, like a watchdog that watches and doesn't come in and explain himself.

This fic follows a roughly two year period after the apocalypse in which Crowley admits to nightmares about the bookshop and Aziraphale burning and struggles to come terms with it and ask for help. Aziraphale grows increasingly lonely and purposeless and some of his damage from Heaven rears up. They slowly navigate supporting each other as best they can. Main points of interest are probs bed sharing, much mutual pining, kissing, and softly handled trauma recovery.

Pieces of You by syrupfactory (M)

Twenty years post-canon, Crowley and Aziraphale's happily-ever-after is uprooted when Aziraphale suddenly vanishes and an encounter with demons leaves Crowley mortal and powerless. After passing months in solitude, Crowley ventures back into London, only to find his husband living a human life as "Ezra" and mourning a fictional human husband called "Jay." Determined to get Aziraphale back, Crowley resolves to do whatever it takes to befriend him all over again, as ordinary people this time, until his angel remembers him.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #crowley has ptsd #death tw #mod d

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agerefandom · 3 years

Text

Mornings and Knights

Fandom: Good Omens

Characters: Aziraphale & Crowley

Words: 1,800

Summary: The first morning that Crowley wakes up still regressed, after an evening of regression with Aziraphale as his caregiver. (Able to be read alone, but technically a continuation of my ‘Evenings of Eternity’ series!)

Content warnings: Bath time, play-fighting with sticks, and enough fluff to rot some unsuspecting teeth.

“Up you go!” Aziraphale caught Crowley gently, lifting him up towards the midmorning sun. He was cheating a bit, ignoring the gravity that should be pulling them back down to the ground, but he was sure that Crowley wouldn’t notice.

Crowley was laughing, wiggling in Aziraphale’s grasp. He stretched his fingers up towards the blue sky, dark against the shining backdrop.

Aziraphale brought him back down into an embrace, holding him tight. “There’s my little one!” he exclaimed, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s bedhead. Neither of them had gotten dressed before running outside this morning, after a quick breakfast of cereal and a longer cleanup of said breakfast. Crowley had certainly gotten into the spirit of making a mess as a toddler.

“I want to play!” Crowley protested, trying to get out of Aziraphale’s arms.

Crowley didn’t really go in for the baby talk, but Aziraphale could tell how much less he filtered himself. How different he was like this, how open. Aziraphale was amazed every time by how much trust Crowley was putting in him, to take care of him and see this part of him. It had been just over a month since Aziraphale had first raised the topic, only four evenings of exploring Crowley’s regression.

Crowley had taken to it like a duck to water, from finger-painting to playing pretend. Aziraphale was hard-pressed to keep up with his toddler energy, but he admired this new form of Crowley as much as he loved the other lives they had shared together. It was nice to have a natural place with this version of Crowley, each of them constructed to fit the other: Aziraphale the one with snacks and napkins, and Crowley with a mischievous grin and fast-running legs.

“Remember to stay in front of the house,” Aziraphale told Crowley before he let him run off into the field. The backyard was still sizeable, but it dropped off into a sheer cliff that Aziraphale didn’t want Crowley going near when he was regressed.

Crowley didn’t pause to acknowledge the warning as he bolted out of Aziraphale’s grasp into a longer patch of grass. He batted at the fronds that bobbed at the level of his chest, then went into a complicated martial arts routine that flattened a large section of the poor greenery. He flipped between coordination and childish stumbling steps, a contradiction in movement. Aziraphale leaned against the gate and watched him, calling out encouragement every now and then. He loved to watch Crowley play, showing an internal drive and joy that Aziraphale didn’t often see in him.

Crowley was now performing some speech in the center of the grass, attempting to threaten the remaining fronds into submission while illustrating the consequences with punches to the air.

Aziraphale smiled fondly at the sight of Crowley yelling, dressed in a new t-shirt with two crossed swords on front. Crowley, as a toddler, had an obsession with knights and weaponry. Aziraphale was almost convinced that it was adult Crowley mocking him, knowing just how much Aziraphale had hated their days in knightly armour, but Crowley was much too genuinely excited as a toddler to have a nefarious agenda. So there were pledges of loyalty and honor, quests for imaginary treasure.

Aziraphale was thinking about getting Crowley some kind of playset that was themed around knights, but he wasn’t sure if that would be taking things too far. He would have to ask Crowley when he was feeling grown up.

“Help me siege the castle!” Crowley yelled, pointing at the tree in their yard with his newest ‘sword,’ a broken piece of wood that Aziraphale had dulled on both ends with a quiet miracle.

“At your service, my liege!” Aziraphale called, running to his side. “I come with my bow!”

“Good.” Crowley took his position, chest puffed out and sword raised high. “Shoot them all! But don’t hurt them too much.”

“No worries,” Aziraphale assured him. “All of my arrows are covered in sleep dust, and they’ll fall asleep as soon as they’re hit.”

“Brilliant!” Crowley swung his sword around once with a fierce war-cry and rushed at the tree, Aziraphale obediently loosing imaginary arrows over his head at the invisible enemy.

“They’re no match!” Aziraphale called as Crowley slashed at the trunk with his stick. He wouldn’t do any real harm to the tree, Aziraphale knew. And if he accidentally hit too hard, they could always heal it later. They both loved the shade of its leaves too much to allow it wounds from silly games. “You’re too good!”

“None can defeat me!” Crowley cried.

With one last thrust to the trunk, Crowley dropped his sword for a victory lap around the tree, his fists held high.

“The knight victorious!” Aziraphale said, exaggerating a bow. “How can we repay you?”

“No repayment,” Crowley said imperiously. “I do what I do for the good of the chivalric code. As all men should.”

“A noble knight,” Aziraphale nodded. “Truly.”

“Can I have a medal?” Crowley’s eyes came together, and his eyes were wide. Aziraphale laughed, recognizing what writers would call ‘puppy-dog eyes.’

“You may have a cookie, darling one, and that will be your medal.” Aziraphale held out his arms and Crowley jumped into them, curling long limbs in until Aziraphale was supporting his weight entirely. “And a bath for your grass-stained knees.”

“I don’t need a bath!’ Crowley protested, but Aziraphale knew from previous discussions that a bath was something Crowley had been wanting to try for a while. Neither of them usually took baths, able to miracle away any blemishes that settled on them. It would be a new experience for both of them, and all the better for being tried together.

“But don’t you remember the new duck we bought for your bath time?” Aziraphale coaxed as he carried Crowley towards the house. “I think he deserves a chance to float around.”

“Oh, true!” Crowley brightened, squirming in Aziraphale’s grasp until he could wrap his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, nuzzling into his chest. “And will it be very warm?”

“The warmest,” Aziraphale promised. “And you can take a nap afterwards.” The door opened politely for them and Crowley’s shoes unlaced themselves, tucking themselves away in their proper spot. Aziraphale toed off his own shoes and carried Crowley down the hall to the bathroom, sitting him gently on the closed toilet seat.

The running water was calming, sound and steam filling the room as Crowley chattered about the morning and his escapades. Aziraphale sat on the edge of the tub, one hand testing the water’s temperature, smiling and listening to Crowley’s stories. Once the bath was full and warm, he helped Crowley undress and watched him clamber into the tub, settling in with a sigh of contentment. Aziraphale could practically see him soaking up the warmth.

Just as Aziraphale started to wish that the bath was big enough to fit two, there was suddenly enough room for them both. Aziraphale blinked, fairly certain he hadn’t made that happen. Crowley stretched his arms over his head, wiggling back and forth to send waves through the bath, then grinned at Aziraphale, reaching out a hand in his direction.

Aziraphale laughed and started unbuttoning his shirt. “If you wanted me to come in, you could have just said so.”

“You need to wash my hair!” Crowley pointed out, grabbing for the shampoo bottle and making a little sound of surprise when it fell into the bath water with a splash.

“Patience,” Aziraphale said, scooping the bottle up and putting it on the side of the bathtub as he stepped into the warm water. He’d made it a bit too hot for himself, knowing that Crowley would appreciate the extra heat, and his pale skin turned rosy red as the water touched it. He sank into the water carefully, trying not to jostle Crowley. The tub might be big enough for two now, but it was still a bit of a squeeze with Crowley’s long legs. “Okay, lean back,” Aziraphale said when he was settled.

Crowley obediently leaned back against Aziraphale’s chest, and they both huffed a contented sigh at the same time.

The world was full of soft steam and wonderful warmth. Crowley’s familiar sharp lines were pressed against him, head on Aziraphale’s chest and their arms pressed together on the sides of the bathtub. Aziraphale could feel the inhuman heat coming from Crowley’s skin, could feel the lines of his ribs as he breathed. Aziraphale wished they could stay here forever, basking in the water and the intimacy. He wrapped his arms around Crowley, tugging him closer and hooking a chin over Crowley’s freckled shoulder. Crowley nuzzled his cheek against Aziraphale’s, damp hair tickling Aziraphale’s nose.

“I love you very much, little one.” There were no words for the pressing feeling in Aziraphale’s chest, but those would have to do.

“Love you too,” Crowley murmured into the quiet air.

After a moment of silence, Crowley started playing with the water, splashing it between his hands. Aziraphale laughed, unwrapping his arms from around him so that he could play. Crowley didn’t have a long attention span when he regressed, preferring to be moving at any given moment. Sometimes Aziraphale wished he was more interested in cuddles, but he was happy enough to spend the time with Crowley however he wanted to.

The rest of the bath passed in a cycle of suds and rinses, with Aziraphale doing his best to keep the soap out of Crowley’s eyes and give him enough time to play with his rubber duck in between bottles of shampoo and conditioner and bodywash. Crowley liked pushing the duck under the water and then watching it shoot up to the surface, laughing delightedly every time.

“Come on, darling one, out you come.” Aziraphale had some trouble coaxing Crowley out of the nice warm water, but eventually it cooled down enough that he clambered out and into the towel Aziraphale had been holding for the last ten minutes. Aziraphale towelled him off with determined scrubbing, and an unusual gust of indoor wind finished the job, pushing Crowley’s hair into an absurd shape and making him laugh.

Aziraphale carried Crowley back to bed and put him into pyjamas, changing into his own comfortable clothes. Crowley willingly crawled under the blankets, but left the corner turned down in a clear invitation.

Aziraphale hesitated: he’d been planning to do some reading this afternoon, and a nap was not really part of that plan… but Crowley looked so cozy that Aziraphale eventually gave in and climbed after him, wrapping Crowley in his arms and closing his eyes to let the now-familiar darkness of sleep claim him for a little while longer.

#fandom agere #good omens agere #agere writing #agere fic #agere fanfiction #sfw agere #my writing #my fics #this has been on the back burner for a while #keep your eyes out for more series! i've been working on my own projects over the winter break #hopefully i'll have time to finish them between requests ^-^#good omens

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ellenripleysbelieveitornot · 4 years

Text

His love was like being on fire, flames licking hungrily at his skin. It was like being pulled under, the tide dragging him away from shore. It was burning and drowning simultaneously, and he craved it, the-

“Crowley?” Aziraphale’s voice called him from his musings. “Are you waxing poetic in your head, again?”

Crowley balked at the suggestion. “I do not ‘waxss poetic,’ Angel!”

“Oh?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Then tell me, dearest, what were you thinking about?”

Crowley crossed his arms and pouted. “I was thinking...” He belatedly remembered that Aziraphale thought he was cute when he was sulking and uncrossed his arms, though the pout remained. “...Demonic thoughts.”

“I see.” Aziraphale didn’t sound convinced. “Darling, may I read you something?”

Crowley blinked. “Er... sure?”

Aziraphale drew a folded up piece of paper from his breast pocked. Crowley recognized it instantly. “Oh no. Nonono, no. No! Why do you have that in your pocket?”

“I keep it close to my heart,” Aziraphale said, sounding far too smug for someone who had just admitted to something so sentimental, in Crowley’s personal opinion.

“Sssap,” he muttered.

“Of the two of us, who is the real sap, here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Ssshut up!”

Aziraphale began to read. “‘I walked the halls of Heaven, so very long ago, I stood within the Presence-’ Nah-ah-ah-ah!” Aziraphale scolded as Crowley tried to snatch the paper away. He continued, “’I lived with grace bestowed. And though it’s true I fell, into-’ Darling, really, I’m trying to read!”

Aziraphale held the paper higher, out of Crowley’s reach. “’Into darkness from the bright, on this loss I do not dwell, for you keep-’ Crowley!”

Crowley stretched across the couch and wound up half in Aziraphale’s lap as he waved his hand around uselessly over the edge of the armrest, trying to reach the paper in Aziraphale’s outstretched hand.

Aziraphale kept going, this time from memory. “’You keep my soul alight. And there isn’t any question, believe me, yes it’s true, all the glory that is-’ Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

This time Aziraphale miracled the paper to someplace safer as Crowley straddled him to get a better reach. “’All the glory that is heaven, is nothing next to you,’” he finished, beaming up at Crowley.

Crowley didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was sulking this time. Stupid, beautiful, smug, wonderful, bastard of an angel.

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Oh, good, it worked,” he said, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist.

“What?”

“I got you right where I want you.” Aziraphale pulled Crowley’s head down to kiss him soundly, and if Crowley were to wax poetic about it (he wouldn’t) he would have called the kiss divine.

---

AN: I reused one of the poems I wrote for Nothing Rhymes with Aziraphale, because poetry’s hard, y’all.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #anthony j crowley #my fic

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 4 years

Text

Lessons and Lamentations

Crowley has been alone for so long, he doesn't remember any other way to be. And then an angel in a tavern tries to tempt him.

A lesson in music, and what it means to not be alone.

Another Good Omens fic for @bingokisses - this one for the prompt “Learning Guitar/Piano together” (well, lyre, close enough) which on my card was paired with “Over-the-shoulder kiss.”

Available on AO3, with detailed history notes for those who like that sort of thing.

Crowley still wasn’t sure what had happened.

“Start by placing your hands like this,” Aziraphale instructed him. “The lyre goes against your thigh, here.” The curve of the tortoiseshell pressed into Crowley’s leg, partway between knee and waist. The angel’s arms wrapped around him, lightly holding the instrument. “Go on. I can’t show you how to play if you don’t take it.”

Five hours ago, he’d been sitting in a tavern, looking forward to getting comfortably black-out drunk and sleeping off the rest of his assignment. Five hours ago, he’d been just about ready to write off the entire ridiculous planet and all the useless beings who inhabited it. Five hours ago, he’d been alone, as he’d always been alone, for so long he couldn’t remember a different way to be.

And then an angel had tried to tempt him.

“Good. Now, when you actually play, you’ll have both hands on the strings. One behind, one in front. But for now, just keep it tilted just like this, so you can see what I’m doing.” One soft hand stayed on the back of Crowley’s helping him cradle the instrument. The other, the right, brushed across his skin as fingers reached to pluck a few notes.

It wasn’t that Crowley had wanted dinner. He ate, when he wanted, but not oysters. If he was going to put something in his mouth, it wouldn’t be a slab of barely-cooked meat that smelt of salt and had the consistency of a particularly phlegmy cough.

But, bless it, that angel was so determined to be friendly and how could anyone resist that? Crowley’s specialty was the irresistible. He knew when something was a lost cause.

“Now the simplest method is plucking, like this, and you’ll notice if I press down here,” his left hand shifted to rest on the strings, “the note is – is sort of abbreviated. Muted and quick. But if I leave the string free…” A soft note reverberated through the atrium. “Then it holds for quite some time. So you can combine several of those to make a chord, like this.” He plucked three strings rapidly, and their sounds combined into a single, rich note, warm, almost liquid, flowing together into something even better.

It had taken some time to warm up to each other. They disagreed on everything. Politics. Morality. Whether or not Caesar had deserved to be stabbed quite so many times. All the big questions, really.

But then, Aziraphale had taken a mouthful of the sharp red wine and spat it back out. This is no sort of wine! My dear fellow, how can you stand it?

S’Rome. You drink what they have. Not any worse than that beer in Uruk.

It absolutely is! My word, how your standards have fallen.

“Now once you have that down, you can start strumming – and you have to make sure your fingers are exact, or it won't work. Hold down all these strings from the back, here and here and here…like that. Then, instead of plucking, you just run your thumb across them all like this—” Seven notes all rose through the air, one sound that was everything together, pure and clear. Crowley gasped and, without thinking, leaned back a little against Aziraphale’s chest. “Mind your legs,” was all the angel said, shifting his knees and feet to hold Crowley’s legs in position.

The argument about wine had turned into a long digression about the drinks of a hundred different cultures. They agreed the pear wine to the north had been the lightest, smoothest of all, that Egyptian beer was superior to Sumerian but really the whole concept needed work, that the plum liqueur drink of the far east was simply delightful, though they disagreed on whether or not it should be drunk by the jarful.

From there they moved on to the decoration of the jars – the simple patterns of the northern cultures compared to the elaborate (and often erotic) scenes of the Greeks. And then to art generally, to paintings, to sculpture, to the general agreement that the emperors’ enormous monuments were rather on the gaudy side. After some discussion, they determined the best work in the city to be a simple but beautifully carved statue of the goddess Hygieia stepping from a pool, located by one of the city’s many baths. Crowley particularly liked that she carried a snake, and Aziraphale had laughed at that.

“Do you want me to play a song for you? So you can see how it goes?” Crowley nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “Alright, let me think.” Aziraphale leaned closer, resting his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, arms absently tugging at his waist to pull them more firmly together, before returning his hands to rest on the backs of Crowley’s. Now every part of Crowley pressed against a part of Aziraphale. It should have felt like an intrusion – Crowley hated to be touched, hated other people in his space – but somehow it felt the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve got one. Now watch.” He rested his left hand against the back of the strings, and with his right lifted a wedge of tortoiseshell, which he used to pluck one string after another, a slow and stately rhythm.

Speaking of art had brought them to talking about the theater, which they both confessed to enjoy. They’d discussed whether the current plays could ever be as good as the classics – a difficult conversation, as apparently the angel preferred slow-paced bore fests whereas Crowley liked the ones with good jokes and fast dialogue. Eventually Aziraphale conceded that Plautus was one of the best playwrights in recent memory, and Crowley agreed to go see Seneca’s take on the Agamemnon story.

Are all angels so obsessed with tragedy? The restaurant had brought a bowl of figs, which were much more to Crowley’s liking. Makes sense, I suppose. Predestination and the plans of the gods and all that. Humans learning to accept their fate.

Oh. Aziraphale’s face had fallen. No I…I rather think I’m the only one. He’d shifted uncomfortably. That is…theater isn’t considered a particularly angelic pursuit. Nor is sculpture, or food or…well…really any of the, you know, human arts.

Crowley had cocked his head, rolled over to lie flat on his couch and stare at the ceiling. Makes sense, he had started in his usual cool, detached manner. They’re very demonic pursuits. All those, you know, delicately carved ladies, that just inspires lust and…and envy and all sorts of sins. And the theater! Comedies about sowing confusion and throwing the entire world into disorder. Mocking power structures. Tempting young men into lives of romance and – and fun, instead of duty and war and whatever else? Yes, very demonic.

He had grinned to himself, satisfied with his explanation, until a glance at Aziraphale’s face had made his chest ache. The brilliant smile had vanished completely, leaving the angel looking downcast. Hopeless. And alone, so blasted alone, in a way that resonated deep in Crowley’s soul.

So, thankful for the glasses that hid his eyes, Crowley had sighed with as much drama as he could muster. Least, that’s what I tell my superiors. Don’t think they really buy it, but I keep trying. Aziraphale blinked at him in confusion. Don’t think I’ve ever had a chance to, you know, talk about it properly, not with anyone who understands. So. S’nice. A look of understanding dawned on the angel’s face, with an entirely new kind of smile, and Crowley had to turn away before it burned him alive. Yeah. So. That’s theater…nh…what do you think of music?

Which brought them here, to the villa of the family Aziraphale had been assigned to, and the lyre, and a music lesson that so far had been an education in something very different.

Each note fell like rainwater, gliding up and down the scales. His hands began to move independently, sometimes plucking notes from the front and back of the instrument, sometimes gliding across the strings, sometimes one finger would rest on a single string, making it quaver and reverberate. Every time Crowley thought he knew the pattern, it would change, faster or slower, higher or lower, a sweeping glissando to bring a chill up his spine.

It was a lament, infinitely sad and alone, and yet filling the air with a bright rhythm of undeniable, unremitting hope.

Crowley couldn’t keep up with the movements of Aziraphale’s fingers, dancing up and down in an incomprehensible pattern. Instead, he half-closed his eyes and leaned back, resting his head more comfortably against the angel’s shoulder. Aziraphale said nothing, intent on his music, but he tilted his head so that their cheeks rested together.

Nobody liked Crowley, not really.

They tolerated him, or were impressed by him, or flattered by his compliments, or drawn in by his intrigue – all the tricks of a tempter. He could roll into any city or village in the world and have the locals eating out of his hand in a matter of days. But once he’d done his job, once he’d accomplished his goal and could drop the pretenses…nobody ever stuck around, and it was on to the next job, the next temptation, the next act.

He didn’t miss the company. He didn’t need it. He had passed four thousand years on this planet quite happily alone, and could do the next four thousand the same.

And yet.

And yet here he sat, on the floor of a fancy villa, surrounded by Aziraphale, wrapped in his arms and his legs and his music. Welcomed. Accepted. Wanted.

Just for the length of a song, nothing else needed to exist. No Heaven, no Hell, no sides, just two beings enjoying each other’s company, just the smell of Aziraphale’s perfume and the brush of his toga against Crowley’s arms, just two heartbeats dancing to the sound of the lyre.

The song wound to a close.

Crowley tipped his head back, trying to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, but could only see a round cheek, a pursed mouth, a snub of a nose.

He wished the song could go on forever. He wished…something. He didn’t know what, but he wanted it more than anything.

Aziraphale plucked the final notes.

And, as the last chord reverberated through the room, their lips met.

Quick as an echo, just as soft and mysterious. An unmistakable brush of lips, the slightest parting, a hot stream of breath. A greeting. A thank you. A promise of…something, someday, Crowley couldn’t imagine what, but he would gladly wait ten thousand years to find out.

And then – the last note faded, and Aziraphale pulled away.

“Well. There you have it. Quite a tidy little instrument, isn’t it? Quite – quite clever, I really prefer it to the cithara, you know.”

“Yeah, um.” Crowley turned his face away. He didn’t actually remember starting the kiss, but it must have been him, the eternal tempter, always pushing for whatever he could get. Pushing too far. Already, he could feel the tension building in Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Perhaps that’s enough for one night?” Crowley’s heart fell. “Yes, I – I rather think…yes, probably sufficient…”

“Can you—” Crowley gripped the instrument a little tighter. “Can you show me a few notes? While you’re here. While I’m here,” he corrected.

“I…you still want to learn?”

“S’why I came, isn’t it?” He shifted his hands and tried to pluck a note; it came out more sour than sweet. “Something like this?”

“Nearly.” Aziraphale’s fingers came around to nudge his, but they hesitated. “Perhaps I should, er, sit facing you? That might be less…”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley said, far too quickly. “I mean. S’easier this way. Facing it the same way, hands on the same side, all that. You don’t…you don’t have to move.”

“Ah. If. If you’re sure.” Crowley nodded. “Right then. Ehm. When you pluck, you should pinch your fingers like this…”

The lesson went on until the early hours of the morning, Crowley nestled against Aziraphale, as the warmth and the music filled him.

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