#good omens ficlet

[crowleys-hips]

i think it's really funny when people describe Crowley's hair as silky or soft or something along those lines in fics, because if you look at David Tennant closely, you can see they used like 50 hair products on his hair to sculpt that shit to perfection. it's probably hard as a rock or stickier than glue. i want a fic where it's like:

Crowley rests his head on Aziraphale's chest, snuggling close. The angel smiles and raises his hand to stroke his hair, but once his fingers are buried in those shiny red locks, they're trapped in a crunchy sea of slick goop. The slimy texture sticks to his fingers like superglue. He tries to pull his hand back, but it's completely stuck. Not even three consecutive miracles can do the trick. He prays for salvation.

#good omens #good omens shitpost #good omens s2 #good omens 2 #good omens fics #good omens ficlet #good omens fanfic #good omemes #good omens memes #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #ineffable partners #aziraphale #crowley #aziracrow #aziraphale good omens #crowley good omens #ineffable fandom #good omens incorrect quotes #good omens text post #xanshitposts

[sapphic-bats]

Warlock asks Nanny about it once.

She’s cutting apples for him, just the way he likes, and he’s gazing out of the window at the lush, green gardens that his mother so proudly upholds. Among the waxy leaves and spindly saplings, Brother Francis tends to the flora carefully, though Warlock’s quite sure he’s just taking certain leaves between his finger and his thumb, and studying them closely. But what did Warlock know about gardening?

He notices Nanny looking out those windows, too. Though she always gazes and stares with a deep intent, as if she only cares when she does, and it so happens that she never looks upon the garden empty.

What was that funny thing Nanny and Brother Francis had taught him? The thing that Nanny discouraged, to which Brother Francis promoted quite devoutly?

“Nanny, have you ever been married?”

Warlock knows what marriage is. After all, his parents are married, if you can call it that. They married, once, out of love. But it’s since faded. It’s more traditional, now. Out of convenience and a general apathy to trying again.

Nanny’s quick hand stills, blade edge flat against the cutting board. With her back turned to the young boy, he cannot make out her expression. He never can, what with her poised shades she wears pointedly upon her nose. But she speaks soon again.

“No,” she replies, simply.

Warlock considers this. “Do you ever want to be?”

Nanny, who had taken up the cutting again, pauses once more. She sets the knife against the board and tilts her chin towards Warlock. “Wherever have you learned such personal questions, dear?”

She’s not refusing to answer him. She never has. She just asks in true curiosity, and perhaps a slight avoidance. But Warlock’s eight, now, and he knows how to navigate her tricks.

“Where do you think?”

At that, she pauses, lips pursed with their consistent purple tint. The lipstick she wears, that faintly stains Warlock’s forehead when she kisses him goodnight and tucks him in after a bedtime story: often about a garden, or a bird that chirped too loudly, and was cast down to the ground by the other birds. One who became the kind bird of the grounds, and took in other reject birds that had fallen similarly.

She considers his answer a moment more, satisfied with the obvious influence she’s had on him. She turns back to the apple slices.

“Perhaps,” she answers.

There is quiet for a moment. He doesn’t mind, he’s grown up with Nanny at his side, and has become quite fond of the silence. It is where thoughts are made, she said once.

She finishes cutting the apples, and plates the sweet snack to serve to the boy. “What troubles you, dear? You seem awfully curious, all of the sudden.”

Not that she minds. Nanny never rejects curiosity.

“Nothing’s wrong, Nanny, it’s just—” he pauses, considers his next words and how to place them. “You look at Brother Francis a lot, and—”

Nanny interrupts him after an audible, suspicious gulp. “Who?”

He frowns, eyes boring into the back of her head. “You know Brother Francis.”

She seems quite comically nervous, like she’s pressed a wax-seal act over her true thoughts. “Oh, yes,” she decides, too much breath coming with her words. “The gardener.”

“You like him, Nanny.”

She turns, abruptly. “I most certainly do not!” Her voice comes out a tad shrill, though perhaps it’s just outrage and scandal.

Warlock narrows his eyes, perplexed. “But you look at him all of the time.”

“When has that ever had anything to do with- with love?” She struggles with the word.

The boy shrugs. “Mum and Dad don’t look at each other,” Warlock observes. “But Brother Francis looks for you, too.”

Nanny’s mouth, ready with a retort, or perhaps a counter-argument, flicks towards a different shape. One that might be, he does? Or perhaps Warlock is mistaken. She pauses, lips pursed again, and sets her teeth.

“I’m sure he does, love.”

The plate is set before him, and Warlock soon forgets his questions. He never asks Nanny again.

But he’s reminded of it when her eyes, barely visible in the light, flick towards the window into the dazzling garden.

Years later, Warlock is nearly sixteen, and has since let the thoughts from half his lifetime ago fade. They never die, just sort of… wait. Wait to be plucked again, notes of memory leaping from their tinny strings. Like a harp.

His mother takes him into town. Soho, where he has no interest in seeing, but his mother so desperately needs a new vinyl, a coffee, and though she never says it: a moment to get away from the house, or more specifically, her husband within it.

She agrees to let him wander. She trusts him, for all she hasn’t before. And perhaps, she says, the fresh, un-televised air could do him some good.

He’s only taken two steps out of the coffee shop, where his mother remains to await her tea, before he almost runs smack into two pedestrians, arm in arm. He takes a surprised jump back, tongue set with an angry scolding, when he gets a good look at them from behind.

“Nanny?”

They both freeze in unison, as if they both know the name, and the voice that has conjured it forth once more for the first time in five years. Warlock notices something else.

“Brother Francis?” He prods, shocked. “Izzat you?”

Both of the two now turn, and everything around the three fades into blurring colors and churning noises.

Warlock would be a rotten liar if he had said he hadn’t missed them dearly. He would also be a lousy boy if he didn’t recognize them by the backs of their heads alone, he thinks. Because he would know them anywhere. They’d always done a much better job at raising him than his own parents.

They both look different now. Brother Francis seems to have had dental work done, and has cleaned up quite nicely. Nanny, though, appears to have changed her style completely. Her- his? Their? Who knows. But she still sports a fine pair of shades upon the bridge of her nose.

The pair seem to stutter, splutter with a little awestruck surprise. It’s as if they’d never expected to see him again.

“Oh- Warlock,” Nanny Ashtoreth begins, feigning a cool-headed surprise. “How good to see you.”

She sounds different too. Less of a high strain on her voice, more natural.

But Warlock seems to finally feel a gear shift, and a puzzle piece clicks into place. He glances down to the space between the two, where their arms are linked.

In his dumbfounded state, he feels a smile split the trance.

They both see it at the same time, chins tilting to follow his gaze. When they catch where his eyes are, their stares mingle together in concern. It’s a look that wonders aloud whether or not they should be worried, or blatant.

Warlock looks back up to their faces. “I see now why you two left,” he adds, grinning wider.

He can’t help it. He was right all along.

Warlock remembers something, then. It takes all of his power not to burst out into a triumphant laugh.

“I’m sure he does,” he says, slyly.

Nanny’s eyes, illuminated from behind with daylight, widen. She remembers, too. Of course she does.

And she bites back a twinning smile.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens 2 #ineffable idiots #warlock good omens #crowley good omens #aziraphale good omens #nanny ashtoreth #brother francis #good omens fic #good omens ficlet #fic #ficlet #author #ao3 #good omens fan fiction

[actual-changeling]

There is a man with fire-red hair running a bookshop in Soho.

He hasn't always been the original owner, as almost all residents on Whickber Street know, but it is a fact you never bring up with him. Hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and layers of rough sarcasm, he is a shadow moving silently between shelves and plants, the Bentley parked outside seemingly more for decoration than actual use.

Previously, there had been a white-haired man with gentle eyes and a favour up his sleeves living among his books, and while he barely sold any of them, he was a pillar of the community just like the building itself. When he disappeared, an unspoken vow to never discuss the subject matter in the vicinity of the shop was made.

There is a woman with fire-red hair sitting in St. James's Park.

She feeds frozen peas to the ducks and puts the fear of God into everyone who dares to offer them bread or attempts to scare them away. The bench is hers, always empty, awaiting her arrival; sometimes she brings a bottle of wine, other times she cradles a Polaroid in the palm of her hand, and even the dark shades cannot stop the occasional tear from dripping down her cheek.

Rumours of her companion and his absence spread quickly, yet no one dares to ask, and the spies scattered around the park form a mutual understanding to avoid her.

There is a person with fire-red hair wandering the streets of London, wearing sunglasses and no coat, no matter the weather or time.

Their head is tipped back, their eyes glued to the sky, and yet they navigate through the masses parting around them with an unnatural ease. No one stops them, no one dares to ask why, and even if they did, they wouldn't offer an answer, not when they are asking themself the very same question.

When it begins to rain, they stop moving, stretching out their hands in a weak imitation of a prayer and allowing the water to seep into their clothes until they're as dark as the wet concrete beneath them.

There is a man with blinding white hair stepping out of an elevator that does not exist, and the end of the world comes with him. If someone were to listen in, they would realise that the man with fire-red hair meets him in the middle of the street, the air thick with lightning that will never find a home.

As they talk, nightingales all over London begin to sing.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #good omens ficlet #a little warm up improvisation

[twilightcitysky]

Courtship

“Crowley, come in! I was just redecorating.”

“Really? You never redecorate. Last change you made was in 1860, when you had the plumbing installed.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “After everything that happened, I started thinking things over,” he said tenderly. “We almost lost the bookshop, but here it is, good as new. We almost lost the world, and… and now that we didn’t, I want to make some changes. I think it’s time.”

Crowley frowned. “Here, have you got something in your eye? You keep blinking.”

Aziraphale stopped trying to flutter his eyelashes. “I’ve painted the back room,” he said eventually, in a more normal tone of voice. “Would you like to see?”

He headed towards the door without waiting for an answer and pushed it open. “What do you think?”

“Oh, um. Very nice. I might’ve gone with a warm gray, or maybe mother-of-pearl… but yellow’s good too.”

“I happen to like this particular shade of yellow,” Azirphale said, a trifle testily. “Very much.”

Crowley held up his hands. “Hey, it’s your bookshop. Are you ready for lunch?”

*

“What’s this?”

“They’re flowers. Roses, dahlias, and a few Peruvian lilies.”

"What do they do?"

Aziraphale, holding out the intricately beribboned, carefully wrapped and above all expensive display from the most exclusive florist in London, began to feel a bit awkward. "They… smell nice, I suppose? And they can brighten up a room."

Crowley peered over his glasses. "Sure, for a little while. But they're cut, see?" He touched the bottom of the bouquet, as if Aziraphale perhaps hadn't noticed. "They'll die in a week."

“I suppose. I thought you might–”

“Is this more redecorating? I can help with that, no problem. Listen, why don’t I get rid of these for you… and if you’re wanting something for the bookshop, we’ll get a nice rubber plant to put under the window.”

Aziraphale sighed.

*

“Oi, angel! Think you dropped something!” Crowley jogged to catch up with him and put the matte black box, which he’d left on the seat of the Bentley, back into his hands.

“Ah. Actually, you see… that was for you.” Aziraphale felt his cheeks heat. “In case you got peckish,” he added lamely.

“This fancy stuff? Men break into bedrooms at midnight to leave this kind of chocolate next to pillows. Saw it in an advert.”

Aziraphale brightened. “Would you like me to break into your bedroom?” he asked, a tad breathlessly.

Crowley laughed. “What for? Listen, why don’t you have these. You’ll appreciate ‘em more than I will.”

*

“Are you ready to go?” Crowley glanced at his watch.

“Just one more thing. I. Er. I-thought-you-could-wear-this,” Aziraphale said in a rush. “If you like.”

Crowley took the velvet box from his trembling hand.

He opened it. “It’s…”

“Yes?”

“It’s very sparkly.” Crowley held the ring up to the light.

“It’s a diamond,” Aziraphale said desperately. “A diamond ring.”

“Oh. And you’re givin’ it to me because…”

“I–” Aziraphale stopped. He searched Crowley’s face, looking for a flicker of understanding. “My dear, I would like–”

“Oh wait, let me guess. It’s for your magic act, right? Are you practicing palming again, or is this the sort of ring that squirts ink when you twist the jewel?” Crowley pulled curiously at a glittering stone the size of his thumbnail. “Happy to help if you need an assistant. Just no more bullet tricks, okay?”

Aziraphale stared at him. “Yes,” he replied dully. “My magic act. Yes. Exactly. I’m trying to make something appear.”

“Got it in one!” Crowley gave him a pleased grin. “I know you so well, angel.”

“I daresay you do.”

Aziraphale followed him out to the car. There’s nothing else for it, he thought. I’ll have to throw a cotillion ball.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens fanfiction #good omens ficlet #Aziraphale #Crowley #Aziraphale is TRYING #crowley is as dense as a lump of teak that is canon #humor #silly fluff

[indigovigilance]

*On the couch at the South Downs cottage*

C: Aziraphale?

A: *puts down his book* yes dear?

C: would you still love me if I was a worm?

A: Crowley, I was standing right next you when you transformed from a giant snake into a man-shaped being.

C: …

C: but snakes are cool.

A: that’s because you were the first. If you’d been a worm, then worms would be the enduring cross-cultural symbol of wisdom, rebellion, and immortality.

C: you really think so?

A: Of course, dear. *returns his attention to his book*

C: …

C: Aziraphale?

A: *looks up* Yes, dear?

C: you didn’t answer my question.

#good omens #good omens ficlet #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #would you still love me if I was a worm

[tismrot]

GOOD OMENS in CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER (a fanfic helper)

I tried to find this online, but I only found bits and pieces here and there. This should be a very good tool when writing fanfics, or just for understanding the narrative - so, here's my best attempt at a timeline for the canonized events in the show. Let me know if I missed any, or if something is wrong! CHRONOLOGY of GOOD OMENS 4004 BC: Before the Beginning (Sunday, October 21st, Nowhere, no name for Crowley) Aziraphale meets Crowley as an angel in Heaven pre-Beginning and Crowley makes a star factory. 4004 BC: The Eden Wall (Rather more than 7 days later, Crawley) Crowley finds Aziriaphale on the Eden wall and they talk about right and wrong. Aziraphale gave his sword to Adam and lies to God about it. Eve looks about 6 months pregnant. 3004 BC: Noah’s Ark (Ancient Mesopotamia, Crawley) Crowley finds Aziraphale in front of the Ark and they talk about how God will drown kids. 2500 BC: A Companion to Owls (Land of Uz, Crawley) Crowley and Aziraphale work together to save Job's kids from God. 1353 - 1336 BC: Nefertiti's reign as queen, during which, at some point, Aziraphale did a magic trick for her. (Thebes/Luxor, ancient Egypt, Crawley) (unfilmed, just mentioned) We know he fooled her with a "lone caraway seed and three cowry shells" 33 AD: Crucifixion of Jesus (Golgotha, Palestine, name change to Crowley) Crowley (canonically confirmed female form) tells Aziraphale she showed Jesus the world. 41 AD: Oysters in Rome (41 AD) Aziraphale playfully tempts Crowley to go eat oysters with him at Petronus' restaurant. If this isn't innuendo, I don't know what is. 537 AD: Medieval England/King Arthur (Kingdom of West Essex) Aziraphale as a knight of the Round Table meets the Black Knight (Crowley) who suggests the Arrangement for the first time. Aziraphale says no. 1020: The Arrangement is agreed to (unfilmed, just mentioned in the book or by Neil) I can't find the exact date - tell me if this is wrong? 1040 - 1601: Crowley and Aziraphale act on their arrangement "dozens of times", as mentioned in the Globe Theatre. As far as I've understood this arrangement (correct me if I'm wrong) it means that whenever they receive orders from Heaven or Hell, they tell the other, compare notes, and if it takes place in the same area, they agree that just one of them has to go do both tasks. Either that, or both tell their respective bosses that the task has been done, because they would have cancelled each other out either way. Letters would probably be too risky communication other than "Let's meet up at....", so I assume they have seen a lot of each other during this time. 1500s: Something related to the Catholic Church and the Papacy (Rome?). (Unfilmed idea) My theory: Raphael/Crowley (Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino) works as painter in Rome from 1508 until his "death" in 1520. He was invited to Rome by Pope Julius II and was immediately commissioned to work on a series of frescoes for the Pope's private library in the Vatican Palace. Crowley can't enter consecrated spaces. Hilarity ensues. This would explain his conversation about helicopters (in the book) with Leonardo da Vinci. 1601: Hamlet (Globe Theatre, London) Aziraphale and Crowley meet inconspicuously as Shakespeare struggles with Hamlet (both actor and play), and Aziraphale agrees to do both his and Crowley's assignments in Edinburgh. 1650: Aziraphale does his first apology dance (unknown) Nothing more is known about this event. 1655: Agnes Nutter's book is published, and doesn't sell a single copy. 1656: Agnes Nutter is burned (Lancashire, England, 1656) After writing the Nice and Accurate Prophecies, she is burned by Pulsifer's ancestor. 1793: French Revolution (The Bastille, Paris) Aziraphale puts himself in harm's way by dressing like a nobleman while looking for crepes in revolutionary Paris, just so that Crowley will save him. 1800s: Aziraphale opens his bookshop. (Soho, London) I can't figure out when, it just says 19th century online. Crowley asks if Aziraphale wasn't supposed to open a bookshop when he saves him in the Bastille.

1827: The Resurrectionist (Edinburgh, October) Aziraphale and Crowley discuss morality, meet Elspeth and Wee Morag - and the body snatching doctor.

1827 - ????: Crowley sleeps or is in Hell We don't actually know long or exactly when, but in the book it's mentioned he only got up to go to the toilet once. Why?

1862: St. James’s Park, London Crowley is paranoid, Aziraphale won't give him holy water. 1862 - ????: Wild West meetup (Unfilmed idea) Neil Gaiman just had the idea, it wasn't filmed.

1928: Crowley buys the Bentley And he keeps it in tip-top shape until the Not-Apocalypse. 1933: Aziraphale gets his driving license (unknown location)

1941: WW2 Blitz (London) Church bombing, magic show, photo taken, shades of dark and light grey.

1967: Aziraphale gives Crowley holy water (Soho, London) ...And says Crowley goes too fast for him. He does it because Crowley is about to orchestrate the robbery of a church. One of the robbers is Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell, who we meet later. He offers his 'army' to Crowley.

1980s: Crowley designs the M25 (Hell) No other demons understand the whole thing about constant, low-level, effortless evil.

2007: Three children are born in a hospital in Tadfield The old switch-a-roo.

2007 - later that night: Godfather meetup (Soho, ca 2009) They're drunk, talking about whale brains and agreeing to raise Warlock as nanny and gardener.

2012 - 2018: Raising Warlock (Winfield House, England) He's way too normal! 2018: Not-Apocalypse (Saturday, August 11th, Tadfield Airbase) Do I need to explain this? 2019 - 2023: Beelzebub and Gabriel start meeting each other. We see them meet in an American bar, a Russian café and in the Resurrectionist in Edinburgh. 2020: Lockdown (London) Aziraphale goes on about cake, Crowley wants to come by and watch him eat. Aziraphale chickens out.

2023: Jimbriel (Soho, London) A naked archangel with amnesia shows up on Aziraphale's doorstep. --- UPDATED AND IMPROVED

#crowley #good omens fandom #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens 2 #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #innefable husbands #crowley edits #ineffable divorce #good omens timeline #good omens fanfiction #good omens fic #good omens ficlet #good omens fic rec #good omens art #crowley good omens #good omens fanart #the bentley #good omens bildad #bildad my beloved #bildad brainrot #bildad nation #bildaddy #bildad the shuhite #a companion to owls #good omens minisode #good omens chronology #good omens #gomens

[foolishlovers]

i saw some pictures of flower crowns earlier and couldn’t get touch-starved! crowley making some to keep his hands busy out of my head

aziraphale and crowley are having their picnic in the park, resting on a shared blanket, the air between them sizzling with the unfamiliar feeling of sweet freedom after the no-apocalypse

crowley’s hands are twitchy, he doesn’t know what to do with them, doesn’t know if he’s allowed to reach out now, doesn’t know if the angel longs for his touch as much as crowley is pining for his

it’s been 6000 years and yet, the yearning still floods his throbbing chest, still swamps his jittery body

he’s always been gone on him

but there are no sides anymore, not for them at least, no heaven or hell to fear - times have changed

so of course (and how could it not), a silent, aching what if starts nagging on the back of his mind; he’s anxiously waiting for a signal, some sort of sign that the angel craves this too

crowley needs to keep busy, needs to occupy himself with something, anything that will distract him from the overwhelming desire to brush over aziraphale’s skin, to stroke over his rosy cheeks, to caress the wrinkles on his forehead

while aziraphale is savouring another one of the treats they’d bought on the way to the park, cheerfully chattering about the last few days, crowley begins plucking daisies from the meadow

it’s something, but it’s not enough

he sneaks a look at the angel, the soft white curls on his head drifting gently in the summer breeze, igniting a rather absurd idea within him

really, it’s a foolish thought

captivated by the image of aziraphale with the flowers in his hair, his hands abruptly stop obeying him and seize the daisies

he snaps his fingers, adding a bunch of other wildflowers to his growing collection

crowley makes one, then - reluctantly - another flower crown, twisting the fragile flowers until he’s somewhat satisfied, somewhat pleased with the result

only afterwards, aziraphale holds his tongue; he quietly takes note of the demon’s slender hands, possibly on the verge of trembling again now that he’d finished the crowns

“for us?”

nodding bashfully, crowley curses the lack of confidence he feels in this fleeting moment

aziraphale picks one of them, cautiously placing it on crowley’s buzzing head, his soft fingers pressing lightly against his long hair, lingering to adjust it again and again until he’s finally content

crowley’s barely breathing anymore when aziraphale grabs his hands, directing them towards the second crown, encouraging him to do the same for him

touching aziraphale - even just briefly - feeling the smooth texture of his hair, getting a taste of angel that he’d once believed he’d never experience - it is blissful, a marvellous sensation he fervently wishes to lose himself in

“thank you, my dear”

hazel eyes meet crowley’s amber ones as their heartbeats are adapting to a speedy, but steady rhythm, bodies almost embracing, almost intertwined like the invisible string tugging on their chests, pulling them closer to each other

tenderly, aziraphale draws crowley’s hand to his mouth, plush lips planting a hint of a kiss on his warm palm

and just like that, his fingers stay still for the rest of the afternoon, crowley’s earlier unease abandoned, long forgotten, eradicated by the angel’s soothing peck

they have the rest of their lives ahead of them, a study of touches just around the corner

#apparently i’m into flower crowns and significant hand touches who knew.. 🫣 #foolish writes #good omens #aziracrow #crowley #aziraphale #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #good omens ficlet

[brainwormcity]

Imagining if Aziraphale and Crowley had a silly off-screenish love scene similar to Anathema and Newt's:

Crowley has just discarded his glasses and he and Aziraphale share a kiss in the bookshop but instead of being filled with desperation, it's loving and genuine. The two pull apart a little breathlessly, after a few seconds, and we see them looking at each other meaningfully. They kiss again, then bam! 6,000 years of longing come to head and they suddenly kiss harder, filled with a different type of desperation.

Aziraphale has Crowley held to him really tightly and Crowley's got his fingers in Aziraphale's curls. Then they're knocking things over, bumping into bookshelves, Crowley is literally just knocking books over for the hell of it, a property destroyer even when in the throes of passion.

Aziraphale pulls back: Be careful of the books, please

Crowley rolls his eyes: Yeah, yeah

And then they're back to kissing and we see them slowly lower to the floor. We hear Aziraphale giggle and then we see Aziraphale's hand with his pinky ring gesturing vaguely. The locks on the door lock miraculously and then the open sign flips to 'closed' so fast that it nearly falls off its hook.

We cut to the two side-by-side on the floor, just above the shoulders and Crowley is looking at Aziraphale like he's the one for hung the moon and they kiss again.

We then cut to the ceiling where the lights first flicker and then burst. Outside, the ground has started shaking and we see Nina and Maggie in the coffee shop as cups start falling off the shelf and breaking. Nina yells and starts grabbing them to try to stop them from falling.

Maggie runs over to help: What's going on? Since when do we get earthquakes in England?

Nina looks irritated: I bet it's-

She looks over and you can see loose pages swirling around in eddies through the window of the bookshop.

Nina looks at Maggie with a surprised smile: You don't think?

Maggie is light-heartedly scandalized: Nooo!

Nina laughs: I was right!

Maggie tilts her head in confusion: About what?

Nina redoubles her efforts to hold the cups as the quakes increase: Mr. Fell really is a dark horse!

We cut to the bookshop and it's dark outside now, with a very dim glow in the windows. We see Crowley and Aziraphale lying together on the floor, atop a bunch of papers, from the chest up. Crowley has one arm tucked under his head and the other is around Aziraphale. Aziraphale has his head on Crowley's shoulder and an arm across his chest, looking up at him lovingly. Both of their hair is a mess.

Aziraphale is smiling and blushy: That was wonderful, dear

Crowley looks away for a second but he's beaming: Shut up

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #aziraphale x crowley #michael sheen #david tennant #good omens ficlet #aziracrow love scene #good omens love scene

[crowleys-hips]

Touch Forbidden

another Crowley pov poem

i have never known how to be human i watch them, and i mimic  try to replicate their gestures, the way they breathe, move, speak, love my hands itch for touch forbidden  so instead i’ll bury my hands in soil grow a garden in barren land watch plants starve  for light they have never known as they inch closer, closer, closer to the sun i’ll light flames from my fingertips  and paint the whole sky  until time crashes and all my creations explode in supernovas  i’ll stroke piano keys no, pummel them until i or the instrument bleed i’ll drown the silence in the violence of grieving sonatas let the black and white between my fingers blur into shades of gray  as i try not to think of how your hands would feel interlaced with mine instead i’ll write you love letters you will never read until my hand cramps and breaks until i run out of ink or my veins are drained i’ll sink to the bottom of endless bottles of liquor until the image of you is a cloudy haze until i can’t feel my skin anymore crying out for the touch of yours i’ll render my hands useless as i grip the wheel of my car and try to outrun my thoughts bolting out at lightspeed  going interstellar and try to find a home hidden among dead planets that have never known warmth i’ll dig myself a hole there and become rootbound maybe then my soiled hands will forget your shape my skin will dissolve and cry no more for touch forbidden

tag list under the cut:

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[nik-knight]

A More Gentle Touch

He had hardly spent more than three hours in his human-shaped corporation, yet he was already winded by the time he managed to lower all the shop’s curtains and finally lock the door. A quick miracle was sent behind him to flip the sign to “Most definitely closed” as he trudged into the back room to rest for the evening.

There had been no other way around it. It had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time to invite the book dealer over for a few negotiations; after all, she was an old colleague of his and a delight to have conversations with. However, when spending most of an afternoon around a human, it was nearly impossible to keep up the vague impression of being a human without actually becoming humanoid. Overall, it was easier to spend that time in a human corporation than holding on to a miracled façade for that long.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t still exhausting, though.

It was like walking around in clothes that were much too tight. Humans certainly were not the largest of Her creations, but they were still quite clumsy forms with arms and legs that had to move at the same time, heavy skin, dense bones, and weighty organs all packed inside a cumbersome package.

He transformed as soon as he sat on the sofa. The relief of it all was soothing at least. Fluffy feathers took the place of stuffy clothes, white wings replaced his heavy arms, and those pesky legs thinned to a comfortable weight that could easily be tucked under his body.

Finally, he could be soft and small in all the right ways. He had no idea how Crowley could be humanoid so often without facing similar fatigue. Perhaps that was why the demon spent most of his spare time asleep.

Despite finally being back into his much more comfortable form, the extended period in that skin suit had ruffled his feathers just as literally as metaphorically. There was an itchy irritation under his feathers, but he was much too tired to groom himself right now. All he wanted to do was curl up with a cup of tea and a good book, but the thought of gathering the necessary materials to do so (or even miracle them up) made him want to do nothing but settle into the cushions and stay there until he had the energy to move again. He allowed his tired eyes to drift shut, letting the quiet and dark of the room calm him for just a bit.

He had only been in his weary siesta for a few minutes when he smelled a rather familiar aroma in the back room. He tiredly blinked open his eyes just in time to catch a fresh cup of tea on a saucer delicately placed in front of him. He looked up to see Crowley, in his humanoid form for some reason, pushing the cup closer to where Aziraphale could comfortably dip his beak in for a sip.

“My dear?” He asked, unsure why Crowley was in that form so late in the evening. By now he was usually a snoring pile of coils wrapped around the base of one of Aziraphale's table lamps.

“You looked a little flustered, so I figured you might need a pick-me-up,” he shrugged as if he hadn’t done anything special. Aziraphale could feel his feathers fluff up at the amount of love that was coursing through his tiny body.

“Oh, my darling, how very kin—”

“Anyway,” Crowley coughed, not letting Azriaphale hit him with another four-letter word. “Your feathers are all ruffled, and since I have hands at the moment, I figured I could… Help you straighten them out a little. ‘F ya like, that is.” He turned his head away, trying and failing to hide the embarrassed flush on his cheeks. Luckily Aziraphale’s happy cooing had him looking back just in time to catch the angel’s happy wiggle and flutter.

“Oh, that sounds like just the thing my dear, if you don’t mind terribly?”

“Not at all.” Without a moment's hesitation, Crowley’s hand was held open by Aziraphale, letting him step gently onto his palm so Crowley could bring him to his lap as he sat down.

Aziraphale stretched his wings out as best he could to give Crowley room to work, and soon enough the demon’s fingers were gently grooming Aziraphale’s wings. It wasn’t anything too deep or intense, but just a slight straightening of a few ruffled feathers along with long gentle strokes across the wing to calm the rest of the dove’s frayed nerves. They paused every few minutes so that Crowley could bring the teacup back to Aziraphale’s beak to drink, then it was back to the relaxing grooming that soon had Aziraphale looking like a fluffy melted marshmallow in Crowley’s palm.   

“That good, angel?” Crowley asked after about thirty minutes of grooming and an extra ten minutes of gentle petting that neither one of them brought up.

“Very good, my dear. Thank you so very much.” Aziraphale opened his eyes that he hadn’t realized he had shut during the grooming. He turned his head so he could look back at his darling demon. “I hope it wasn’t too taxing for you to stay in that form just for me.”

Crowley simply gave him a small smile and shrugged. “Some things are worth shifting for.”

There was only the briefest tingle of a miracle before Crowley suddenly found himself with a lap full of human-shaped angel. “Too right, my dear.” He swiftly leaned in, pressing his lips against the demon’s. Crowley stiffened in surprise, but quickly returned the kiss, keeping it gentle and soft just for his angel. When Aziraphale finally pulled away, he only had a moment's notice before suddenly there was a large snake in his hands and lap.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle. “Getting tired, darling?”

“Just get down here, already, angel,” he grumbled, doing his best to keep himself from hiding his face in his coils.

“Oh, gladly.”

Then there on the sofa was a significantly less ruffled dove resting in his favorite nest of black and red coils. The book Aziraphale had been reading earlier that day was conveniently placed against the long loops of the scaley nest so that Aziraphale could easily read and the serpent’s tail could easily flip the pages. (Aziraphale was yet to discover that his feathers poofed up the slightest bit when he was done with a page, giving Crowley the wordless cue to flip to the next one.)

“Oh, you’re too good to me, dear.” With a happy little wiggle to settle comfortably in his love’s nest, he set his eyes on the beginning of the chapter.

“Shaddap…”

And if Crowley buried his head right into the soft feathers under Azriaphale’s breast to hide his face, well, no one bothered to mention it. After all, Aziraphale had a good book and good company to enjoy.

And enjoy it they did.

[by @nik-knight for @katiefrog217]

#good omens fanfiction #Good omens ficlet #Good omens #Good omens au #for katiefrog #Wrote this in maybe two hours #so I hope it's all right #Dove aziraphale #azirabirb #snake crowley #knight writes

[actual-changeling]

i think about the fact that crowley went through with his confession despite everything at least once a day, so have a ficlet where he doesn't.

edit: you can now find this fic on ao3 right here

———

"If I'm in charge… I can make a difference."

For a second, everything stops. The noise disappears, the world blurs and fades, his body grows numb while he desperately clings to the breath inside his lungs. He is suffocating, he must be, words are blocking his throat, and this—this can't be.

After everything they went through for six thousand years, after countless of heaven's cruelties, after ropeburn on Aziraphale's wrists before stepping into a spiral of hellfire, the mere thought of his angel returning to heaven seemed like a laughable impossibility. There are choices the world makes for one, and this had been one of them; live as a traitor, as an exile, but live. 

A life lived in freedom, shared, and cherished.

Aziraphale wouldn't go back. He wouldn't. 

Crowley could have sworn he never would, and yet here they are, mouths open, judgements spoken, and still alive. 

"Oh."

Air rushes out of him and takes the tension with it, dragging him back to full consciousness and leaving him with tremors in his hands and tears in his eyes.

"Right."

Reflexively, he turns around, hyperaware of his uncovered eyes, and the confession is still humming in the back of his mind. He wouldn't, he thinks again and again and again, he wouldn't, he wouldn't.

But he did. The grandfather clock stares him down, a hint of gold reflected back at him, and his joints ache when he pries his glasses out of his fist and puts them on. A familiar shadow falls over the world, taking all the colour with it, and Crowley suddenly feels very, very cold.

"Crowley?"

A hesitant step towards him, then another, and his skin burns, his fingers shake, as the carefully cultivated sprout of hope in his chest dies oh so slowly.

He wouldn't, whispers the voice again, crumbling like a brittle leaf crushed in Aziraphale's fist.

He would. He did, another gives back, and he knows this, too, knows it with the taste of resignation on his tongue.

Crowley faces Aziraphale simply to stop him from coming any closer, gritting his teeth when he sees the confused irritation greeting him. Surprised—Aziraphale is surprised that he does not want to come with him.

Six thousand years, the tiny voice weakly offers, six thousand years, and this is the reward.

Crowley wants to rip his confession out of his throat and offer it to him, he wants to throw it up onto the floor and never see it again, he wants to grab Aziraphale's shoulders and shake him because, why, why would you think I want this? Why would you do this?

Why are you leaving me?

He wants to break his ribs and pull them apart so he can kill his heart with his own hand, and it is falling, it is burning, it is grace leaving him as everything he thought he knew dissipated and vanished among the stars. Maybe some pieces of himself will stay behind in the dust, marking his presence, marking an absence.

"Good luck," Crowley says flatly, not recognising himself, not seeing or hearing, and as he begins to walk away, a high-pitched ringing settles in his ears. Love is a stone sinking to the bottom of his stomach, it is his ribs splintered and sharp, cutting him open from the inside out. Maybe the worst part is that it is not entirely unexpected—after all, why would he keep telling himself that Aziraphale would never return to heaven if there were no fundamental belief that he would?

"Good luck? Crowley! Crowley, come back, to—"

A hand wraps around his wrist like heated iron, and he can barely bite back the strangled sound escaping him at the contact, wrenching his arm out of Aziraphale's grip; he doesn't turn around.

"Don't."

Not a command, no, a plea, a prayer, a finish line, the ending to a game he always hated playing; love, sure, in the good moments, during the good times.

Now it simply hurts—hollow and heavy—and if he looks at him, he will tell him; he will tell him all of it and more. He will try to make him change his mind despite knowing it is hopeless, yet he cannot help but feel as if this is a frozen moment right before the guillotine blade falls.

Judgement day, for better or for worse.

Crowley could linger, could meet tear-stained cheeks and blue irises, could fall to his knees and beg him to stay, but none of it would be able to fix the rift opening between them. Six thousand years, and for the very first time since Eden, Aziraphale is a stranger to him. The blade will have to come down eventually, and maybe they have been staving off the inevitable; maybe it is for the best.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Crowley gathers the fragmented shards of himself and holds them tight. Then he makes a choice and whispers a goodbye into the silence, numbly making his way through the bookshop, across the street, into the Bentley, and all the way back to his flat.

Sometimes things are better left unsaid.

#alex writes good omens #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable wives #ineffable spouses #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #good omens ficlet

[ineffablerainstorm]

Above Crowley everything was colour. Explosive bursts of starlight, of bright fire painted the night sky. It reminded him of what it had been like before time itself. When entire galaxies had erupted into existence.

There was one key difference though: There were no angels here tonight. Only a man-shaped being that had been an angel once and wasn’t quite a demon now.

He was lying on his back on the roof of his apartment building in Mayfair. Next to him were several bottles of wine. Most of them had been empty for hours. It was New Year’s Eve and Crowley was alone.

No, not just alone. Lonely.

This was the first year in the existence of this planet that he would be truly on his own. Sure Aziraphale hadn’t always been with him as such. But he had always been somewhere. Only one small miracle away. Now earth had lost its guardian angel. And Crowley had lost everything that mattered.

Below him people were celebrating. Glasses were clinking. Couples were kissing.

Crowley had sworn that he wouldn’t cry (again). He did anyway as he whispered softly to the heavens:

“Happy new year, angel.”

Somewhere far above Aziraphale didn’t dare to whisper back. But he heard. And he saw. And he felt just as lonely.

#happy new year #the sad Crowley mood got me again #im sorry #good omens #good omens ficlet #crowley #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #aziracrow #ineffable divorce

[heohl-art]

This morning I imagined a whole conversation between Aziraphale and Crowley while making breakfast✨ [Ineffable Bikers au, wip]

(Crowley gets up sleepy and dishevelled after one of their first nights together, and finds Aziraphale preparing breakfast in the kitchen: they are at Azi's flat)

-What the hell are you doing?

-Breakfast!

-Mh. And why are you cooking? (Azi puzzled, turns to him)

-It’s what people do for breakfast. Don’t you ever eat having breakfast?

-When I have breakfast, I don’t cook.

(Aziraphale snorts)

-So what do you do for breakfast?

-Have a coffee. Six shots of expresso at Nina’s.

-Six-?! That’s not a proper breakfast!

-Neither is preparing for a fucking regiment when you are alone at home.

(Aziraphale smiles)

-But I’m not alone, am I?

❤️

ps. it's just a draft, I'm still planning (and drawing stuff✨)

#ineffable bikers #ineffable husbands #good omens #good omens fluff #good omens fic #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale and crowley #azicrow #aziracrow #good ineffable omens #good omens fandom #good omens fanwork #good omens ficlet #ineffable idiots #good omens text post #good omens aziraphale #good omens crowley #heohlart

[darkpurpledawn]

For the AU-gust prompt "Sculptor AU"

“But as your realtor, Mr. Crowley, I do insist that a different piece would be more-ah, welcoming for the foyer.”

Aziraphale’s hands twisted around his briefcase. They were oddly sweaty, although it was a cool day and the Mayfair residence was well-shaded by a mature hawthorn.

“But you do like it?” Crowley asked. His expression was unreadable beneath the everpresent sunglasses, but Aziraphale thought his gaze flicked to the statue of the two angels.

Aziraphale did, in fact, like it. It was large and dramatic, and sculpted with a vigor that made it look as though the winged beings might topple from their pedestal. But it had been dashed difficult to get Crowley to make any of his living space more approachable-looking before he put this hulking thing in the entry, and Aziraphale suspected the average homebuyer might find it all a bit much.

“Oh I’m no great art appreciator, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale demurred. “Certainly I think you’ve evident talent, and it’s quite--compelling.”

Crowley tapped his nose thoughtfully with one finger. Aziraphale imagined him running those long fingers over the marble flanks of the angels, bringing forth flesh from stone. He mentally chastised the capillaries in his face for blushing in front of a client.

“It’s Good and Evil, you know, can’t get more classic than that,” Crowley drawled. “Thought I’d make evil win this time though.”

He lowered the sunglasses and gave Aziraphale a wink.

Oh, now that was unfair.

“Mr. Crowley, did you have a look at the paint samples I suggested for the upstairs bath?” Aziraphale said faintly.

“Erm, yeah,” said Crowley, “I didn’t know there were that many kinds of beige, being honest.”

Aziraphale exhaled. They were back on firmer footing now. It was impossible to be erotically excited by comparing shades of ecru.

“Let’s take a quick look at the baseboards and see which of the suggested colors best matches the tile,” Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley nodded, and headed for the stairway. Aziraphale cast his eyes around at the projects in Crowley’s studio on the ascent to the second floor. There was a monstrous-looking dog, snakes that seemed about to wriggle free from their stone skin, and a number of angels that seemed to be in various states of psychological distress.

“Whoa!” 

Aziraphale moved before he could think, before he could really see what had happened--Crowley tripped and fell back a stair and Aziraphale braced himself against the railing and stopped the two of them from falling further.

“For heaven’s sake, my own sodding flat--thanks Mr. Fell, sorry about that,” Crowley said, and stood upright again. Aziraphale was relieved--Crowley’s back was no longer pressing into him--until Crowley turned around to look at his rescuer, and he was forced to bear the pressure of an even more hazardous side of Crowley. 

Think of beige, he instructed himself. Think of baseboards, think of bifold doors. Think of renovations to historic buildings that remove all the ornamental stonework. Think of smart home devices, and those horrid bookshelves that barely have any books on them at all. Think of all the dreadful, palatable things you tell people to put in their homes.

Think of Crowley moving away from London. Think of how you’ll never have to think of this again.

#good omens #good omens ficlet #au gust #au gust 2023 #good omens au #my fics