#it always takes them a few seconds to remember It's Just Crowley

[jellybuttons]

Crowley's "oh" moment wasn't him realizing that he's in love

Okay so we've all talked about the scene where Nina asks Crowley if Aziraphale is his "bit on the side" or whatever and Crowley has that visable fanfiction "oh" moment on his face afterwards. And I know a lot of people think it must have been Crowley realizing that he was in love with Aziraphale, but that's never sat right with me. Crowley is emotionally repressed and oblivious, sure, but he's been down bad for that angel since the beginning. I just can't believe he didn't know it the whole time. That can't have been what he was reacting to. Hell, just the nervous swallow he does at the beginning of that conversation implies that he knows exactly what Nina is about to ask him, meaning he at least already has that idea in his head.

I think what he was reacting to was Nina's last comment, "other people's love lives always seem so much more straightforward than our own" (I'm quoting from memory but I got the gist of it).

Crowley has been in love for a long time by this point. He's also, for that entire time, understood that nothing can be done about it. Up until Armageddon failed, there was no universe where Crowley and Aziraphale could safely be together, and Crowley cares too much about Aziraphale to truly risk his safety (although he does have his selfish moments--that need to know that Aziraphale cares for him too, that he's not completely alone in this partnership). Nothing could change, so there was no point in doing anything about it.

In the few years post Armageddon, though, it seems like QUITE a bit has changed for the two of them. Remember, these are two immortal beings...a few years is milliseconds to them. But in those milliseconds, it seems like Crowley has become a regular establishment in the bookshop, glasses off and all. Aziraphale felt comfortable enough with him to ask to borrow the Bentley, Crowley's prized possession and his literal home. They've gotten COMFY in a very short amount of time, objectively, and I'm sure it felt like big change to Crowley, who knows better than to ask for things he doesn't think he can have.

But Nina's comment. "Other people's love lives always seem so much more straightforward than our own". A direct parallel to exactly how Crowley has been thinking about her and Maggie this whole time--two people who just need a push (romantic awning, anyone?) and everything else would fall into place. Easy. Uncomplicated.

Crowley's "oh" moment isn't that he's in love with Aziraphale. It's that maybe being in love with Aziraphale doesn't have to be complicated.

Other people's love lives DO seem more straightforward than Crowley's own. But if Nina feels that way about him, as sure as he is about her and Maggie...could it be that easy? Could he have that with his angel? I don't think at this point that Crowley has any doubt about whether or not Aziraphale feels something for him (whatever that something may be in Crowley's mind), but after all...Aziraphale asked him to slow down. So he's been taking it slow. Hanging around more. Leaning into his space. Soaking up every second of Az's smiles like a dying man, content with whatever he's given.

But Nina. She thinks they're together already. No doubt in her mind. She thinks it's so straightforward, that of COURSE they're together, two people who look at each other with that much love in their eyes must be, right? And I think that "oh" is Crowley's realization that maybe it IS straightforward. After all, they're them, right? No more Heaven, no more Hell, no actual reason they couldn't just...be together. In that moment, Crowley isn't realizing that he's in love with Aziraphale. He's known he's in love for a very long time. No, that moment was him realizing that, maybe, he can stop pretending not to be, that maybe all they have to do is stop pretending they aren't everything to each other. Does he need to slow down if there's no danger to avoid?

When Nina and Maggie confront him at the end, encourage him to confess...objectively, I don't think Crowley as a character would agree to anything nearly that vulnerable without a LOT more convincing. But he does agree. And you could argue that it's because of Gabe and Beez, sure, but when has Crowley ever used other angels and demons as reasoning behind his choices? No, consistently, Crowley has followed humans every time. Gabe and Beez are nothing but conveniently timed examples. I think that even without G and B running off together, Nina and Maggie could've convinced him after nothing but this "oh" conversation with Nina.

When Crowley is choking out his confession in the final 15 of episode 6, so desperate to make Aziraphale understand...he says "we're a pair, a group, a group of the two of us, and we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't". That's the point he's trying to get across. They can stop pretending, they can stop pretending, please, god, stay here Aziraphale and don't make him keep pretending.

Please, Aziraphale, he's saying. Don't go back. I only just realized that it doesn't have to be complicated. He realized that, maybe, finally, he was allowed.

Oh, he thought, out there on the sidewalk with Nina, there's nothing left but me stopping me from being happy.

Oh, he thought, while Nina and Maggie urged him to communicate, the couple that so perfectly mirrored his own wants, I could tell him how I feel.

Oh, he thought, as Aziraphale looked at him with excited eyes and explained that he wanted them both to go back to Heaven, that Crowley could become an angel again, that they could go right back to working for the very thing that had been keeping them apart for thousands of years. Oh, oh god. I thought it was over. I thought we were free. I thought that, finally, maybe, it could be easy. Maybe we can stop pretending.

And he kissed him. Because fuck, just like with Nina and Maggie, he thought it could finally be easy, but then communicating didn't work and nothing was easy and all he had left was one fabulous kiss and vavoom and he was desperate and off script and so, so scared and then he was alone in the Bentley, driving away from the bookshop, completely alone.

Maybe Crowley should've kept pretending. It would've hurt less.

#im so obsessed with this moment i just can't believe that crowley makes sense if he doesn't know he's in love #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #gomens #crowley x aziraphale #aziracrow #neil gaiman

[ineffable-suffering]

Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

This is Part 2 of 3 total metas. Here are:

Part 1, in case you want to read about my analysis of the Story of Job first

and Part 3, in case you're impatient and want to jump ahead.

Fair warning though, for the sake of understanding some of the references, you're probably better off reading this chaptered meta chronologically. However, every part should work just as well as a standalone! I'll do my very best to make it so.

Alright, off or on you go beyond the cutty cut!

I'll start this second part off with a very brief summary of the main take aways and points from Part 1, which go as such:

Memory, as opposed to a third party's narration, is not a factual, objective retelling of a story or event. It's mingled and mangled with emotions, imaginations and exaggerations, projecting both the feelings and impressions you had back then as well as those you might have now in the present time back on whatever it is you are remembering. (Which is why we need to put everything that Aziraphale is remembering into the context of what he might have felt in the past, as well as what he's feeling right now.)

While this doesn't mean his (or anyone's) memories are lies, it does mean they're a very subjective and sometimes factually distorted representation of what actually happened, which, in our case, gives us a lot of subtext and a lot of not-there furniture to figure out and look at.

So, let's continue with S2E3 and the Story of wee Morag. We start our flashback with a scene of Aziraphale writing his diary entry on the 10th of November, 1827. Immediately, it's firmly established that this is once again not an outside-point-of-view narration, but rather what Aziraphale remembers and wrote down.

One thing that immediately stuck out to me here, is how helpful and kind Crowley is to Elspeth, pretty much from the very beginning when they meet her in the graveyard. Not only does he take on a Scottish accent so she won't perceive him as English (as she does with Aziraphale), but he also helps her drag the barrel that has the fresh body in it and, in the end, even pulls it all by himself while Elspeth simply follows behind them. Here's a rather poor-quality picture, for reference:

Now, we know that despite not showing it very often, Crowley has always been very fond of the humans and never really put himself on a pedestal simply because he's an immortal being himself. He likes humans, just like Aziraphale does. But, just like this story will tell us, Crowley knows that on top of liking humans, you can't just put them into boxes of good and evil and expect them to always do what is supposedly the "right" or "divinely good" thing to do. (Which is what differentiates him from Aziraphale in the way he understands and treats them, as we're shown in this minisode).

Him immediately and unspokenly helping Elspeth with dragging the barrel therefore might also be a first sign of a tiny projection from present day Aziraphale, as opposed to what Crowley might have actually done (probably just walked beside her, like Aziraphale) because he has the knowledge that Crowley really was so very kind to her in the end, wasn't he? And that he's kind to humans in general. ("Not kind! Off my head on Laudanum!" Sure, babe.)

Most of this minisode, in my opinion, is actually there to establish how Aziraphale's view of morality and good vs. evil used to be quite flawed and elitist –– and how Crowley has always been there to gently nudge him towards questioning his black and white view of heavenly right and hellishly wrong. That's why I think there's not as many hints in this minisode about Aziraphale's memories not being an accurate portrayal of what happened, as there are in the Story of Job or the magic show in 1941. (And, fear not, the latter will definitely be the most hint-heavy one). Alas, there's still a few bits and bobs in the Story of wee Morag that stuck out to me, that make a brief yet good case of the whole unreliable narration thing.

First of all: The way Aziraphale describes all of it in his diary is so different from the way we see him actually remembering it. It's almost like he tried to write this entry (and possibly all of his diary) as a bit of a thrilling short story, with himself as the main character. Which makes sense, given the fact that he adores books and would certainly be keen on dabbling in the art of capital-w Writing himself. It's yet again hinting at the fact that sometimes people (and angels) try to polish and bedazzle stories (and memories) to make them seem more exciting and adventurous, often to distract from the not-so-fun parts of it.

Like when Aziraphale's diary narrates:

"It was with heavy heart we arrived at Elspeth's destination. I was determined to thwart her monstrous plan!"

... and yet we see Crowley and Elspeth casually walking down the alleyway, very obviously not heavy-hearted in the slightest, while Aziraphale nervously scurries on behind them, very obviously not determined to thwart. (Timestamp-wise, it's around 17:38 in S2E3, in case you want to see for yourself.)

We get another cinematographic/auditory hint at the fact that Aziraphale's memory is heavily influenced by what he's feeling that very moment, when Dr. Mister Dalrymple –– FRCSE, thank you very much –– shows him the tumor he removed from the seven year old boy. You can see the shock and horror on Aziraphale's face once he learns of this child's cruel fate. We then proceed to hear Mr. Dalrymple's voice grow sort of echo-y and far away as the sad music swells up and drowns out his voice almost completely. It's awfully similar to what it feels like when really horrible news are broken to you and you dissociate and drift into a state of shock. Here's the clip of it, so you may listen for yourself:

It's clear that this is a very subjective portrayal of what Aziraphale is going through during this part of the memory. He's deeply horrified and saddened about the little boy having passed away so early in life – and we hear and feel this shock with him. Through him, because this is his memory. Whatever it is he's feeling and thinking, we're feeling and thinking it too because we're seeing it through his lense.

Another (less sad) hint at a possible exaggeration is the abnormally deep hole Crowley makes the two graveyard watch keepers fall into. I'm pretty sure he's very much in charge of his miracles, making this random slip-up seem a little silly – which is why I'm also pretty sure the "Might have slightly overdone it on that hole" is a wee bit of a meta hint at this just being another one of Aziraphale's dramatic bedazzlements of this story. For the *flings feather boa around neck* drama!

You know what else might be exaggerated? Hm, I dunno, maybe Crowley growing into the size of a tree for no apparent reason. Sure, yes, he's pretty high on Laudanum which is making him a bit loopy. But apart from that, it does seem an awfully big cinematographic euphemism for him being the metaphorical (and, once again, for the drama of it) literal bigger person in this scenario. He's the one who ends up saving Elspeth and who manages to secure a safe life without poverty and grave robbing for her. While Aziraphale was so tangled up in his own moral journey and main character-ism, missing that wee Morag was seconds away from death already, Crowley is the one who actually ends up growing stepping up for the human in need and saving them for good (pun intended).

In a way, it might just be Aziraphale's view of/feelings for Crowley in this very moment. Watching the demon outgrow what, according to Aziraphale's heavenly logic, is supposed to be a foul fiend, bestowing evil upon humanity – and growing into someone who does the exact opposite and saves Elspeth instead. Another larger-than-life character development, in Aziraphale's eyes. Literally.

Let's switch back to the topic of the diary entry one last time, so I can make my final point of the this minisode's unreliable and a smidge over-dramatic narration of Dr. McFell. If you pay close attention, Aziraphale starts the entry we're all getting to experience with: "Last month, Crowley and I both happened to be in Edinburgh." Which means it didn't actually happen on the 10th of November, but rather at some point in October, 1827. Once we see Crowley get hydro-pumped back to Hell after rescuing Elspeth, the minisode ends with, presumably, the last sentence of Aziraphale's diary entry: "And that was the last I would see of Crowley for quite some time."

Take my hand and let's look at where the furniture isn't: This very clearly means that Crowley couldn't have been gone for more than a month, at best. Read again: "It happened last month and that was the last I would see of him for quite some time." This, albeit indirectly, clearly implies that when Aziraphale had sat down to write the diary entry, he had already run into Crowley again. Otherwise his phrasing would have probably been more along the lines of "... and I haven't seen Crowley since" or "... and Crowley has yet to return from wherever it is Hell's currently keeping him".

What's the point I'm trying to make? Good question. I guess my main point of storyteller Aziraphale being a bit over-dramatic in his narration is simply backed up by this, since A Single Month would barely pass as "quite some time" for an immortal being like him. And yet that's how he puts it, in his little Confidential Journals of A.Z. Fell, Vol. 603.

And another point that has absolutely nothing to do with the topic of this meta (but I'm still gonna make it 'cause this is my memory post): The meeting at St. Jame's Park in 1862 that so many, post-S2, took to be their first run-in after the Story of wee Morag, actually wasn't that at all. They saw each other at least once only a month later, as Aziraphale's diary lets us know. Which explains why he wasn't very surprised or concerned when he met Crowley in London, 1862. If there really had been 35 years in between those two events, the first one ending with Crowley being sucked back Downstairs to receive more than three decades worth of hellish punishment, wouldn't Aziraphale have been at least a tiny bit worried or more interested than:

Just saying.

Alright, let's string this inflated hot air balloon of a post back together so we can outline some invisible furniture. This time with only two humble points:

Crowley through Aziraphale's lense Backed up by how we are introduced to Bildad the Shuhite in the Job minisode (suave, cheeky, smart, passionate in shoemaking and obstetrics), it's growing quite clear that Aziraphale's memories and impressions of Crowley are very fond and impressed ones. He sees him as someone who's not only witty, funny and cool, but also as someone who has figured out way sooner and faster than him that nothing's ever black and white. Not God's plans and not the human's choices either.

Aziraphale as a bit of an exaggerating adventure author With the direct parallel we get of inkslinger journalist!Aziraphale in the present day, it's quite apparent after this minisode that Aziraphale's memory is not only deeply influenced by his emotions, but that he also tends to have a bit of a dramatic touch to him. Although, you gotta give it to the guy: A month without seeing the love of your life, even if said life is eternal, can indeed seem like "quite some time".

Well, would you lookie here, we've reached the end of Part 2! What a journey it was. I hope you forgive me for the fact that I drifted off-course a few times. I just can't seem to reel in my silly little observations, even if they've got nothing to do with the point I'm trying to make. But hey, doesn't that just make me a little bit like Aziraphale's storytelling, in a way?

I'll let you be the judge of that.

See you in Part 3! And in case you haven't snuck a peak yet: here's Part 1 again.

Ta!

#good omens #good omens season 2 #gos2 #go2 #good omens 2 #good omens meta #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #crowley #good omens analysis #aziraphale is a storyteller #but not a very accurate one #story of wee morag #my own meta #aziraphale the Drama Queen #shakespeare who #unreliable but beloved story teller aziraphale

[oepionie]

—"GOTTA ESCAPE THE VOID." overblot mc!

SYNOPSIS: The Ramshackle prefect has a reputation for frequently encountering fatal magical mishaps. And when a magical accident involving Crowley almost kills them, Crewel resolves to take matters into his own hands. But it appears that his impulsive decisions cause the prefect to reach their limit and go off the rails.

⊹ [ cw ] — heavy warnings, please read before you proceed. arguments with father, self-depricating thoughts, mentions of blood, protective parent, thoughts of offing self (only once), overblot mc!, miscommunication w friends, crying, physical fights ◞

⊹ [ tags ] — angst! gender neutral reader, crewel really embodies the 'cruel' in 'cruella', ace gets mad at you :(, deuce tries to comfort you through it all, crowley feels guilt (wow), crewel is vry vry angry and punches crowley, crewel has a mother gothel moment<3◞

⊹ [ w.c ] — 2.5k+◞ | 🦇masterlist◞

YOUR VISION WAS NOTHING, but a myriad of colorful blurs and shapes. Muffled voices spoke to you, but everything was practically just incomprehensible, panicked babbling. The heavy pressure of metal was pressed up against your windpipe, restraining your breath as it wound tighter and tighter. Though, a few seconds later, it vanished as if it had never existed, bursting into bright magical sparks.

The gush and pool of blood surrounds your dirtied, tangled mess of hair, a dark scarlet seeping into the knotted strands. Kneeling before your body, Crowley felt his heart skid to a stop. The sight of your fatigued form writhing around the ground tore at his chest, claws of guilt digging in deep and dragging across thick tissue.

"Prefect…Can you hear me?" The crow murmurs, clawed hands pressing against the side of your pounding head as he guides it to rest atop his lap. Vibrant blooms of red stain the dark fabric of his pants, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Dad…it hurts s'much." You slur in hushed tones, your eyes wringing shut from the pain. That was enough for Crowley to put his arms around you.

He shielded your body with his torso, hands clawing at your back as he wracks his mind of what to do next. Hastily turning round, he shifts his gaze to the surrounding students, all of them looking equally mortified.

"What are you standing around there for?! Call the nurse!"

"Y-Yes, sir!"

Drip. Drip

The pungent smell of alcohol and medication fill your senses as you groggily blink awake.

The familiar creaky wood of Ramshackle's ceiling greets you as you pull yourself from dreamland. Looking over both sides of your bed, you smile once you see both Deuce and Ace seated on a nearby couch. Both of them were quick to jump up and approach you, fussing over your bedridden form.

"Thank Sevens." Deuce murmurs, tenderly combing your damp hair back. You roll your head to the side to face him, but wince at the sudden throb of pain in your spine. Ace darts over and hushes you, gently repositioning your head to face front once more, making sure your neck was supported by a pillow. "Hey…It'd be great if you don't move so much…"

“Right. Makes sense. 'Nways…how bad was my injury?” You mutter, your recollections of the past event still foggy. All you could remember was that Crowley had fired a spell, and you somehow got into the crossfire.

“Fucking horrible.” Ace scoffs, looking at you sternly.

"Yeah, take it easy for a bit. The injury was…pretty serious. It was a miracle that the spell missed your head by a thread…" Deuce murmurs as he presses a gentle hand on your bandaged forehead.

Strands of blueberry hair fall loosely at the sides of his face as he stares down at you with worry. "You were out for three days."

"Ah…well—you know, me and my dumb non-magical ass. Always getting into trouble," you giggle, a cheery grin stretching over your cracked lips. Though it rapidly drops when you realize your two friends aren't laughing with you.

Ace shifts his gaze to the floor, hands clasped into a fist. "You're not dumb, prefect…"

"Well—I kinda am," You snort, tugging the blanket closer to your chilly form. "I really have to stop being around the old man's magic shows."

Unconvinced, Ace only shakes his head and scoffs at your jokes. The ginger reclines back into his chair, hands vigorously tugging and pulling at his hair. "You aren't. The real issue here is that deadbeat crow. I mean...hasn't he learnt anythin' from last time? What kind of idiot treats his child—"

"It wasn't his fault, Ace." Pushing yourself off the bed, you immediately interrupt him, voice stern as you rush to defend Crowley. "He didn't mean it. I got in the path of his magic. And—I'm pretty sure he's already beating himself up over this."

Sinking back into the bed, you clasp both your hands together. "It wasn't his fault. Sure, he's reckless and all but…but he's still my dad."

Silence washes over your room.

Ace was visibly frustrated, the blunt tips of his nails dug deep into his skin, nearly piercing past skin. With a final scoff, he stands from his chair and quietly excuses himself from the room.

The door slams shut with a blaring bang as both you and Deuce were left alone.

Sighing, the freshman takes your trembling hand in his, clasping it tight as his body temperature warms the cool skin. He draws your right arm up to press your palm against his cheek, eyes looking deep into yours.

"Professor Crewel is pissed," Deuce whispers as you trace gentle circles on his skin. A pair of shaky cyan eyes meets your concerned ones. "He was planning to—"

Deuce's mouth parted open and close and yet he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. You cast a questioning glance his way, but Deuce shakes his head, disregarding your questions.

"…nothing."

Surprise washes over you as you stare down at Deuce's hunched over form. It…wasn't like your friends to be so dismissive.

You, Ace, and Deuce had always been good friends. Sure you had your differences but you always communicated openly with one another. Nobody has ever been this...secretive.

Just…what was happening?

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sickening crack of a bone echoes through the faculty room as the rough knuckle of Crewel's fist connects with Crowley's face. The headmaster reels, mask flying off as his hands fly to his bloodied nose.

Everyone in the vicinity quieted as the only noise heard was the potionology professor's labored breathing.

Then, without hesitation, Crewel surges forward. Loud commotion and screaming could be heard in the meeting room as everyone quickly circles around the two. A couple of hands seize Crewel by the arms, but the professor only grows more agitated, attempting to fight past the herd.

"Let me go!" Crewel roars, tugging his arm free as he attempts to swing a fist at the headmaster. "Dire! This is your fucking fault!"

"Divus! Calm yourself!" Trein scolds, arms locked tight around the man's torso. A few more pairs of hands restrain the professor as he is forcibly pushed down onto a couch.

His face was the epitome of unrepressed rage: With his cheeks drawn back in a deep sneer, eyes bloodshot red, and hair a knotted mess.

Trein stands before the younger man, looking down at him with disgust. "Have you no shame? What will the prefect think once they hear of this?"

Across the room, Crowley spits out a little blood, blinking fresh tears out of his eyes. For the last three days, the crow has been suppressing all of its emotions; however, all of a sudden, he is overcome with an unfettered and unhindered flood of shame and rage.

When the headmaster finally turned around, he fixed Crewel with an expression so scathing that the potionology professor felt compelled to charge at him again.

Once, coldly, sharply, and bitterly, Crowley laughed. "It's my fault, you say? You think I don't know that?"

"Oh please—Dire. I couldn't care less about what you think." Crewel seethes, venom practically dripping from his lips. The alchemy professor strides forward, heels clicking against the floor as he grabs Crowley by the collar.

"You're a failure of a father. All you've ever brought their way is danger." The professor cackles kicking the crow's skin.

Digging deep into his red handbag, Crewel snatches out papers and jams it into Crowley's chest. The crow unravels the creased pages to read the text on the document, eyes ripping wide open as he realizes what it was.

"You…can't possibly." The headmaster sputters, hands shaking as he reads the texts again and again.

"Oh, but I can." Crewel sneers, taking pleasure in the look of fear Crowley sends his way. He snaps around, coat billowing up behind him as he briskly walks towards the entryway. "I expect those papers to be signed by tonight."

Before walking out of the room, Crewel spares the headmaster one final glance. "The prefect departs this Monday."

Days after the event were all followed by violent storms that appeared to go on forever. Every night and day, the rain endlessly poured down from the bitter grey skies and roars of thunder echoed through the dewy clouds. Some days, it was nearly impossible to go to school.

It was almost as though Mother Nature herself was upset.

Just like how everyone was.

Crowley and your other friends shunned you like you had the plague. Even bright Kalim greeted you with a deep frown, a flimsy excuse slipping off his lips as he ran away. Only Deuce stayed by your side through it all.

The blueberry had told you everything was alright—that everything was normal and fine— but you couldn't help but be skeptical.

So when Crewel came to visit, you welcomed him right in. Eager to hear what he has to say.

The clatter and click of your father's heeled boots echoed through the walls of the dormitory as he examined the premises, comparing it to his own much more lavish flat back home in the city.

Finally, after an excruciating 5 minutes. his gaze flitted over to your bedridden form.

And the words he utters out next shatter your entire being.

"I'm withdrawing you from NRC."

What.

The glass clasped in your bandaged hands slips from your grip, smashing onto the oak wood of Ramshackle's flooring. You raise your mortified gaze to scowl at your professor, jaw dropped open in shock.

"What?" you breathlessly utter. "What do you mean?!"

"I'm transferring you to another school." Crewel replies, pushing himself off the fireplace and slipping his thick fur coat off his shoulders. The scant light emitted by the candles atop your study table did nothing to help you navigate his form as he strode around your bedroom.

"Now. You might be asking why? For one, look at the…accommodations Dire provided you with."

Crewel kicks a piece of splintered bark aside while making a gesture towards the disorder and wreckage all around you.

In the evenings, you had to use candles because the ceiling lights seldom ever functioned. The flooring had so many tears and holes that they were virtually falling apart. On occasion, you could even see the scuffle of rats beneath. The roof leaked, horribly; You had no money to fix it so you placed a bucket below instead. The front door was broken, barely hanging on its hinges, evidence of all the times your friends visited and never bothered to knock.

All of these problems and so many more were present, but this dorm was with you since the very start. It provided you with a roof over your head…it helped you survive.

"So what?" You retort, leaning back into your bed and sinking deep into the scratchy yet familiar pillows. "I don't mind it!"

"A foolish decision." Crewel sneers, running a hand into his hair. "Your accommodations aren't the only problem. Your self-destructive habits endanger you as well!"

There it was.

Groaning, you wring your hands through your hair, tangling it up. "When are you gonna stop saying that I'm self-destructive!?"

"When you start acting like somebody that actually cares about their life!" Crewel barks out, hands grasping your shoulders. The sudden increase in volume makes you recoil, but you were stubborn and refused to give in just yet.

"But I do care about my life!" You sputter out. "Why can't you just—"

"Remember what happened when Rosehearts overblotted?" He reminds you, "You charged towards a bloodthirsty tyrant with no protection, no magic, and no plan." Crewel then crosses his arms over his chest, addressing you with a pointed glare. "And you have the nerve to tell me you're not self destructive?"

"Riddle is not a tyrant!" Crying out, you slam your hand against your bedsheets, face twisting into an unsightly sneer. "I was trying to save my friend!"

Crewel gets right in your face, returning the expression of anger you sent his way. "Those friends of yours only care about you when you're useful!" he thundered, jabbing a finger into your chest.

That comment immediately silenced you.

Your hand was clasped over your mouth, jaw dropped wide open in disbelief as a sharp gasp escapes your dry throat.

A poisonous and dangerously harmful feeling gripped at whatever remnant the professor had of a heart. It colored his thoughts with regret as he began to feel a twinge of guilt, the weight of words sinking in.

There was a deep sigh of resignation from Crewel before he put a hand on your shoulder and looked you deep in the eyes, voice lowering to a softer lilt. "Why is it that every other person in that dorm had the sense to run away from the blots, but you didn't?"

Kneeling down, your father gazed at you with such vulnerability in his eyes as he murmurs, "Do you know how terrified I was every time I'd get the same message from Dire that you were out fighting overblots again? Putting your life at risk for those rabid dogs?"

The recognition of your destructive habits hit you like a splash of ice cold water. With a guilty and uncomfortable grimace on your face, you averted your attention to the floor. "I just wanted to help."

Slowly rising to his feet again, Crewel casts a deep frown your way. "I know you do, but you're careless with your life and if you're not careful…one of these days, you're gonna die."

"I will not hear anymore disagreements about this, do you hear? I've allowed you to run rampant around these past few months. You will so as I say and I'll have you transferred by the end of this week." He says simply, dropping a pristine sheet of paper clasped in a clipboard before you. Your dull eyes flicker across the title as you grudgingly reach for the pen he offers you.

TRANSFER APPLICATION.

That blank line at the end of the page is swiftly covered by your shaky red signature and Crewel is powerless to stop the relieved sigh that heaves past his lips.

A surge of victory, certainty, and an intense sense of relief overpowers the tangled and conflicting sentiments of guilt that were swimming through his chest.

You were safe, that's all that matters.

With a grieving heart, you nudge the pen and page back to your father dismissively, placing them both atop the bed. Crewel re-rolled the page and tucked it back into his handbag along with the pen.

The professor raises a hand to gently pat your shoulders as he bends down, pressing a kiss atop your head. "Father knows best."

As Crewel quietly takes his leave, he is none the wiser to the formation of impure, tainted tar-like blot dripping from your tears. Curling in yourself, you tuck your head into your knees, a broken sob spilling from your lips.

A sick and twisted feeling arises in your heart as you replay the argument you had with Crewel, and you start to wish that maybe, just maybe, Crowley's spell had succeeded in striking you.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Oi…Henchhuman?"

Drip.

—TAGLIST:

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[nightgoodomens]

Ok so what happened before S2?

Aziraphale is touchy with Crowley, basically treats him like his partner. Looks at him like at a picture. Talks about sharing their most important things. Enjoying the bookshop together, surely they share the car too! Let’s dance! Let’s drink! Crowley just takes his glasses off now inside the bookshop. They’re so comfortable in each other’s company. There is no pretending. No hiding. Just acting like a couple. Bullshit out of the window. Our existence! That we created for ourselves!

How did they get here?

We know Crowley says Aziraphale keeps on calling him to talk with him. Did Crowley decide to just come over, many times, because it was just easier… because Aziraphale says that at this stage it’s their bookshop that they get plenty of use out of? Aziraphale says it’s their Bentley and Crowley asks if he needs a lift somewhere without a second thought, so how many times they just went out for little dates? Who came up with excuses to go somewhere or actually did they bother with excuses at all? How long has Aziraphale really been trying to tell Crowley that they’re way more than just friends?

How many times they sat in the bookshop, tipsy, Aziraphale on the armchair, Crowley probably lying on the floor because he does not understand what sitting normally is, drinking and laughing remembering all their meetings over the years. Oh what a struggle it was and now they could sit like this together… how absolutely lovely. And they looked at each other a little too long when they said that.

How many times Aziraphale watched Crowley with a smile of absolute adoration?

Did at one point Crowley accidentally fall asleep in some uncomfortable position on the armchair and Aziraphale took his sunglasses off gently and put them on the side and put a blanket over him. Did he linger a little too long and brushed a few strands of red hair off his forehead, leaving his hand on his cheek just for a second?

And he just looked at him for a moment thinking how much he loves him and he really needs to start becoming more obvious so they meet on the same page?

Did Crowley get embarrassed he fell asleep but Aziraphale told him to not be ridiculous and he can always stay over?

Did Crowley try to not fall asleep but he started feeling so safe and comfortable there that there was no tension to keep him awake?

But you love waiting in the bookshop!

And it just became normal. There was no reason to pretend. So they just carried on being comfortable in each other’s company and it became their normality?

#good omens #crowley #ineffable fandom #good ineffable omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #ineffable dumbasses #ineffable idiots #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #aziracrow

[nicolegmattos]

Requested by @khlara

(I’m really sorry about the giant delay! Hope you like it 🙏🏻❤️)

Aziraphale had never been to Crowley’s flat that much. He could list that one night after the “Almost-geddon” and just a few other times before that. But that was all. They were used to spend more time in the bookshop.

Still, he was certain his plants were greener then. And there weren’t so many empty bottles on the floor. The smell of alcohol had already impregnated the air.

- Crowley? - Aziraphale called. For Heaven’s sake, this place is a mess, he thought.

- I’m here - The angel found him lying on the floor, surrounded by more empty bottles.

His sunglasses were a bit crooked on his face, so Aziraphale could see his eyes were shut. He probably didn’t recognize Aziraphale’s voice. And was way too drunk to ask what a stranger might be doing in his flat.

- Hey! - Crowley protested when he took his sunglasses.

The look of pure shock on his face when he realized Aziraphale was standing there was heartbreaking. Suddenly, it was like they were replaying their last meeting on their heads. At the same time.

- Ang… - Crowley stood up and recomposed himself. - Sorry. Supreme Archangel.

- Crowley… - Aziraphale started, and then stopped himself. It wouldn’t help at all. - I need to talk to you.

He handed Crowley his sunglasses.

- Take your time - He put them back -, Archangel Aziraphale.

- Can we not do this, please?

- Do what? - Crowley opened his arms. - Talk? That’s what you wanted to do, right?

- This is not how I imagined it - Aziraphale murmured.

- What?

- I need your help, Crowley.

Pause. An awkward silence.

- Oh… - said Crowley, at last. - So that’s why you’re here.

- Crowley… - Aziraphale started.

- You need my help? - He confirmed. - My help?

- That’s what I’m saying.

- My help? - Crowley continued. - After you left me? After you chose to leave me?

- It’s not what it seems… - Aziraphale tried.

- And for what? Heaven. Of all things - He lowered his head. - You know, after everything… I thought you had changed. For once, I thought you finally saw Heaven as it is. But I was wrong. Like always.

- I had to go back.

- No, of course - said Crowley, sarcastically. - You’re the good guys and Heaven is so ineffably wonderful. Why stay on Earth when you can enjoy the holy loneliness up there?

- Crowley, I need you - said Aziraphale. - I can’t do this without you. We’re a team, remember?

He reached for Crowley, in an attempt to make the demon look at him. But he flinched.

- No, Aziraphale. Not anymore.

He had barely looked at Aziraphale during the whole conversation. Now Crowley had decided it was better to turn his back to him. That almost made Aziraphale lose his hope.

- They’re planning the second coming.

Crowley hesitated. That seemed to truly scare him for a while.

- Good - He said. - It was about time they found a way to destroy this place once and for all.

That made Aziraphale’s knees weaken. Crowley didn’t mean it. Did he?

- I know that’s not what you want. You love Earth just as much as I do.

- Not much then - Crowley spat. - Since you chose to leave us for the greater good.

- Listen to me - Aziraphale stopped right in front of him, making him look away. - I have a plan. I know how to stop it. But I can’t do this alone.

Crowley kept looking at everything that wasn’t Aziraphale.

- If you’re going to say no you could at least do it while looking at me.

- I can’t.

- Why not?

- Your eyes…

His eyes. The eyes that used to be blue, but that he now knew were a sickening shade of purple. Gabriel’s eyes. The thing that marked him as Supreme Archangel.

- Oh, Crowley… - said Aziraphale, lowering his head. - I’m sorry.

He began walking towards the door. There was nothing he could do. But Crowley stopped him, grabbing his wrist. Aziraphale slowly looked at him.

- I forgive you - said Crowley.

He took off his sunglasses and placed them on Aziraphale’s face.

- There. Much better - He managed to put a sad smile on his face. - They look good on you.

- So… - Aziraphale was afraid he could suddenly say the wrong thing and ruin everything. - Are you helping me?

- Yeah… - said Crowley, putting on another pair of sunglasses. - Someone has to put an end to this madness. And it won’t be either of our sides.

- Crowley, we don’t have a side - said Aziraphale, extending his hand to him. - We are on our own side.

That made Crowley smile. A true smile. The one he hasn’t been able to show since the angel left him.

- So I guess we have a world to save.

- One more time - completed Aziraphale, his hand still between them.

- One more time - echoed Crowley, taking Aziraphale’s hand. - Together.

And together they went. To save the world once again. For the last time.

#idk how to tag this #half cute half heartbreaking? #guess I’ll leave it on sad stuff and cute stuff #good omens #good omens fandom #ineffable fandom #crowley #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #aziraphale #good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #ineffable divorce #asks and requests #cute omens #ineffable heartbreak

[tiktaalic]

Why are you (and others) so convinced that Neil Gaiman must be lying when he implies that he and Terry Pratchett always intended Azicrow to be canon in the potential second Good Omens book? I'm new to this fandom so don't know the backstory, but Gaiman has been writing gay characters (and nonbinary angels) since the '90s, and Pratchett according to fans is an ally. I've seen a few receipts (about Gaiman not "getting" slash) from the early oughts, but the South Downs cottage endgame comes from a conversation G&P had about the sequel in 2005 (see the story here: https://. thegoodomensdumpster. tumblr.com/ post/621209875504054272/.. where-the-south-downs-thing-comes-from). He seems credible but did he say something since then?

I mean. Even in the excerpt you sent there’s this.

people have asked him about the south downs, and scenes in the book, and any time he's asked he takes the chance to reiterate that it's Not Canon. this has been the line for 30 years. this was the line a month! before the show aired. i think it's true that the planned sequel was aziraphale and crowley focused. this makes sense to me. they were on book covers, they were people's favorites. i dont think this means hes been planning a romance since the 90s. prior to the show, the stances neil gaiman had, had repeatedly on record, and never strayed from were:

+ it's fine if you like azcrow i want you to continue to have fun with it if you like it, but it's not canon, it is strictly 100% fanon.

+ the sequel is about aziraphale and crowley

+ i am not comfortable making a season two because it would involve creating new content that terry would not have input on.

after season one aired, the stances were:

+ i intended azcrow as a love story. i always have.

+ season 2 coming july 2023!

+ the new seasons that i'm writing were something i discussed with terry decades ago.

which is simply. not true. either he spent 30 years lying. because. ??? or he has spent the years after season 1 garnered a lot of praise for having gay people in it lying. because it makes him look good, and because s2 (and 3) will make money. one of these options makes sense. one of them doesnt. like.

this was one MONTH before the show. if he for real always since nineteen ninety meant azcrow was in a relationship. why would he. a month before his show. say DONT get it twisted it's NOT a love life.

i also dont think its worth anything to compare representation in gomens to his other works, bc his other works are very very different. gomens is solidly pg13 lighthearted romp. and - as someone who has read a lot of neil gaiman's work, and liked a lot of neil gaiman's work, most of it errs to the side of i'm SICK. i'm TWISTED. im FUCKED UP and WEIRD. and. to be clear. i am not calling him homophobic. i am not doubting that he legitimately cares about gay people in his life. but i do think. he like many other men. were like. you know what'll take this fucked up weird story from a 10 to a 100. if there were GAY MEN in it. and to be doubly clear. i am speaking primarily about american gods, which is what i remember with most clarity. which is fine. its a fine thing to do. representation win the guy who writes weird horror adjacent sex scenes wrote one about men. (this is a gross oversimplification of sex scenes in american gods).

and again i well and truly do not blame the man for being like. um. actually i dont want the characters i based on me and my buddy to be in love or have sex in my lighthearted pg 13 story. i think this is a very normal stance to have! i would never fault someone for this stance! it's just. the lying. the people who are ragging on him are primarily composed, from what i can tell, of book fans who followed him pre show. because he was exceedingly consistent about his opinions pre show. again. if you followed him at any point! before the show you would see his opinions iterated then reiterated. if you followed him a MONTH! 30 DAYS! before the show you would see his pre show opinions. because he's expressed the exact same opinion dozens of times since 1990. and they quite literally only changed once it came out and people started praising him.

#ask #anonymous #cfct #long post

[trashboatprince]

For the writing meme aziraphale crowley with "I've got your back, ok?" please?

Sounds good! :D

On with the fic!

--

"Crowley!" Aziraphale shouted in distress when the addressed demon waltzed into the shop. "Oh, Crowley, I need your help!"

Crowley blinked slowly behind his shades, stopping in his task of heading for the back room. "Uh, what's the matter? Did someone touch one of your first editions with sticky fingers?"

"No, no! It's not that, it's just..." Aziraphale looked antsy, pacing in a small circle. Crowley waited patiently, knowing that it was best to let the angel gather his thoughts before speaking again.

Aziraphale stopped, let out a small breath, then turned to face him, frowning deeply. "I made a mistake."

"A mistake."

"Yes, you see, I tend to schedule things for myself, events for the month, what days some of my favorite restaurants want me to stop by for taste testing, when Maggie wants to have tea with me while we listen to her record collection, all that!"

Crowley nodded, gesturing for him to continue. "Right, well, I noticed my schedule for today at half past two is the auction. You know the one, I was telling you about it."

"The one with those books and manuscripts from the Eastern Mediterranean, yes?"

Aziraphale's pleased smile made Crowley's insides feel like melted butter on fresh bread. "Oh, you were listening! Anyway, yes, well, I had already planned to go to the auction to obtain some of the items, or at least try my hand at getting them. I've got my eyes on a certain manuscript..."

"But?"

"But I had made a huge mistake! At the exact same time, I'm meant to be dealing with new clientele on this street, and I'm the landlord of the building! I had mistaken the date, I had thought it was next month, but no, it's today, and I can't change it on that young couple. They're looking forward to opening up their bakery of... well..." A blush came over his face for a second. "It certainly fits the spirit of SoHo and its history with adult... enjoyments."

Crowley grinned. "An erotic bakery? Cute. So, what's the problem?"

"I can't cancel on them, the meeting is to be done today so they can get started with renovations for the shop as soon as possible. And the auction is only today, once the sells are done, they're done!"

The demon crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Sooooo... it's either do your job, or go and blow your money on rare goods?"

"You make it sound like a bad thing..."

"No, no, I'm just thinkin' aloud." Crowley rolled his head. "Alright, I'll help. You wanna do the auction and I do the landlord thing?"

Aziraphale's smile could rival the sun's brightness. "Y-you'd do it? Really?"

"'s no problem, angel, I've had to do the landlord thing for you a few times in the past, remember? I think I helped with setting up the lease for that one shop, that music guy, the one that likes Doctor Who. Remember? You had to do that mission in Canada."

"Ah, yes, I remember! Oh, thank you, so much!"

"Eh, don't thank me. I've got your back, okay? Like I always do, just take me to that nice wine bar later tonight in return, yeah?"

"Of course, of course." Aziraphale said, still smiling, before grabbing Crowley's hands, giving them a squeeze. "You are simply the best, Crowley, how can I ever repay you?"

Crowley made a noise with his throat that sounded like a vacuum that sucked up something it shouldn't have. He turned his head away, not wanting to look at that beautiful face. "W-wine bar! That's enough of a thanksssss! Now, go get yourself dolled up, you've got some ancient nerd stuff to purchase."

--

I dunno why I picked erotic bakery, but it's SoHo, and canonically Aziraphale's shop is right next to an adult shop. Oh, and Mrs. Sandwich works there and we all know what sort of business she runs. :)

#good omens #crowley #anthony j crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #john's drabbles

[luwathegreat]

While I do enjoy the theory/headcanon of Crowley not eating because he was cursed for his food to turn to dust/taste like dust (that's a theory people have right- I'm not imagining it?) I feel like it's a bit simpler.

I feel like for Crowley it's just too much of a hassle really. Like he doesn't hate it and he'll try food if it looks interesting. But I feel like for him it's as interesting or satisfying as waiting for your dentist with that thingy holding your mouth open. It just isn't all that fun for him. For various reasons.

(Aka: My Headcanon as to why Crowley doesn't like food + foods I feel like he enioys)

1. Tongues and Teeth

- I feel like Crowley probably ended up constantly biting his tongue whenever he did eat. Not even little bites either. Those deep bites you can feel in your ear.

- I also think he must've been annoyed with food stuck in his teeth

- I feel as though he also just doesn't like the way certain foods leave a film over your tongue and/or teeth

2. Temperatures and Food Safety

- Many foods that are only safe to eat hot, Crowley like best cold or/raw

- Many foods that would be ruined if heated up, he likes them best hot

- And I'm sure there's at least two inedible (to humans) things that he'd love to have cooked in with an edible good item

- None of these things would kill Crowley. But Crowley doesn't cook. And there are very few chefs in the world who'll make you "Boiled ice cream" or "Egg yolk cereal" or "Lomein Noodles with General Tso Erasers"

3. Textures

- Textures are too unexpected for him cause he has a hard time guessing what they could be just by looking at them

- He doesn't like one texture randomly interrupting the one he's already gotten used to- especially when it's not meant to be there. So say he's eating chicken and there's suddenly a crunch

4. Chewing

- He finds chewing boring

- He feels like it makes eating a task

- I feel like once he decided to just swallow foods instead of chewing them. And food certain things it worked

- He would take the food, let it rest on his tongue. Maybe swish it around his mouth, and then swallow

- But I feel like he did in fact choke and it was the most embarrassing discorporation hell had seen for YEARS

- "What's the point of the stupid digestive system if you've gotta chew whatever goes through it first?!" He had grumbled "The esoph..sofo...sif...FOOD TUBE THING shouldn't be subjected to the sloppy seconds of bloody mouth bones!"

For foods Crowley likes, I believe they've got to be prepared by the same chef the exact same way it was when he first had it and he always uses minor miracles to ensure it happens. It was always a shame when a good chef passed away. And if that chefs family ended up inheriting a large sum of money from a mysterious person with red hair and dark glasses at the funeral- don't look at Crowley. Why would he know anything about that.

Foods I think Crowley might enjoy:

- Smoothies! I feel he had a smoothie phase at one point

- Cut up fruits

- Soups

- Deboned Raw Fish

- Spicy Noodles

- Rice

- Boiled Ice Cream

- Seaweed

- Whatever foods Aziraphale cooks (whenever Aziraphale remembers he can cook that is). He often wonders if Aziraphale puts miracles on his food or if the angel is really just that good at knowing what Crowley might like.

On the topic of Aziraphale: He LOVES watching Aziraphale eat. Well not LOVES...more like...it fascinates him. For three reasons

1) Eating is one of the few times Aziraphale is properly at ease and allows himself to selfishly enjoy something without worrying about what heaven might say. Seeing the Angel indulge (so much so that he makes sounds and does little wiggles) puts Crowley at ease. Knowing it was him that introduced him to it makes his heart swell.

2) He's a little self conscious as to how he's so particular about foods (there's no need to be Crowley! You're not alone). So he kind of watches and waits to see if there's anything special Aziraphale is doing that makes him enjoy food so much. Or maybe there's at least one food out there the Angel doesn't like

3) Wouldn't you like to know? (Iykyk)

I didn't mean to type this much...

...Whoops

#my ineffable chattering #Good Omens #Crowley #anthony j crowley #gomens #good omens headcanons #I promise you he ate a bunch of raw egg yolks like cereal once in front of Aziraphale once #He was banned from the bookshop for an excruciating two weeks

[mimisempai]

Keep Reaching

Summary

Aziraphale is tired of stopping halfway. He's tired of half-smiles and broken gestures. He's tired of Crowley always being the one to make the move. Tonight he's decided to reach out and grab.

Notes

Aziraphale continues his journey to freedom...

On Ao3

Rating G -  1546 words

Returning from Maggie's, Aziraphale was surprised to find only Muriel in the bookshop and inquired, "What happened to Crowley?"

The other angel replied, "Well, he was taken against his will--"

"What?!"

"Well, it seems that Mr. Brown, Mutt, his spouse, Mr. Arnold and some of the other shopkeepers remembered how Crowley saved them on the night of the attack and took him out for a drink at the pub to thank him."

Aziraphale sighed with relief and thought that perhaps in the future he should teach Muriel to nuance their words to make them less ambiguous.

He asked them, "May I ask you to close the shop tonight?"

Muriel nodded enthusiastically, as they always did when given a responsibility.

Aziraphale thanked them and added, "Anyway, I'm just across the street at the Dirty Donkey if there's any trouble."

He walked to the pub and entered, not surprised to find it packed, especially at this time of day. He looked around for Crowley, and just as he caught sight of the unmistakable red hair, Mr. Brown spotted him and waved his arms to summon him to their side.

Aziraphale made his way through the crowd to a table where several of the shopkeepers were seated and waved to them. Then he glanced at Crowley, who was holding a glass of scotch and looked at him, saying softly, "Come on, angel, we've saved a seat for you.

Aziraphale had expected Crowley to be taciturn under the circumstances, but was surprised to find him in such a good mood. He sat down in the chair that had been vacated for him. Crowley moved closer and said in his ear, taking advantage of the ambient noise, "The liquor here is of good quality, it helps to put up with a few inconveniences."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, better understanding the demon's good mood. 

Crowley put his arm on the back of the angel's chair, making him realize how close they were, and then the demon continued, pushing a glass toward him with his other hand, "I took the liberty of ordering you a sherry." 

Aziraphale placed his hand on Crowley's and said softly, "Thank you, my dear, that's very thoughtful of you."

Realizing where they were, he almost immediately removed his hand from Crowley's and placed it on his knee.

He was embarrassed and kept his eyes down, inwardly admonishing himself for letting fear and guilt control his behavior once again.

When will he be able to let go?

When will he be able to take what he wants without second-guessing himself every time?

He thought of all the aborted smiles, all the barely made gestures, all the times he'd preferred to hold back rather than let go.

"It'd be funny if we both got it wrong, eh?"

Aziraphale turned his head toward Crawley and the demon chuckled as he continued, "If I did the good thing and you did the bad one."

Then he laughed, and Aziraphale couldn't help but laugh along with him.

Oh yes, it would be so funny if it were the like t-.

Then his laughter suddenly stopped and he lost his smile before he said, "No. It wouldn't be funny at all."

The demon lost his smile as well, and the rain came down, preventing them from continuing their conversation.

That didn't stop Aziraphale from listening to his heart and putting his wing over the demon's head to protect him.

**********

Aziraphale eyed the demon warily for a few seconds before extending his hand. The demon shook it, then said, "We'd be godfathers, sort of, overseeing his upbringing."

Then, leaning forward, he added, " We do it right, he won't be evil. Or good. He'll just be normal."

Aziraphale said in a tone of wonder as he watched, "It might work.

Then he added, "Godfathers. Well, I'll be damned." and laughed lightly.

The demon winked at him and said, "It's not that bad when you get used to it," and Aziraphale continued to laugh with him.

But once again, he lost his smile when he realized what he'd just said.

********

"I just found something that mattered more to me than choosing sides." 

Having said that, Beelzebub grabbed Gabriel's hand and they both stayed there, indifferent to the rest of the room.

Aziraphale didn't hear the reactions of the other people in the bookshop, as his only reflex was to reach for the demon. He put his hand on Crowley's arm in a spontaneous gesture.   

Witnessing Gabriel and Belzeebub's love in front of him, he was only aware of the emotions he felt at that moment and of the person who inspired them.

He didn't realize the threat to Nina and Maggie, and it wasn't until he lost his connection to Crowley that he came back to reality, his hand making one last gesture to hold the demon back as he forced his mind back to the present.

He was brought out of his thoughts by Crowley's hand, which had slipped over his under the table, intertwining its fingers with his own.

He looked up at the demon, who just nodded and smiled softly, as if to say everything was okay.

But Aziraphale felt a kind of unease. 

He couldn't put his finger on it, but the feeling stayed with him all evening, even as he talked and laughed with the others, his fingers and Crowley's still intertwined under the table.

He still felt that unease as he and the demon left the pub and crossed the street to the bookshop.

It wasn't until he and Crowley walked through the door that he realized where it all came from.

It was when he saw the exact spot where Crowley had first kissed him. Instinctively, he raised his hand to his lips.

"You idiot. We could have been...us."

Aziraphale turned away, refusing to see Crowley go, not noticing that the demon had returned, and it wasn't until he grabbed his coat and his lips were pressed to his that he realized what was happening.

He didn't know what to do. 

He didn't know who he was.

He didn't know where he was.

He only knew one thing: he didn't want to lose Crowley.

He didn't want to lose his connection to Crowley.

Once again, his body did what his mind was unwilling to do and he put his hands on Crowley's back.

Holding him against his body.

But it was too late.

Crowley was already pulling away.

Aziraphale's mind was back in control. Or the illusion of it.

And it was all over.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, who was looking at him worriedly.

Crowley who had first revealed his feelings.

Crowley who had kissed him, who had reached out.

Crowley who had held his hand moments before.

Always, always Crowley reaching out.

When Aziraphale was the one who stopped on the way.

He couldn't let them go on like this.

He had no reason to hold back anymore.

Driven by a compelling urge within him, he walked toward the demon and, placing his hands on his shoulders, grabbed the lapels of Crowley's jacket and pulled him toward him, pressing his lips to his own.

The demon froze for a split second before responding to the kiss and resting his hands on the angel's hips.

In that moment, Aziraphale stopped thinking, forgot everything that wasn't Crowley, everything that wasn't his hands on him, his lips against his, his breath mingling with his.

He grabbed and held nothing back.

His hands slid from the demon's shoulders to his hair, burying his fingers in it, pressing the demon's head against his own to deepen the kiss. Crowley obliged, and the kiss lingered until they were both out of breath.

A short time later, when they parted, Aziraphale had to hold onto the demon's shoulders for support, his legs giving out as he felt intoxicated, exhilarated by a sense of freedom he'd never felt before.

As he supported him, Crowley said softly, "Easy, angel..." then added, putting his arm around Aziraphale's shoulders, "Come on, let's sit down," pulling him toward the sofa.

They sat down and Crowley, turning to him, asked quietly, "What's gotten into you, angel? Not that it was unpleasant, far from it, but..."

Aziraphale shook his head and grabbed the demon's hand, saying urgently, "Because it's not fair. Because I can't have you holding out your hand all the time. I don't want to have to stop when I laugh or smile, I don't want to have to take my hand away from yours, I don't want to stop in the middle of whatever it is I feel like doing."

Crowley nodded and said quietly, "As long as you know it's not a competition and I'm not keeping score. As always, at your own pace. I know you want to change. I can see you changing. We both have so much to learn, so don't put any pressure on yourself. Okay, angel?"

He raised the angel's hand to his lips and planted a tender kiss there as Aziraphale slowly nodded.

Then the Angel, a new gleam in his eye, asked Crowley, "May I kiss you now?"

Crowley, with the same gleam in his eye, replied softly, opening his arms, "Take what's yours, angel."

And Aziraphale reached out and took.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #GOS2Spoilers

[chlorine-and-daisies]

fics i enjoyed last week!

Confiteor (M) by @adverbian- When the title comes from a prayer for confessing sins, and the tags say it's a marriage proposal, you know this one is going to hit. It's made up of Aziraphale's thoughts and a conversation with Crowley after all of the fighting is done- a forgiving, poetic, and grown-up kind of epilogue. As a 3k word oneshot, every phrase is intentional, and it definitely has that crafted emotional impact. I liked that we don't actually see Armageddon Part 2, but are able to piece together what happened from their dialogue. It's rated M for some *very lightly* implied masturbation at the start and sex at the end (just a few lines), but imo the real reason is because it's a mature take on the characters and their inner motivations. If the Final Fifteen is still hurting you, and you wish Aziraphale and Crowley would just sit down and talk, read this.

Terminus (T) by BraveLight (@emotional-support-demon-crowley)- This is a really unique AU where Aziraphale is an astronaut on a decades-long mission and Crowley is the mission controller responsible for bringing him home! But things get complicated quickly when a. they are absolutely whipped for each other and b. the company that started the mission may not actually want it to succeed! I love the characterization of Aziraphale, Crowley, and the Them in this one. They mainly communicate through calls, and the dialogue is always funny and sweet. I've gotten invested in the story and the mystery in it. It's currently on chapter 7/16, and I'm looking forward to see where it'll take us next!

You, you're driving me crazy (T) - author anonymous- Aziraphale prepares for his driving test in the 1930s, and tries to remember his lessons in the 40s! This one is clearly written with so much love. The narration and dialogue was perfectly in character, the historical setting is full of fun details, and the side characters were unique without feeling forced in. Aziraphale channeling his inner book detective to save Crowley was so entertaining!

requiem of a fallen angel (T) by viperinz- Aziraphale Falls, and Crowley holds him through it. This one is adorable, painful, and powerful hurt-comfort that made me laugh and cry. Yes, it was on my previous list too, and I'm recommending it again this week because the author just finished the sixth and final chapter, and the ending was soft and a satisfying wrap-up, plot-wise, symbolically, and emotionally!!

And for this week's deep cut: city continues on, alone (G) by burnttongueontea (@aziraphale-rights) from 2020! This is a oneshot that takes place in an AU where Adam turned Aziraphale and Crowley human, and they've settled down in the South Downs cottage. In it, Aziraphale returns to London after selling the bookshop. I know, I know- becoming human? Selling a single book, let alone the shop? Those are fighting words!!! But I would really encourage you to keep an open mind and give this a read. The descriptions of London are so vivid and Aziraphale's characterization is great, full of nostalgia and experience and love. It's sad, but there's humor in it too. The author really explores the idea of longing for a place and time in a way that not too many do. We're writing about immortals in this fandom and yet we often forget the weariness that comes along with watching everything go by. Not only that, but the author uses the human AU to tell a very human story about missing a place that no longer exists and watching it change as you start to age. It came as no surprise when I looked in the comments after reading and saw them talking about how they wrote it at a time when they were personally homesick for London! This is the purpose of all good writing- to write about the human experience, to connect to your characters, to tell a story only you could tell.

So yeah! This was a really great week of reading for me. I originally intended to share these lists every weekend- this is only my second post, and I'm already falling behind (it was finals week)! But don't worry, I'm still here to highlight recent work and share my opinions in long rants. I tried to tag all the authors whose Tumblrs I could find, but as always please let me know if I've missed one.

Please add your own recommendations (including self-promotion), and I hope you will enjoy these stories as much as I did!

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #fanfiction #fanfic rec #fic rec #fanfiction recommendation #chlorine and recommendations

[eri3ne]

we could have been us

You idiot, we could’ve been us

We could have been us

But hadn’t they been? For centuries, millennia even, they had been well…them. Aziraphale and Crowley. Especially for the past two years they had been together all the time, spending nearly every waking moment side by side. And even before then, they’d just pop up into each other's lives whenever they wanted or needed. Crowley could hardly remember a time when he and Aziraphale hadn’t been there for one another.

And now, he was alone. His only friend in the world had left him. His angel had left him.

And the worst part? Aziraphale hadn’t just left. He tried to take Crowley with him, and tried to get him to come back. To work for Heaven. Why the hell would he want that? They had been happy in their own little corner of the world and together. An Angel and a Demon but neither lived quite by the rules and now Aziraphale uprooted both of their lives and became the Supreme Archangel of Heaven. Wasn’t that against everything they stood for. They were an Angel and a Demon on their own side. Not heaven not hell, just Aziraphale and Crowly. But now, Aziraphale was with heaven once again.

And he still went even after Crowley had poured his entire heart out. He finally worked up the nerve to kiss him. Why didn’t he stay? What did Crowley do wrong? What the fuck?

Now, Crowley found himself across the street from the bookshop looking at the spot where Aziraphale and Metatron had just gone up to Heaven. He didn’t even know what to do with himself. So he just stood there, leaning against the Bentley, trying to figure out what to do next.

He looked around, Maggie was behind the counter at the record store and Nina was serving people coffee, Muriel was outside the bookshop. How dare she? Everything was just as it had been last time he’d been out here. Everyone was acting like everything was the same, like everything was alright, like the world hadn’t just changed forever. Crowley’s best friend, the man that he loved, was gone and no one cared. No one even knew. No one would ever know.

So, Crowley got in his car, and he just went. Went where? Anywhere but here. Anywhere he wouldn’t have to think about Aziraphale and all he had lost in the last hour. So, he put his foot on the gas, the radio at max volume and turned whenever he got too used to the road he was on.

He was doing a pretty good job at drowning out his emotions, when a certain song came on. All You Need Is Love by The Beatles. Because of course it was, one of few “modern” songs Crowley could think of that Aziraphale truly enjoyed, and a song about love. As if it wasn't enough that the demon had lost his angel, the universe was playing some cruel joke on him. Which should be impossible, he designed the damned thing. And yet here he was.

This was simply the last straw. Crowley pulled off to the side of the road and broke down. He cried, he screamed, he hit shit. But the real kicker is, Crowley cried. It was the first time in a while that he let himself have a good and proper cry. And it had been even longer since Aziraphale wasn't there to help him through it. He wasn't sure how long he had been there, it felt like something in between a few seconds and a few hours. But Crowley found himself curled up in a ball in his passenger seat, fresh out of tears to cry, shaking, and struggling to breath.

It was moments like these when Crowley wished he could die. He wished he could stop feeling. Particularly this feeling, he wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but it was just about the worst thing Crowley ever felt. And you would think that by now, Crowley would know how to not feel like this, or at least to make it not so bad. But he had always had Aziraphale to help him to make him feel better and keep breathing. Now though, he was all on his own, and he had no idea what to do. So he sat there in his passenger seat for at least an hour, doing all he could to get his breath back to a usual pattern and just generally calm himself back down.

Soon enough he was back on the road, his breath still a little shaky and his body still a little weak.

Crowley had absolutely no clue where he was going until he got there. The only place that really brought him comfort, but also the very place he was trying to get away from. He found himself right in front of the book shop five hours later. Not entirely trusting himself to drive much more, Crowley walked across the street and into Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death. He went straight to a table, not wanting to have to deal with people. But almost immediately, and it truly seemed as though she could read his thoughts and was trying to spite him, Nina showed up at his table.

“No.” he said before she got the chance to ask what he wanted, or God Forbid a much noisier question.

“What can I get you, Sir.”

“I already said no.” he felt like he was about to snap.

“Well then, I hate to break it to ya mister, but if you're not gonna have a coffee… you’re gonna have to leave,” she said, as sweet as she could. But Crowley didn’t reply. “Look,” she was no longer attempting to sweet talk him into listening. She knew it wouldn’t work. “I don’t know why you're moping around in a corner all alone. But I’ve got paying customers that could be drinking coffee they paid for at this table, which as I’m sure you're aware, is not what’s happening at this table.”

And at this point, Crowley is getting pissed. But he decides it’s best just to order a coffee. “Black coffee, hot.” He mutters, almost whispering.

“What was that?” Nina teases.

“Oh you heard me!” Crowley hisses. Nina leaves to get his and the other patrons orders. And Crowley is left alone with his thoughts, yet again.

Even in the bustling coffee shop, Crowley feels utterly alone. He truly had no place to go. In the past, when he was unable to return to hell, he had slept in his car in the nights and visited Aziraphale in the bookshop during the days. But now, he still could not return to hell and there was no one he might visit.

And it was at this moment that Crowley realized he doesn’t have any friends. He had no one. He was a demon all alone in the world, just as he should have been. And he had absolutely no clue how to cope with it.

And oh, here he goes again.

He’s not crying this time.

Or at least he doesn’t think he is.

But he can’t quite breathe properly.

And the walls are closing in on him.

And-

“Here you are,” and here Nina was, coffee in hand. Breaking Crowley out of a spiral. “Hot black coffee.” she smiles.

“Thanks,” Crowley replied. He wasn’t sure what else to say, but Nina stayed there, just looking at him. So he looked straight back at her.

“So where’s your f-” She started.

“No.” Crowley snapped, cutting her off.

“Yes, actually. Where is your friend?” Now, Nina isn’t usually one to pry, but this topic was of particular interest to her. These two men had meddled in her love life, so she felt it was only fair for her to do the same to them.

“Gone.” he whispered. And this time, Nina truly could not hear him.

“What was that?” She tried to sound as kind as possible. Which was…not her strong suit, but this guy seemed like he needed some kindness right about now.

“He’s gone.” Crowley said again, this time a little louder, and trying a little harder to hold back the tears that were ever so persistently forming in the corners of his eyes. And this time Nina doesn’t respond. Crowley is looking down at his table so he thinks she might have left. That is, of course, until he feels her slide into the seat next to him, and place a hand on his shoulder.

“I am so, so sorry.” she tells him softly. Crowley turns his head to face her but he still can't meet her eyes. And only now, when he’s finally realized that he’s not all alone, he lets the tears come. And come they do, it's like the floodgates have opened. And Crowley just sits there, with a near stranger. Crying and being comforted.

Maybe Crowley lost the love of his life.

But, maybe that doesn’t mean that the world has to end.

Sure, he’s gonna be sad, and pissed off, and all those other negative feelings about it. But he supposed that those feelings just have to happen, because if he tries to stop them, every day could be just as bad as today was. And, while Crowley doesn’t know what's next, the world will keep on turning. No matter how bad he wishes it would stop.

In the middle of Crowley's stream of thoughts, Nina has gotten up from where she was sitting next to him and she says, “Welp, I’ve got to get back to working. But, if you need anything, anything at all, I’m here. Just come and get me and I’ll do all I can.” She squeezes Crowley's shoulder, and heads off.

We could have been us. Crowley thinks. We could have been us, but you left me, to do God knows what up in Heaven.

And maybe they would have the chance to be “them” again. After whatever Aziraphale was doing up there was over and done with. If he ever decided to come back to Earth, Crowley would be there waiting for him. Willing and able to do whatever Aziraphale wanted. Barring, of course, going with him to Heaven.

But until then, if “then” ever comes, Crowley will just have to make it to the next day. And then the next and the next. He’ll try to get on with life. But he knew that hurt he felt when Aziraphale left, would never entirely go away.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fandom #good omens fanwork #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #innefable divorce #crowley #aziraphale #ao3 #fanfic ao3 #ao3 writer #ao3fic #nina good omens #crowley has anxiety #panic attack #anxienty #post season 2 #anger issues

[bellamybellamyblake]

When the Sun Sets - Part 4

Adriadne

Characters:

adriadne/morgan winchester (OC), dean winchester, sam winchester

Summary:

adriadne finds out who she was before she went to hell. and the winchesters will not rest until they fix what their sister did all those years ago.

Warnings (for entire story):

SPN typical violence, so so much suppressing of emotions, vague mention of SA, depiction of torture, a very pro-torture main character, murder, vague mention of not eating for a while, parental abuse, slight suicidal ideation, SPN typical alcohol abuse, spoiler warning up to the end of season 10, following canon stops after the end of season 2 but things are sure to be mentioned

Word Total:

4k ~ roughly

A/N:

hi, so sorry its been so long, but i finally got the inspiration to continue writing this little mini series. i'm not convinced anyone is still interested in this story, but here's part 4. there's a little hatred towards blondes in this chapter - guys i actually love blonde hair i think its gorgeous - your girl is just a demon. my search history after writing this chapter, god help me.

this takes place loosely around season 10 and i kind of combined when sam tries to cure crowley with when he cures dean.

let me tell you, writing about a person who has no idea what's real is not easy to make good - its a 0/10 for me and i'm not convinced i even succeeded at that

italics = inner thoughts/memories

dean: 36, morgan: 35 (her body is 27), sam: 32

Adriadne vaguely remembered hating the moon coming up when she was human. For some reason, she detested nighttime and all that came with it. She had wanted to believe she wasn't as bad as the humans when she was one. But as she roamed the street of whatever bumblefuck town she was in, she remembered staring blankly at a street lamp once.

It was the only light she had seen for several miles. It illuminated a small bus stop with a bench and a pay phone attached to it. She was in some loud car, with even louder music playing, with her intolerably quiet family. The faces, names, and details of any of them had been long washed away. Somebody in her family needed to make a call, so they stopped, and she was left alone for a few minutes. The yellow beams that kept that area lit were the only thing keeping her from panicking. She had assumed she was only a child in the memory because, I mean, seriously? An adult scared of the dark?

If she had been an adult, Satan help her if she was, it would have been further proof of how weak humans are. Actually, regardless, it was proof. There was no light in Hell. Everything was dark, and only with the sight of a demon could anyone see. She bristled at the thought. Since being on Earth, she had no desire to go back downstairs. 

The darkness of the night did give her a little sense of reminiscence, though. Of home, Alastair, Crowley, her tools. Where she could roam freely without having to cling to that damn sack of flesh. But the daytime was a close second, in her opinion. The sun, as bright and almost blinding as it was, was warm. And it felt…kind of nice.

Turned out, she was a natural blonde, a type of blonde that got even lighter when she lay in the sun. And that rubbed her the wrong way. Like, who was actually blonde nowadays? Every blonde Alastair assigned to her was quickly scalped. And when they were healed, she would do it again. Then, she'd make them drink anti-freeze because many of them had blue eyes. It really had been a fun game.

Watching them die slowly and painfully was always an excellent way to waste an hour. And when they were brought back to life, it was back to her regularly scheduled programming.

It sucked even more that she had blue eyes too. They were so light. Like the human fucking sky or some shit. She liked her black eyes. They were who she was, a dark and malevolent visitor on this planet of fluffy little bunnies. 

At the sound of a whistle, a very loud one, she turned to find the source. "Damn, baby." The man said. He was some random guy on the corner of the street, watching her as she walked. "What's your name?"

She planted a demure little smile like she was so flattered by the attention. With a blush, she said, "Mary."

He smirked. "Are you a virgin, too?"

Imbecile, she groaned inside her head. She had heard that joke back home. It was usually the first thing a demon said when assigned someone with that name. After hearing it for the first time, she chuckled. The second time, she grinned. The fifty-seventh? She ignored it. 

Come up with something new, people, will you?

She flashed some doe eyes at him and pretended to blush even more. "How did you know?"

"I tend to sense these things."

"Oh, do you?" She asked with a grin, flashing her natural eyes at him. But before he could scream, she was slitting his throat.

When the jugular veins are severed, there is a relatively low spray of dark red blood, accompanied by the sound of escaping air, and the human coughs it up. So, to get a forceful spray of bright red, Adriadne's favorite, she cuts the carotid. And usually aims to sever the trachea so they gasp and wither at her feet. And with this guy? She hit the nail on the head.

It only takes a few minutes, but it's such a satisfying death. Being in the land of the living, slitting throats quickly became one of her favorite forms of sending them exactly where they belonged.

When Sam and Dean Winchester caught wind of a case; six hundred sixty-four bodies across the country with a slit throat and the Latin symbol for "hellhound" carved over their right eyebrow, they got on it. They didn't want to let it get to that magic number.

And when they got to the most recent crime scene, Lena Franklin, a thirty-one-year-old female - mother of three - with the same injuries, they found who they were looking for, taking another victim. Only they weren't expecting to find their sister standing over the body.

After knocking her out and locking her up, they summoned Crowley as soon as possible. It was like their lives depended on it, or really, it was their sister's life that they were worried about.

And when he explained the situation to them, they knew what they had to do.

With a whine, Adriadne awoke in a strange room. Filled with walls of file cabinets and Enochian or Latin symbols. She tried to rub at her head, where that damn vase had been thrown at her, but she noticed she was chained down. Usually, she wouldn't have an issue with chains; she could break through steel, and they were so satisfying when some human tried to escape them. But not only were these not steel chains, they were iron. And they had warding signs carved in them.

Fucking hunters.

Surprisingly, if there was any human she didn't entirely detest, it was hunters. They were more robust than the rest and really knew what the real world was like. But they were after her, so now, they had to die. Slowly, bloody, painfully.

"Welcome back, jackass," A voice she recognized said. The same voice threw the vase at her however many hours ago. It was the shorter of the two, but he had the more resounding voice. They were tall for humans, but the other was way bigger. Gigantor also seemed like he was friendlier, the dumbass.

She had heard of the Winchester brothers in Hell. Sam and Dean, she believed their names were. Two brooding brothers with mommy and daddy issues that jumpstarted the apocalypse. Then they fixed it and sent Lucifer back into his cage with Michael. They'd been in and out of hell themselves a few times. The only humans to ever accomplish such feats.

Clearly, they weren't stupid, but goddamn, were they annoying.

Sam was younger but a bit more book-smart, and Dean was the older but sarcastic one. She vaguely knew they had a thing for dying for each other, but that only made her roll her eyes like she so often did at these creatures.

"Dean," Sam scolded.

"And what a warm one at that. You ever have people over?" She groaned. The boys didn't respond, both just shaking their heads. They started pulling stuff out of a cooler, and she read what it said on it with a scoff. "Human blood? You're seriously gonna try and cure me?"

"Yep," Dean deadpanned.

"Oh, please," Adriadne drawled as her head fell back on her shoulders. "Spare me."

"You're a demon, Mo," The youngest said, like it was the worst thing in the world she could be. "We're not just gonna leave you like this."

"Mo? Who the hell is Mo?"

"Morgan," Dean explained, his voice monotone but somehow angry at the same time. "Our sister. The human that you used to be. So we're doing what we should'a done years ago. And saving you. Even if it is from yourself."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah," Sam quipped, annoyed. "Crowley said you wouldn't remember."

"Crowley's the one that-"

"We know," Dean said. "Just shut up."

I didn't even know the Winchesters had a sister, Adriadne thought. But to hell if she wanted to become a damn human. Why would she even consider it? "Ever think maybe your sister wouldn't wanna be saved?"

"Doesn't matter." The oldest Winchester remarked, his voice flat. "You don't get a choice."

With a huff, Adriadne chuckled darkly. "Just let me go do what I wanna do. I don't bother you; you don't bother me. So what the hell do you care?"

"What do we care?" Sam asked, almost dejectedly. He shook his head, not dignifying her with a response, and started pouring holy water around the devil's trap. Reciting the Latin to start the ritual, he grabbed a needle, loaded it up with human blood, and handed it to Dean.

Adriadne looked at her supposed brothers, she didn't even know their birth order. She knew Dean was the oldest and Sam was the youngest. But where did she fit in the lineup? "You got anything stronger in there? Some heroin? Meth? Maybe it'd really make me feel somethin'."

"Don't worry, honey, you're gonna feel a lot."

And before she could fight it, he put the syringe in her arm and pumped the blood directly into her arm. She could feel it coursing through her veins, traveling through her bones, her arteries, her cells. Weaving its way throughout her body like an itch you can't scratch. Involuntarily, she let out a loud roar, a demonic roar, of pain. This damn human blood did not agree with her.

"Look," Sam said as both brothers backed away from her. "We've got a whole bunch more of these to go. You could make this a lot easier on yourself."

"And just in case some part of you gives a crap, we got your blood type."

"You wanna know something?" Adriadne asked, but a new wave of pain from the human blood cut her off. She groaned but wouldn't let it cut her off too long. She was a demon, after all, and pain had never been something she feared. It was something she admired, longed for, craved. "The part of your sister that cared died a long time ago."

Five times, the Winchester brothers had streamlined her with human blood. They didn't say anything when they came in this time, silently injecting her with round six. Like it was the only thing keeping them from breaking.

Adriadne was a demon; she knew that. But now things were becoming a little muddled. There had been small things, small tidbits of images popping in and out of her brain.

They weren't like dreams or nightmares. They were more like poorly done movies of being beaten by someone she was supposed to call her father. Dreams of fighting with her siblings, where even they'd beaten her - but also when she fought back, and they took the beatings themselves. She won and lost over and over, losing the fight when Sam left them for school, winning when Dean tried to get her to stop seeing her high school boyfriend, losing when Dean took away the knife he gave her, and winning when she eventually stole it back. She remembered watching their so-called father yell and scream, practically torturing who she was told were her brothers. She remembered not being able to do anything about it.

She saw herself hunting other creatures - not humans, but monsters. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts, djinns, banshees, rugarus. She saw herself taking beatings from them, nearly dying from her injuries several times. She saw herself lose her virginity to a sweet guy from her high school at the time. She saw herself take that night and turn it into a string of drunken one-night stands.

She saw her father coming home drunk almost every night, beaten up. She saw herself patching him up, giving him stitches when necessary. She'd been the one to set her brother's bones when they were broken or dislocated. She'd have to be the one to reset her own because none of them were as good as she was at it. She saw the woman who was supposed to be her mother burn to death on a ceiling as her older brother - a toddler himself - pulled her and her little brother to safety.

And she remembered her father dying, making a deal with a demon to keep his oldest son alive and breathing. Then she remembered doing the same thing for her younger brother.

"You're the Winchesters," Adriadne drawled. "You're hunters. So am I an idiot to assume what you're gonna do once you realize this won't work? You think you got the stomach for that? Killing the girl you think is your sister?"

"We're not worried," Sam denied. "Because we've done this before."

It had been nine hours, nine injections of human blood in her veins, and she could name nine parts of her body she could barely move. She hadn't felt so useless since she was on the rack, and even then, she had a purpose. To postpone, to make it as long as she could. Alastair had given her a choice. Stay on, deal with the consequences, or get off, and then do it to someone else who deserved it too.

She had been at the end of her rope; her soul was already ripped to shreds. And then they healed her and broke it again.

The humans deserved it - that's what she was taught.

But then, why was I the one on the rack? I'm not human.

Yes, I am. Or...I was.

No. My name is Ad-Adria-

She had been having so many memories over the last several hours. But they had to be dreams; she didn't remember them belonging to her. Of the Winchesters, of growing up on Earth, of being a part of an admittedly screwed-up family.

My name is-

"How you doin', Mo?" That was Sam, her…younger brother, she had remembered. The memories were like a plague, keeping her sedentary in a time she had long forgotten. A time, she didn't know if she wanted to go back to or not. It was a time when she cared about them, about humans in general. A time when she had the ability to care.

Mo. Morgan.

She was confused when they called her that. She didn't know how to describe it. But something was weird about that name. These were people that she knew before she went to Hell. People she loved. People she would've sacrificed everything for. People she did sacrifice everything for.

"It doesn't feel right," She rasped, shaking her head as much as possible. Which, apparently, was not a lot.

"No, shit," And there's Dean.

"When you call me that," She explained, despondent, trying to blink away the new memory attempting to take hold of her reality. "It doesn't feel like my name."

"Well, what is your name?" 

She didn't know. Adriadne was supposed to be her name. Morgan was supposed to be her name. How could someone not know their own fucking name? It was the most basic form of identification. Even demons had names. A new wave of pain hits her, and she grips the chair with all her strength. It wasn't a lot; she was so weak. But then another memory took over, and she wasn't even in that room anymore.

"What is your name?" He had asked, his voice cold and unemotional. The girl only shook her head in response, knowing what was coming with her answer. "You will answer me when I speak to you, girl.

"Morgan," She choked out, tears already rolling. "Morgan Winchester."

"You don't deserve my last name." Before she could blink, her cheek was stinging, and she was on the motel room floor. More tears fell involuntarily at the searing pain, at the blood dripping down her face from his ring. She flinched at the hand he rose again, but no hit came. Instead, he laughed - a heartless and calculating laugh. Like it was amusing watching his thirteen-year-old daughter cower at his feet. "You are no Winchester."

He was ready to strike a second time when someone got in the way. 

"Get out of the way, Sam."

"No," his little voice announced. She could hear the emotion in his words as he continued. The little ten-year-old was scrawny, even smaller than she was. "She knows what she did. You don't have to hit her again."

Ignoring the boy, her father turned back to Morgan, practically looking through her little brother. "So this is what you've come to? Making little Sammy fight your damn battles for you?"

She looked him straight in the eyes; the green they usually held was almost black in the room's dim lighting. She had seen this so many times when he was angry, when a hunt didn't go his way, when his children disobeyed him. When she did something wrong. 

"Boys," Her father called, ordering them to shut up and listen. Dean took his hands away from his face with a wince. Sam winced, too, backing away from his father. Nearly crashing into her. "Take this as a learning opportunity. We fight our own battles in this family. And we don't rely on other people to do it for us." 

And with that, Sam was pushed out of the way, and he was on top of her.

"Dad," She gasped, finally back in the present but staring into space. Both brothers' heads shot up at the recall. "He was- he was mean."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, making her eyes lock on his. The whites of his eyes were red like the mention of his father had him holding things back. A storm was brewing behind his eyes, one he wouldn't let come to fruition. "He had his moments."

"He was so mad all the time," The girl croaked, her voice breaking even more. She was lost, not looking at them. Keeping her eyes down, they darted back and forth as she practically stared through the flesh and bone before her. "Watch out for Sammy. Make sure Sam's safe. Don't let anybody touch Sammy. If anything happens to him, I'll know whose fault it is." Her older brother only nodded, but Sam's eyes fluttered back and forth between his siblings. Like he was realizing something he hadn't before. "We were always watching out for Sammy. Who- who watched out for us?"

"Well, for one, Sammy watched out for us. And I watched for both of you, and you took care of us."

"I took care of you?"

"Yeah, Mo, you did," Sam said plainly.

"But I-I went to-" She denied, not entirely believing them. "I went to Hell, and now I don't know anything. You're my brothers? My family? My family tortured me. They-they're the ones that put me on the rack."

"Is that what they told you?" Sam asked, bewildered.

"I saw it!" She roared. Everything came back to her in waves, and not like a movie this time; these were memories. She knew it; she couldn't question it. "You hurt me- you- you touched me." She finally looked up at them, unable to hide the tears. She shook her head, trying to shake away the red, the blood, the screaming, the agony. "You- you- family isn't supposed to do that!"

Sam and Dean stared, their faces pale and drained. They didn't hide their emotions - like she remembered they did so often. They wore it plainly on their faces. Sam was a mixture of deep regret and sorrow. Dean wasn't just angry; he was simmering with rage.

"Now, you listen to me," Dean ordered, and she could almost hear a trace of their father in his voice. He leaned against the arms of her chair - her current prison - and gave her a stare that kept her captive in his gaze. "I went to Hell, too. They did the same thing to me. It. Wasn't. Us. And I know you don't believe that. But you will. Eventually."

When he finished, she nodded. He was wrong. Some part of her did believe him. The conviction in his words, the way he didn't bother to hide the angry tears in his eyes. Some part of her - a minuscule part - hoped he wasn't lying. That her family was still there for her. That maybe, even after everything that had happened, they would hold her when this was all over. 

At her slight confirmation, he nodded, too, and stepped back, giving his younger brother room for the next shot. Sam came forward and quickly, without hesitation, put the syringe in her arm and pressed down.

"I don't even know my own name."

Sam didn't balk at her words. He just shook his head and gave her a small, barely there smile.

"You will."

"I don't wanna be human," She cried. Eleven injections in, she could feel the human blood becoming her own. Integrating into her bones, her DNA changed with every second that passed. Her power was draining, and she didn't like it. She was returning to who she was before Hell, the young girl with daddy issues, with two brothers who loved her - but could never get along with.

"Humans are weak, they- their emotions, it's too much," She continued, shuddering. "They feel too much, they don't see how useless they are. How- how small they are. There are eight billion of you, and all of you think you're the most important one. You all think you have some fucked up purpose, that there's something more you can do with your pointless little lives."

"No one here is gonna tell you that being human is a walk in the park," Sam said, his voice calm and steady as if he was expecting her to say this. "But it is better than being a demon. Than killing for no reason. Because even if you don't believe it, I believe we do have a purpose. Maybe it's a tiny one, maybe you're just supposed to be here to make someone else happy. Maybe you're here to teach someone a lesson. Maybe you're here to save the world." His words got light at that, like it was an inside joke, and Dean let out a small laugh. But just because you don't know what it is or can't see it doesn't mean you don't have one." 

Before she could respond or give any words to the contrary, he put the needle in her arm and gave her the twelfth shot.

Morgan Winchester opened her eyes. And they were black. She could feel it, feel the remnants of Hell in her eyes. But as quickly as it came, it went. And as they cleared, she groaned. It was a strange feeling, but she felt lighter. Like there wasn't as much weight on her shoulders as before. Her eyes were blue again, like the sky people loved to stare at. Then she remembered she was human again. She was just a young girl again, not a demon, not a monster. 

And then the weight returned. Only this time, it was even heavier, as if someone had tied an anvil around her neck and thrown her into the ocean. She remembered everything. Her life, her father, her mother, her brothers, Sam dying, her dad dying, her deal with a demon, Hell, being tortured, then turning around and doing the same, becoming a demon, becoming Adriadne, taking a joyride upstairs, murdering so many innocents. Then, being in here, the crowded but well-protected safe room in some place she had no knowledge of. 

She could see her brothers a few feet away. Sam stood in front of Dean, holding a flask - their postures were identical. Tight and reserved, with their brows furrowed and their feet cemented into the floor.

Her face contorted into a question, and she greeted them with their names. She didn't know what else to say. But before she could speak again, Dean threw whatever was in the flask at her face.

Water. Water. Water.

And without needing a second to think about it, Morgan realized it was blessed. Holy water. They were putting her through one final test. To see if their work had paid off. When it didn't burn, sizzle, or boil her skin, her brothers let out a deep exhale of relief. Then, so did she.

"Welcome back, Morgan."

#dean winchester #sam winchester #supernatural #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x sister!reader #sam winchester x sister!reader #dean winchester x ofc #sam winchester x oc #dean winchester imagine #sam winchester imagine #bobby singer #team free will #castiel

[solarishashernoseinabook]

Yet another AU where Halt raises Will instead of dropping him off at the Ward…

this might become another trr sequel idk yet

~

After five years, Halt thought he was getting the hang of fatherhood. He would drop Will off at the Ward for longer missions, which Will tended to treat as an adventure, and for shorter missions he had him stay with someone from Wensley Village. In a few years, when he could trust Will more, maybe he would begin taking him along on missions. For now, Will was loud and impulsive, more interested in playing games than sitting still, and Halt saw no harm in letting him stay a child a bit longer.

Will was turning out to be remarkably normal, all things considered. He was much better than Halt socially, outgoing and friendly. He had picked up a few of Halt’s fidgets, and sometimes he would try and imitate Halt’s mostly-blank expression, but his quick grin always shone through after a few moments.

Halt was packing for the Gathering now. He put Will’s things in one saddlebag and his own in the other, but packing for two people meant being very economical with what he brought. He had just finished packing Will’s clothes, and was trying to find a way to fit Will’s toy horse on top of them – Will had trouble sleeping without it.

Halt heard Will climb up to sit on the table. ‘Dad?’

‘Hm?’ Halt responded without looking up. He tried shuffling the clothes over to fit the horse in.

‘What’re dopteds?’

Halt paused and looked up. ‘What are what?’

‘Dopteds. Missus Cherry at the Ward says I’m a dopted.’

A smile tugged at the corners of Halt’s mouth. ‘She said you were adopted, not a dopted. It means I didn’t have a wife, I found you and decided to keep you.’

Thinking that was the end of it, Halt went back to trying to fit the horse into the saddlebag. He gave up and decided to put it with his things instead, though it would mean leaving behind his spare cloak.

But he should have remembered that Will always asked follow-up questions, and sure enough, Will asked the one he’d been dreading. ‘Where’d you find me?’

Several possible answers flashed through Halt’s mind in the space of seconds. For some unknown reason, the one he settled on was, ‘I went out to the bog, dug a hole, and found you at the bottom of it.’

‘I came from a bog?’

Halt paused in the act of setting aside his spare cloak. After a moment, he decided he might as well run with it – he could hardly take it back now. ‘Yes. Took weeks to get the smell of peat off of you.’

Will’s face split into a mischievous grin and he giggled. ‘I bet I had leaves in my hair!’

‘And a tree growing out of your ears. Go get Abelard out of his stall, we’re heading off now,’ Halt said, fastening the saddlebag.

*

Halt had forgotten all about it by the second day of the Gathering. He was jointing a brace of large, fat pheasants, occasionally glancing up at Will as he played a game with some obliging first-year apprentices.

Crowley was watching them as well, and meandered over to Halt. ‘Hey, Halt?’

‘Hm?’

‘Any idea why Will’s been chasing people around all day calling himself the bog monster?’

‘No idea,’ Halt said, keeping his face deliberately blank. If Crowley found out the truth, Halt would never hear the end of it.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. ‘You sure? None of us can figure it out.’

‘Quite sure,’ Halt said gruffly. He gathered the pheasants in a pan and stood. ‘Now stop asking weird questions and help me cook these.’

#ra #rangers apprentice #halt o'carrick #will treaty #dad!halt #autistic!halt #fluff

[kill-the-hand-of-shakespeare]

“Unknown”

2

________________________

The busy soho street was loud. Compared to the silence of the last three months. But it was so welcomed. Better than any record you would spin on a gramophone. Better than any nightingale.

The bookshop stood on the corner- had it always been that faded red? She needed a new paint job, maybe. It hadn’t been painted since the 40’s- after the war... He’d painted it a gorgeous red, and added all the gold accents...

He stopped at the doors and stared for a second. The sign read ‘Closed’, but it was a warm Tuesday afternoon in September. He brought his hand up to scratch at his beard, listening to the sound it made under his short nails. Closed on a Tuesday... Muriel must not have gotten the hang of hours yet.

He opened the locked door with a miracle, letting the bell ring over head- quieting it. He didn’t want to bother Muriel, if they were in. He heard the door close behind him and took a moment to take a breath. The smell of home filled his lungs and for the first time in months, his posture relaxed and so did his brow. He let his eyes close for a minute, listening to the familiar muffled sounds of the street outside, revealing in it until he heard muttering from the far corner.

His eyes snapped open, and his brow, just relaxed, furrowed again. He knew that low growl. He took a few steps closer- just to be sure his mind wasn’t fooling him, and when he realized it was true, he stopped short in the middle of the shop, swallowing hard.

Crowley. In the bookshop. That wasn’t something he had expected.

He hesitated for a moment, thinking about turning on his heel and going to visit Nina or Maggie until the demon left. He glanced out the window and saw the Bentley parked outside Nina’s cafe. How had he missed /that/ in the street?

He thought for a moment, bringing his hands together to play with the cuffs of his jacket. It /was/ his bookshop... He had every right to be here, leave of absence from earth or not...

On slow, light feet he followed the sound of frustrated sighs and mumbles to the back corner of the shop where he kept the romance novels.

When the sounds got too close, he peered around the corner, and there, knelt on one knee, was Crowley, surrounded in books.

“How had he done this again..?” Crowley muttered, looking as disdained as always. He couldn’t help the adoring smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. He’d missed that coined frown.

Hidden by the corner of the shelf, Crowley turned away from him, blue eyes took in as much as he could.

Crowley had let his hair grow out a little more. It was wavy, half of it pulled up into a bun, and half of it brushing against his shoulders. He pulled off his glasses to rub his eyes before hanging them on the collar of his shirt. He watched Crowley flip through a few pages and hum, before he turned away and hesitated, picking a pile to set it on top of.

He watched as the demon sighed heavily, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back, neck exposed. Adams’s apple (how cruel for it to be called that) moving with a tired swallow. His profile was a prominent as always, especially his eyelashes - always hidden behind black tinted shades- settling a few millimetres from the high of his cheekbone. He had dark circles under his eyes, purple and grey in colour. An empty wine bottle and glass sat amongst the piles of books. One of Aziraphale’s Paris Merlot’s; 1962, if he remembered right.

He couldn’t help the dreamy sigh that left his nose. Always so tragically beautiful and troubled.

“Damn, Muriel... I’ll never get this done. Shouldn’t have touched the books...” Crowley whispered, shaking his head, and reaching to grab the next one off the shelf, eyes squinted as they read the title and then groaned quietly when it was no help, flipping it open.

He stepped out from the corner, Crowley unmoving. “Muriel, I told you to go play in traffic on Carnaby street. There’s no way you got the paperwork done that quickly.” He sneered, slowly looking up. When yellow met blue, his frustrated expression quickly paled and softened, eyes going wide and mouth agape.

“That’s Lady Chatterley's Lover... it goes in this section.”

“Aziraphale?”

_________

< Previous Next >

#good omens fanfiction #good omens2 #good omens #crowley x aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale #azicrow

[ineffablemossy]

A Message For Hell (1,670 words)

Day 3 of Flufftober / Good Omentober 2023 (thanks to @flufftoberand @disaster-dog for the prompts) Prompts: Wait, you love me? Always have // Hell

This is better viewed on AO3 where there's a workskin for the chat sections, but if you insist on reading it here, well here you go!

---

There was a thumping on the door. Crowley sighed and scratched his neck absentmindedly.

“What is it now?” He said. The door squealed on its hinges and the plants shivered. Crowley shot them a cold look. A demon with sculpted textured hair popped through the narrow opening, eyes lowered to the floor.

“Uhh, excuse me Your Lordship, Sir, Mr uhh, Mx Crowley, Sir…” they rambled.

“S’just Crowley, none of that palava!” said Crowley, cutting off the demon. “Eric, was it?”

“Yes, Your…Crowley,” Eric nodded, “there’s a… Um.. a message? For you?”

“What is that a question or a statement? What do you mean message? From whom? ” Crowley drew out the last word. Eric shuffled their feet and lifted their head to meet Crowley’s hard yellow gaze.

“I can’t say exactly, we haven’t read it you understand seeing as how it's addressed personally to you Sir, uhh, Crowley. But it came through on the Minitel you see. And as you know the human network was decommissioned in 2012. The only other devices still connected to this one would be yours, back on Earth, and well you’re here so it can’t be you.” Eric attempted a small laugh that died in their throat. “And the other one is in… Heaven, Sir.”

Crowley rose to his feet in one smooth motion, slamming his fists onto the surface of the black marble desk. His heart raced, hairs prickling up his arms, his mind roiling with thoughts of his last day on Earth. 

“Heaven!” He spat the words out. “You’d better bring it here then hadn’t you!”

Eric flinched and nodded their head. They opened the door wider and pulled through a small wheeled trolley with an old beige plastic box sitting on top. The enclosure housed a convex screen, small by modern standards, and a small keyboard attached to the bottom edge. The screen glowed with white letters. Eric wheeled the device to the desk, carefully lifting it up onto the smooth black surface in front of Crowley, who watched every movement intensely. Eric stood back, hands by their side. Crowley glared at them, exasperated by their very presence.

“Yes very good, now run along with you,” he said through gritted teeth, waving them away. Eric squeaked and half ran out the door, clanging it behind them. Crowley collapsed into the chair, letting his body relax. He felt a pang in his chest and closed his eyes, taking a shaky breath. He leaned forward and looked at the screen, covered in one word: ‘ Crowley’ . Somehow it looked like handwritten text, despite the Minitel not usually having that capability. But not just any old handwriting, it was his perfect copperplate hand. The pain in his heart spread, searing into his lungs that squeezed, their cage suddenly too small. And under the bitter pain of rejection and loss, a tiny flame of hope sparked into life. He tapped on the keyboard to open the message and held his breath.

The screen blinked. Then it let out a little buzz and the pale blue cursor hopped along.

Heavenly1941: Crowley, are you there?

The cursor danced on the line below, waiting for a new entry.

“Don’t remember being able to do that on this thing,” he sneered, “maybe Upstairs got an upgrade.” Crowley hesitated, his fingers above the keys. What if this was some cruel trick, from the angels or even his own lot. He had to be careful.

Bentley666: I’m here.

A few seconds passed before a reply appeared.

Heavenly1941: Oh, thank goodness! I wasn’t sure this old thing would still work. Or if there’d still be a connection between us.

Heavenly1941: THEM, I meant them. The consoles.

Bentley666: Seems to be working alright.

Bentley666: Who is this?

Heavenly1941: It’s me. Aziraphale. I thought you might have realised that.

Bentley666:  Never good to assume, Angel.

Heavenly1941: Quite, you’re correct of course. As usual.

Crowley could almost hear the angel’s clipped diction through the screen. It seemed unlikely anyone else would know it well enough to imitate. He rested his head back, all the things he’d wanted to say since their parting jostling for space in his mind. In the end, the wound he’d been nursing overtook the others.

Bentley666: What do you want?

Heavenly1941: I want to apologise if you’ll allow it.

Bentley666: You think an APOLOGY will

Bentley666: I mean. What could you possibly want to apologise for? You chose your side. You made it QUITE clear. And you also made it quite clear that I, as I am, as I have always been for the last SIX THOUSAND YEARS, am not part of that side.

Heavenly1941: That’s exactly it, my dear. I was wrong. I was so incredibly, stupidly, ridiculously, blatantly, despairingly wrong. If you don’t mind I have quite a few things to write out, please be patient with me.

Bentley666: Alright Angel, I’ll wait til you’re done.

Heavenly1941: Thank you my dear. As I was saying, I was wrong. It was all too fast. You know how I like to take my time over things, mull them over. Well, I couldn’t and I was still so excited from the Ball and the fight at the bookshop. I felt like I could control the situation. But that was wrong of me, I should never have tried to control you, of all people. I realise now I shouldn’t have tried to control our neighbours and fellow shopkeepers either. I got rather carried away.

Bentley666: You can say that again.

Heavenly1941: I got rather carried away.

Bentley666: You idiot, I didn’t mean actually say it again.

Heavenly1941: I know dear.

Heavenly1941: I suppose I’m trying to say that I know it all sounded awful and I was very hurtful to you. And now I’ve had time to think properly this is what I wanted to say, even though it came out all wrong.

Heavenly1941: You have always shone the brightest of us all, you are singular among all the ethereal beings. When you were cast out, the light of Heaven dimmed, and the strength of Hell multiplied. But mostly, the lot of the Earth improved immeasurably. You were wronged, but it forged you. And our long years on Earth have tempered you, as they have me I now realise. We have both become something other than the angel and demon that we were. And it’s true I already adored you back then, before Eden, before the Fall. But you were not yet the demon who walked the Earth with me. The one who has guided me, helped me, and tempted me throughout all of human history. The demon who I’ve fallen in love with a little more with every passing year, every elicit rendez-vous, every cherished note, every fleeting touch.

Heavenly1941: I will not say I don’t want you to change. Because you have and so have I. And I have loved every part of you along the way and will embrace every change you pursue in the future. What is life if not eternal movement and change? But I do not want you to change FOR me or FOR Heaven. Please forgive me for having said otherwise.

Heavenly1941: There is one thing I said that day which was true and accurate, and that is that I do need you, Crowley. I truly do. All I do is drudgery without you. Please, is there a way we can be together in a way that suits us both?

Bentley666: Wait, Angel?

Heavenly1941: Yes, my dear?

Bentley666: You love me?

Heavenly1941: Crowley darling, I always have.

Heavenly1941: I have one final thing to say but it may take a moment. Please hold.

Crowley sat back from the desk and shifted, crossing and uncrossing his legs. What had started as white hot anger had dissipated, now a light buzzing in the back of his head. In its place, bubbles of relief tried to push through, mixed with a roiling feeling in his stomach. He had felt what the humans called butterflies many, many times with Aziraphale. This felt like the butterflies were as big as seagulls, and a hurricane was blowing them around inside him. His hands shook and he felt tears running down his face, creating tracks down his neck to his shirt collar. He took a steadying breath and swallowed, then something appeared on the screen.

On the dark screen a white square appeared. The group of pixels shifted to an approximation of a person, with two arms, two legs, and a halo above a head. Mouth open and brow furrowed, he leaned forward in anticipation. The figure moved this way and that, text appearing underneath

You were right You were right I was wrong And you were right

Heavenly1941: Are you still there?

Bentley666: I’m here Aziraphale.

Bentley666: Can you meet me somewhere? London?

Heavenly1941: I’m afraid not. I’ve had to find a way to contact you privately, secretly, if you see what I mean. I think they’d notice if I left.

Bentley666: Right, I’m coming up. Where are you?

Heavenly1941: Do you remember that storage cupboard in the stairwell?

Bentley666: How could I forget? Right, I’ll join you there.

Heavenly1941: Thank you! I have some Ideas to sort all this out, but I’d really like to hear yours.

Heavenly1941: I can’t wait to see you Crowley.

Bentley666: Don’t think I’m letting you off so lightly. You’d better be prepared to repeat all this to me in person. So I can watch you squirm. And you are doing the Dance. PROPERLY.

Heavenly1941: Oh, I’ve missed you, you foul fiend!

Bentley666: So have I. I’ll be up in 10 minutes.

Heavenly1941: Wonderful!

Bentley666: Angel?

Heavenly1941: Yes darling?

Bentley666: I love you too.

Crowley flicked the off button and lept from the throne. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt his cheeks ache from his wide grin. As he swaggered through the corridors, every fibre pulsing with energy, confusion spread among the lesser demons. Seeing someone happy in Hell was a first for them all.

#flufftober #flufftober 2023 #day 3 #good omens #ineffable husbands #good omentober #post season 2 #aziraphale #crowley #crowley grand duke of hell #supreme archangel aziraphale #good omens fanfic #my writing #fanfiction #minitel #good omens eric #eric gets a cameo #they love each other #heavenly1941 #Bentley666 #aol instant messenger #late on prompts because I'm mixing it up and writing when I can #but I'm having so much fun with it #feels good to write a little bit each day

[ineffable4life]

This Petal Means I Love You

- aziracrow + flower symbolism + angst = this

- I wrote this on my notes a few days ago and posted it on tiktok, so I thought i’d post it here too :) (i have a few more)

———

It was around 1951 that Crowley first noticed the vase on Aziraphale’s windowsill, bright flowers blooming from the neck.

“Good morning Angel,” he greeted, his smile oddly genuine as his friend smiled back, an excited glint in his crystalline eyes, “New addition to the bookshop I see?”

“Ah, yes! Well, I quite liked the vase, saw it in a shop window and simply couldn’t resist.” He explained easily, motioning to the windowsill as he pranced around the room, humming the tune that was spinning on the record player. “But then I needed flowers, and thankfully for me there’s a florist just down the road- quite sweet young Felicity is, don’t think you’d like her.”

After one more moment of floating about, with Crowley watching in utter admiration, Aziraphale lifted the tone-arm off of the record and back to the side where it sat.

“What’s up dear?”

“Hm?” Crowley returned, taking a second to remember exactly where he was and why he was there. “Oh, nothing, just came to check in is all.” Then, the demon looked to the flowers, curiosity clouding his vision as it focused on the yellow roses.

Bright yellow, staring right back at him.

“The flowers. Why roses?”

For some odd reason, Aziraphale seemed confused by this question. It wasn’t often that they didn’t understand each other - six millennia of friendship does that to people - and yet this was one of those times.

Since before the beginning, Aziraphale always had reason for the things he did, never did something just because.

He started the bookshop partially because it was one of his biggest dreams, but also because heaven and earth needed an embassy and Aziraphale needed somewhere private and away from the rest of the world.

For the most part, he was a forward thinking person.

So what Crowley didn’t expect for him to say was “Well I liked them, they were the prettiest they had in the shop- well, at least at this time of year.”

It seemed like a lie. Too simple for the person Aziraphale was.

That night, Crowley went back to his apartment with books from the library on flower symbolism.

Yellow roses typically symbolised happiness, friendship and friendship.

But, on occasion, it symbolised greed.

In 1986, it was the first time (of many) that Crowley bought the angel a bouquet of flowers. White carnations, white tulips, white lotus-

Or in other words; love, hope and grace.

Aziraphale thought they were rather pretty and placed them in the vase on his windowsill.

No miracles were performed to preserve the flowers, but maybe that was the beauty of it all.

Flowers didn’t last long, but they were stunning whilst they lived.

What Crowley didn’t see was Aziraphale plucking a tulip from the bouquet and researching how to preserve it, and eventually putting it into one of his scrap books, mainly used for drawings.

After they stopped armageddon, Crowley gave Aziraphale a single flower.

A single blue iris.

The angel smiled, taking it gently into his own hands.

“A flower. Why an iris?” He asked, and Crowley was reminded of their conversation all those years ago. He smiled back.

“It means eternity.” The demon practically whispered. “Irises symbolise eternity.”

Aziraphale’s eyes glossed over, but he was able to contain his tears in favour of looking at the flower again; this time, he had a new understanding of it, and Crowley.

Safe to say a miracle was performed on that flower.

A miracle of certainty and love that the flower could never wilt.

And, on the day Aziraphale left, it was no surprise that Crowley found the iris.

A single petal had fallen onto the desk.

Eternity - their eternity - was falling apart.

And all Crowley could do was sit and watch.

#good omens #good omens 2 #asexual #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #flower symbolism #good omens fic #angst #what else am i meant to tag #essentially i was sleep deprived and listening to mitski #ineffable husbands