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holycatsandrabbits · 3 years

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Love’s Endless Light: A Good Omens serial romance

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Chapter 5: Shadows Fall

1143, Florentine Republic

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, his mouth falling open with surprise. “Excuse me?”

Crowley fidgeted and frowned. “I said we have to fight. Hell wants me to confront you about the whole Constantinople thing—”

Aziraphale gave an affronted gasp. “You told them Constantinople was my fault?”

“Well, I had to put something in my report, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but Crowley, I wasn’t even there!” Aziraphale’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Arrangement—”

“Well, I’m not going to bloody tell them about that, am I? It’s not like I can say, Hey, forces of Hell, sorry the temptation went badly, but the miracle I performed for my angelic best friend went fine, so really, I’m not as bad a screw-up as it looks.”

Aziraphale blinked at Crowley, fighting down an unhelpful blush. Best friend was an awfully lovely phrase, especially coming from someone like Crowley, who was altogether lovely himself. They were standing in a clearing amid a grove of trees, and the leaves cast dappled shadows over Crowley’s beautiful scarlet hair. He was dressed in black, as usual, with a dagger at his hip, looking rakish and as inconveniently handsome as ever.

“Wait,” Aziraphale said. “So now we’re supposed to fight?”

“Yeah. Like physically.” Crowley put on a rather tempting smile, but it didn’t have his usual finesse. “Look, angel, it won’t be so bad. You can give me a cut on my arm—”

“Out of the question!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley looked exasperated. “Come on, you’re an angel, I’m a demon, it’s not that complicated. We have a nice little skirmish, I’ll tell Hell we nearly discorporated each other, and they’ll be satisfied. I mean, it might actually work in our favor, making it clear to our sides that we don’t get along, that we’d never dream of doing each other’s assignments—”

“I can’t,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sighed, looking at Aziraphale with concern. “It’s no big deal. Not like I asked you for holy water or something.”

Aziraphale felt faint. “Crowley, I’m a guard. I wasn’t made to be able to— to hurt people.”

“You fought in the War in Heaven,” Crowley said slowly, as if Aziraphale might not remember, as if Aziraphale could stop thinking about the War for even one day. When Aziraphale did not answer, Crowley’s tone gentled. “Okay, angel. I’m sorry. I tell you what, I can wound myself—”

Aziraphale had caught Crowley by the wrist before he’d even consciously realized that Crowley had grasped his dagger. Crowley looked shocked, but Aziraphale did not let go. “Drop it,” Aziraphale instructed, and Crowley opened his hand to let the dagger fall.

“It’s, um,” Crowley said in a strangled voice, “it’s just as well we don’t fight, I guess. Since you’d obviously win.”

Aziraphale should have let go of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Crowley’s skin beneath his fingers was softer than the smoothest parchment, and Aziraphale found himself helplessly wondering what Crowley’s wrist would feel like beneath his lips if he dared inscribe a message there with a kiss. “Tell them I lost,” Aziraphale breathed. “I’ll wear a wound, and—”

A flash of fire and a clap of thunder suddenly shook the clearing, and two demons pushed up through the ground. “Just in time!” one of them exclaimed, seeing Crowley disarmed, and before Aziraphale could say or do anything, they rushed at him.

Aziraphale was also wearing a dagger, but he didn’t reach for it. Instead, he backed up, released his wings, and summoned his angelic glow. Though the demons held swords, they halted their advance, looking at him nervously. Aziraphale suddenly felt like a cat making himself look big in the face of a threat, and it did not help that when he glanced at Crowley, he could see the demon being delighted by exactly that thought.

Crowley retrieved his dagger and held it in what was probably supposed to be a menacing manner, and spoke in what was probably supposed to be a casual tone. “What are you guys doing here?”

“We came to help you!” one of the demons called back, not taking his eyes off of Aziraphale. He appeared to be some sort of bumble bee hybrid with a fuzzy body. “Hell wants this angel punished for what happened in Constantinople.”

Crowley made a growling noise. “I don’t need help.”

The other demon grinned. “Is that why he disarmed you?” This demon was rather monstrous, short and muscular, with a long worm-like tail that lashed about on the grass. He looked at Aziraphale with pure hate.

Aziraphale didn’t pray, not about something like this. But he did make a very fervent wish.

The demons lunged at him, and Aziraphale brought up his dagger, blocking their swords. The bumble bee one was a good fighter, watching carefully, trying to learn Aziraphale’s timing. The beastly one appeared to be more show than skill, doing a lot of useless lunging. Behind them, Crowley looked pale and worried. He held his dagger up, but hadn’t made a move to join the fight, which was wise, because of course, he’d surely enter it on Aziraphale’s side.

When the bumble bee got in a good thrust that cut through Aziraphale’s shirt, Aziraphale could hold out no longer. He let the dagger in his hand burst into holy flame. The bee demon was surprised enough that Aziraphale disarmed him and sent him sprawling.

The beast demon, predictably, rushed Aziraphale, undaunted by the flaming dagger. Aziraphale twisted out of his way and stomped on a faint discolored spot on his tail as he went past. The demon gave a cry of anguish and fell to the ground, curled up in pain. He looked up at Aziraphale with confusion and outrage in his eyes. “How did you know where to kick—”

It was at that point that Aziraphale found that his desperate wishing had not helped anything. The hate in the demon’s eyes faded into surprised recognition. “You,” he said quietly.

“Go,” Aziraphale instructed, with enough angelic might that the ground shook. The two demons scrambled up and fled into the forest.

Aziraphale let the flaming dagger flare out. He could not bring himself to look at Crowley, but he noticed him approaching gingerly.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asked.

“Of course.”

It was an obvious lie, and Aziraphale regretted it immediately, as he realized Crowley was going to try to solve the situation with humor.

“Gosh, angel, good thing we didn’t run into each other in the War in Heaven. I’d have been no match for you. You must have really made an impression on the one with the tail if he remembers you after all this time. Well, looks like you made an actual impression on his tail. Was it with your flaming sword?”

“Crowley, you don’t understand about the War,” Aziraphale whispered.

“It’s no shame to have fought,” Crowley said reassuringly. “That was your job.”

“My job is to guard.”

“But you were created a fighter, Aziraphale, obviously.”

Aziraphale still hadn’t looked at him, and he couldn’t now, because his eyes were wet. He turned the dagger around and held it out to Crowley, handle-first. “Say you disarmed me. Hell won’t punish you then.”

“Angel,” Crowley protested. He did not take the dagger, so Aziraphale dropped it on the ground and snapped his fingers, miracling himself somewhere far away.

READ FROM THE BEGINNING

Read on Ao3

Updates Fridays on Ao3 and Tumblr.

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

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

My Carrd

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Image text: Love’s Endless Light by Dannye Chase (HolyCatsAndRabbits) Chapter 5

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

#Dannye writes #good omens #Love's Endless Light #good omens fan fiction

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theres-a-goldensky · 4 years

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26 + 2 Various BL Series Fic Recs

Fandoms included in this fic rec list: Love By Chance, TharnType, Until We Meet Again, My Engineer, 2 Moons, HIStory3: Trapped (plus a bit of bonus Theory of Love and WHY R U?)

I’ve found a handful of good fics for all of these tiny pairings that I am newly obsessed with, and I thought I’d share them with you if you’re also looking for something good to read. Please, if you have recs of your own, point me in the direction of any other good stuff!

As ever, feel free to reblog and check out my other rec lists for the following fandoms:

The Untamed list one and two - various pairings, mostly Wangxian

IT chapter 2 list one and two - Reddie

Good Omens - Aziraphale/Crowley

Or just head over to my bookmarks on AO3.

(All recs are complete) (I’ve noted pairings, length, and rating, but not any warnings or additional tags.)

** denotes personal favorite

LOVE BY CHANCE / THARNTYPE

1. the count up series by sweetiejelly - Tin/Can - ~34,000 words, explicit - A fix-it fic post-canon where Tin and Can slowly work out their issues with some missteps and learning along the way.

So two weeks later, when Can first does it, Tin doesn't know what to do. For the longest while, he just turns off his phone screen. And then turns it back on.

good night, tin. it's been a while but i promised to say good night. so, good night, sleep well.

Every damn time the text is still there.

In the end, Tin deletes it.

The next morning, Can does it again.

good morning, tin. looks like rain today. don't forget your umbrella.

Tin deletes it.

The texts keep coming.

2. ** LBC Aftermath series by Mara - LBC/TharnType crossover- ~6700 words, mature - Were you too horrified by Techno’s ending in LBC? This author feels your pain and did her part to get some justice for Techno. This fic has zero sympathy for Kengkla, which I deeply appreciated. This will help you work out some of your anger. It features LBC!Techno and the TharnType versions of Tharn and Type. Mind the warnings, since this deals with the serious consequences of Kengkla’s actions.

Kengkla stayed at the house through the morning and Techno was so jumpy he nearly leaped out of his skin every time Kla looked at him or talked to him. Even though Kla had explained what happened and how he wasn’t upset to be dating, Techno still felt weird. He kind of wished he remembered what had happened. A guy should remember how he lost his virginity, right?

Kla grabbed him in a big hug and Techno froze, managing a weak grin when Kla pulled back to smile at him. “I’ve got to go home now. But I’ll call you later. Let me know if you go somewhere.”

“O-okay.” Techno stared as the boy let himself out the front door.

3. 5 + 1 by strokeofluck - Tin/Can- ~3600 words, rated general - This is a sweet story about the times when Pete sees Tin having feelings for Can.

Pete weighed his options as he glanced back and forth between Tin and Can. Can didn’t seem to be bothered by the whole thing, he even had a shy smile on his face. Or at least, Pete thought it was a shy smile, he had never really seen this kind of expression coming from Can before.

He could let this whole thing go, he supposed, but he didn’t really want to. It was time for him to finally say to Tin: I told you so.

“You were born in Bangkok,” he said, casting a wide net and hoping Can would find himself caught in it.

Can did.

4. That Testified Surprise by Mara - Techno/Tharn/Type - ~7000 words, mature - This is a LBC canon rewrite that stars the TharnType version of all three characters. Type realizes something is not...quite...right with Kengkla and invites Techno to stay with him and Tharn instead of going home drunk.

Pouring Techno into the passenger seat, Type sat down in the driver’s seat and pulled the phone out to check it, entering the passcode. (The passcode was the birthday of Thai national football team captain Siwarak Tedsungnoen, of course. Duh.)

Fuck, it looked like Nic had been either texting or calling every 20 minutes since they got to the bar. What was up there?

Scrolling back through the evening’s texts, Type scowled harder. Loving brother or not, this was fucking creepy. Going back farther, it looked like it was a pattern. Did the kid do anything other than pester his brother about his whereabouts?

THARNTYPE

5. everything he wants by minkit - ~5100 words, explicit - Type accidentally ruins one of Tharn’s shirts and agrees to do whatever Tharn wants to make up for it. Which means it’s porn stretched over the bare bones of a plot, and it’s great.

Tharn’s hands moved across the bed, slowly, inch by inch and it was frustrating because Type knew they were heading to him, but Tharn took his sweet time. And then they were covering his hands and Tharn’s face was mere centimeters from his and Type could barely breathe. It took everything he had not to lean forward and capture those lips that also belonged to him, but he had a feeling if he tried, Tharn wouldn’t let him. He had that look on his face and Type knew what it meant.

He knew he was in for a long rest of the night.

6. You’ve Got Mail by perthbysaint - ~7800 words, explicit - Type sends Tharn nudes at the most inconvenient times.

A selfie? From Type? Tharn was thanking all of his lucky stars as he happily taps to load the image. The picture loads and Tharn’s phone slips from his suddenly lax grip. Convinced he couldn’t have just seen what he thought he just saw, he picks his phone up hastily and stares very intently at the picture.

It’s a mirror selfie, obviously taken in a changing room, but that thought comes secondary to thighs. Type is holding the camera in front of his face to take the picture, shirt clenched in his other hand and pulled up slightly to show off the shorts. The fucking shorts. He had seen Type in his soccer gear before and yes, Type has most definitely asked for the wrong size and Tharn is more grateful than he’s ever been for anything in his whole life. The shorts are riding up so high they can’t cover more than a few inches of skin, Type’s smooth, powerful thighs on full display. On the inside of his left thigh, there’s a tiny purple mark peeking out from under the bottom of the shorts. Tharn knows exactly what it is because he was the one who left it there just two days ago when he sucked marks into Type’s thighs for a half-hour before he slung Type’s legs over his shoulders and ate him out until Type was sobbing fat tears and begging Tharn to let him come.

7. pet names series by LokelaniRose - ~50,000 words, explicit - A series of post-episode fics that gives us the sex that the show only hinted at, starting with the shower scene.

Tharn prides himself on his self-control. All his passion and intensity is saved for his music, when he’s safely behind a drum kit and can let it all out. He’s never been as irritated by anyone else as he is by Type and all his playground bullying nonsense. Something about the other boy just shakes something loose inside him, rattles at Tharn’s iron discipline until he has to grit his teeth constantly not to just – what? Kiss him? Kill him? Tharn has enough composure (and pride) to put up a front that’s all smiles and wry amusement, but really he regularly skips between one of two daydreams – twisting Type’s head off or fucking him into the ground.

(Tharn is absolutely not going to admit to the third set of daydreams, of curling up around Type when he’s cold or cheering him on at matches or bringing him home to meet Tharn’s father. Nope, no, definitely not.)

2MOONS SERIES

8. ** The universe where we do not commit reckless, unlubricated buttsex by startledoctopus - Forth/Beam - ~8700 words, explicit - This is a great story about Beam giving in and trying to seduce Forth the same way he seduced all of those girls in his past. This Forth is great, and the story retcons their first time to something far more pleasant for Beam.

"We're heading into a unit on disorders of the spine and I need to review my basic skeletal and muscular anatomy. But it feels stupid to keep studying these weird-looking diagrams and drawings." None of this was, strictly speaking, factual, but an engineering major wouldn't know any different. Beam gathered up all his bravado, walked behind Forth, and began rucking up his shirts as if this were completely normal.

"What! I..."

"Shut up, I need to look at a real back so I know what I'll be looking at as a doctor." Forth let him take the shirts off, glancing back at him several times but giving in meekly to Beam's stern look. Forth shuffled the papers some more.

"All right. Okay, um...Ah!" Beam smirked at Forth's reaction as he ran his thumbs down the nape of his neck.

9. Good Things Come To by sweetiejelly - Ming/Kit - ~4300 words, explicit - Kit gets drunk and reveals more of his feelings for Ming than he probably means to.

"Hmm." Kit closes his eyes and leans his head back on the headrest. "Ming, Ming, Ming. Do you know your name's a kiss? I'm kissing the air everytime I say 'Ming'!" Kit pops his mouth and it pops Ming's mind a bit. "And then I think about kissing you. Why do you make me think about you so damn much? You're so annoying, Ming. No one's ever..." and Kit leans to the side, almost like he's going to conk out or throw up, only to straighten back up. "... made me this crazy."

Oh shit. Ming doesn't know what to do with all of this information. He knew somewhere deep down that Kit likes him. Kit's eyes can't lie. Kit's mouth can't either, the cusses coming out whenever he's keyed up and flustered, and then there are his kisses.

10 + 11. ** how to fail flirt your way into his heart (a guide by Kit) and a little conversation (and a little action please) by sweetiejelly - Ming/Kit - ~30,000 words, explicit in the second part - This story makes a tiny plot divergence. It has Kit put a little more effort into finding out if Ming is really into Yo and then from there, it loosely follows the plot of the show with some key differences. I really enjoyed this.

"Can I have your number?" Kit mentally face-palms. Why? Damn Pha. Damn Beam. Just damn everything, ugh. He has never flirted in his life. Pin asked him out, okay? He doesn't know how to do this. "I'm Kit, Phana's friend," he says, trying to make it less weird.

"I'm Ming. And of course, P'Kit!" Ming flashes him an easy grin and holds out his hand.

Oh right, the phone. Kit shoves it at Ming, nearly hitting him in the chest. Great, he's acing this.

Ming smiles at him, bemused or confused, probably both, and brushes his hand, totally unnecessarily, over the back of Kit's hand as he takes the phone. "In case of emergency, right?" Ming looks up at him from under his lashes and boy, this nong is brazen.

12. ** In Control series by LokelaniRose - Ming/Kit - ~27,000 words, explicit - Kit struggles to tell Ming that he wants something other than the careful, gentle sex they’ve been having. Ming discovers that Kit has some anxiety and panic problems. He also discovers what helps him feel better. [spoilers: these two things are connected.] I love how attentive and caring Ming is throughout this series. The anxious Kit also rings true to the character we saw on the show.

But now that Kit is fretting over things, he might as well fret over this as well. So Ming is great in bed. And let’s be honest, Kit probably isn’t. He hasn’t had a hundred previous partners – okay, tiny exaggeration, but still – and doesn’t know all the fancy moves and techniques and tricks…and just like everything else, in bed Ming is somehow casual and sincere at the same time. He never seems to want anything except what Kit wants, is always happy to do whatever, to take his time making slow, gentle love to Kit. Kit knows that he always comes at least – he secretly really likes it when Ming comes, he’s not quite sure why – but what if there’s more that Kit could be doing, to make it better for him? If Kit was better in bed maybe it would make up for being a shitty boyfriend in other areas, one who can’t be nice in public or talk about his feelings.

UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN

13. another nightmare fic by itsmylifekay - Win/Team - ~2300 words, not rated - Team tries to sleep without Win and it doesn’t go well.

Team’s room feels suffocating, the air too thick and the space too dark and the covers sticking to his skin with sweat. His breaths are too loud in the quiet, but the quiet itself is deafening. It reminds him of the water. The muted sounds. The frantic pounding of his heart. (The same one he feels now echoed in his chest.)

Flashes of the dream come back to him unbidden.

Everything is too dark, too bright, no way to see what way is up or what way is down. He’s trapped. Can’t get out. Can’t breathe.

14. ** Different With You by blackrose9212 - Win/Team - ~6900 words, teen - It’s open swim week, which means that the swimming club offers free lessons to any of the students who would like to participate. Team doesn’t understand why his teammates hate it so much - until he does. Great jealousy in this one from both sides.

“Nice to meet you,” the boy gushes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to join your group. Auntie said there needs to be at least three people, and no one was sitting across from you two. I’ve been paying attention so I already have ideas. Is that okay?” Team watches as he pulls out his books and drops them onto the table, pushing them a little farther out so they’re nearly touching Win’s notebook.

Team shrugs. “Sure, that’s fine. I don’t think Win has been paying attention so I’m glad you have an idea of what’s going on.”

Win hits him lightly at the back of the hand and Film giggles behind his hand. “Oh, no, P’Win looks very smart. I’m sure he’s been listening.” He looks at Win and smiles a little, blushing when Win gives him a smile back.

Team looks between the two of them. Then back at Film, who’s watching Win leaf through his literature textbook like he’s never seen anything so beautiful, and then past Film at the table he left from, where he sees three boys, laughing behind their hands and making cooing faces.

15. seven hundred thirteen by Kiranokira - Win/Team - ~6800 words, mature - Win spends two years abroad in England, and he and Team have to navigate a long distance relationship. It’s very sweet and written very true to life.

“I kind of hoped you were going to show up at the airport tomorrow morning and chase the plane,” Win says. He kisses Team’s hair, lingering there to memorize the fresh, clear scent.

Team says, “Is it weird that I thought about doing that?” and Win feels him smile against his shoulder.

It’s late, nearly nine thirty, and Win had plans of how to spend tonight that can’t be realized anymore. He wanted to invite Team to dinner with his family. He wanted to play video games with Team and View. He wanted to talk about London with Waan and Team. He wanted to include Team in his family’s warmth in some small way, to make him feel less lonely.

He can’t do any of that now but he still wants to sneak Team upstairs and have him in his arms all night. He wouldn’t, but he wants to. It’s been a month since he moved off campus permanently, and weeks since he was last able to spend a night alone with Team.

16. ** You Can Cry by Kiranokira - Win/Team - ~19,600 words, mature - Win goes missing while on vacation with some friends. Team is left at home trying to handle it. I like the way the author built up to the accident happening. They did a good job creating tension and showing us exactly how Team felt about Win. And spoilers, this story has a happy ending.

“You’re going to fail out of university,” Team tells him. “You’re not really going, are you?”

Win rolls onto his side and perches his cheek on his hand. “What if I say yes?” he asks. “Will you miss me?”

Team’s warning look is more venomous than usual. “Not at all,” Team says, and Win smirks because that isn’t true and they both know it. “You still shouldn’t go. What if you miss the flight back? You’ll fail out and I’ll break up with you for being a dumbass.”

The very recent phenomenon of Team acknowledging that they’re a couple has its usual melting effect on Win’s heart.

2GETHER

17. ** Love Songs on Our Skin series by Kari_Kurofai - Sarawat/Tine - ~15,700 words, explicit - A soulmark AU where Tine is born with the notes to a song that hasn’t yet been written wrapped around his chest. I enjoyed how Tine’s obliviousness in the show carries over to this fic.

Only Mr. Chic would have a song no one had ever fucking heard of permanently etched on his chest. For fuck's sake .

Still, he waves it off, and he tries not to look too closely at other people's marks. Tries being the key word. He doesn't envy the elegant watercolors of a guitar pick and an open novel he catches sight of on the wrists of some couple's interlinked hands when he's in town. And he certainly doesn't envy the dude he once saw in a coffee shop with the words " I hate you " scrawled across the back of his neck. But yeah, okay, he might be a little jealous of the people who are lucky enough to have something as simple as their soulmate's name on their skin. That definitely isn't fair.

"Why couldn't it at least have been a Scrubb song?" he asks the mirror as he wipes it clear shower-born condensation. The mirror and him are well acquainted with this conversation by now. In fact, the mirror sees the stupid mark more than anyone, so it might as well put up with his equally stupid questions. "It could have been 'Together.' Just think of it, how romantic it would be to meet some cute girl's eyes after bumping into them at a concert, my favorite song playing . . ." He draws a nail over the winding bars of the music on his chest, frowning. "That would be so much easier."

18. Drown Your Sorrows by HyacinthsSoul - 2gether/Theory of Love - Sarawat and Third meet at a bar and bond over being in love with oblivious men.

“No, he’s an angel,” Sarawat says. “Unfortunately he’s a very stupid, very straight angel.”

“Mine’s stupid too,” the other man admits. “But definitely no angel. I’m Third, by the way,” he adds, offering a slender hand to shake.

“Sarawat,” says Sarawat. “Can I buy you another? I think we’re drinking the same thing, although I can’t remember what it’s called.”

20. ** Your Body Is My Instrument by Kari_Kurofai - Sarawat/Tine - ~12,000 words, explicit - This fic does a good job doing what, in this reccer’s humble opinion, the series failed to: showing Tine attracted to Sarawat. There’s great first time sex and some fun sexual tension. Plus, we get to see them switch off, which is extremely rare in BL. And most importantly: hand kink.

It starts innocently enough. Or, well, innocently enough for a guy whose first words to him were, “Keep looking at me like that and I’ll kiss you till you drop.” So, you know. It starts kinda like that.

They’ve been officially dating for a grand sum total of three days and altogether not that much has changed. Except that Sarawat touches him more now. Normally this would be fine, no big deal, right? But Sarawat has magic, evil hands, and apparently all he has to do is glance Tine’s way to deduce the exact right places and ways to touch Tine to drive him up the fucking wall.

And the worst part is it’s almost never the same place or the same way twice, and the only warning Tine ever gets is that sneaky little glint Sarawat gets in his eyes just before he does it, the bastard.

MY ENGINEER

21. Cool Boy(friend) by HyacinthsSoul - Ram/King - ~22,000 words, explicit - So this is technically a WIP, but each chapter feels like a completed fic without a cliffhanger or anything. This is a very sweet, comfortable story about King and Ram getting to know each other as their relationship develops.

In the selfie King sends, he’s holding up a full shot glass while someone’s arm reaches into the frame to hand him another kind of drink, something tall with a straw and a paper umbrella. Ram frowns. Whose arm is that? The person is wearing a red long-sleeved shirt, which doesn’t match what any of their friend group was wearing, and the engineer bar doesn’t offer table service.

Frowning, Ram looks back through the previous photos until he spots a detail he’d overlooked before: a red-shirted man at a neighboring table. He’s visible in the background of two or three pictures taken by Tee, and in each of them he’s staring intently at King.

Not that it’s any of Ram’s business. Not that he cares.

HISTORY3: TRAPPED

22. it’s too late (to turn back now) by stebeee - Tang Yi/Meng Shao Fei - ~7200 words, general audiences - Canon divergence fic where Tang Yi pushes Shao Fei away after he saves Hong Ye in order to try and protect him. Shao Fei reacts to that about as well as you’d expect.

“Tang Yi, what do you mean-“

“I think you’ve fooled around for long enough,” Tang Yi interrupts, his voice cold, nothing like the man who had dabbed at his lips with a cotton bud last night, the man who had smiled at him when he made the cannon joke.

“You’ve disrupted my life, and the life of my family and friends in the past few weeks, Meng Shao Fei. This has gone for long enough,” he continues, unwavering. “I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. Take a good rest here in the hospital, and I’ll get someone to pack up your things back at the house. Jack will deliver it back to your apartment.”

23 + 24. ** just waiting, waiting (on you) and between you and me by stebeee - Tang Yi/Meng Shao Fei - ~16,000 words, general audiences - These are stories about how Shao Fei and the rest of the gang deal over the years when Tang Yi is in jail. Found family fics are my jam, so I loved this.

The thing is, it’s been almost three months of this. 90 days, give or take. 2,160 hours. 129,600 minutes. And more than 7 million seconds of this — not having Tang Yi at his side.

Shao Fei wonders for a moment if he will ever stop seeing Tang Yi in every corner of the house. When he comes down the stairs in the morning, some part of him expects to see Tang Yi standing at the kitchen island with a bright smile, asking him if he wants jam with his toast that morning. Shao Fei sees Tang Yi in that apron he loves, cooking at the stove when he fixes himself dinner, alone in the spacious kitchen. Seeing Tang Yi’s favourite blue bathrobe, Shao Fei can almost see Tang Yi leaving the bathroom, his hair all wet and falling over his eyes.

25. amuse bouche by sarahyyy - Jack/Zhao Zi - ~2400 words, general audiences - This is more of Jack seducing Zhao Zi through food and attention. So basically an extension of the show. Mother hen Jack is the cutest.

“Jack?” Zhao Zi murmurs blearily. “Why are you here?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?” Jack shoots back, herding Zhao Zi back into the house. He checks for Zhao Zi’s temperature with the back of his hand. “Fever?”

“Just the flu for now, I think?” Zhao Zi says.

Jack purses his lips. “Have you had anything to eat?”

“I had some bread earlier?” Zhao Zi says, but he also looks shifty enough that Jack mostly takes it with a grain of salt.

26. Absolutely Nothing Goes Wrong by anon - Jack/Zhao Zi - ~4500 words, teen - This is an AU where Zhao Zi is the son of a rival mob boss, but he’s still, you know HIMSELF. And when his father says he’s useless, he decides to prove him wrong by seducing Tang Yi’s second-in-command. It’s absolutely adorable.

The man pulled him by the arm, resisting Zhao Zi’s attempts to unhook his claws without causing a scene.

“Hey, stop grabbing me!” he shouted, as the other man played deaf.

“While I admit this is a very loud bar, I didn’t think it was quite so easy to mishear what this young man just yelled straight into your ear,” a newcomer who’d witnessed their conflict said lightly as he walked up to them. His words were accompanied by a wide, almost chilling smile. Zhao Zi blinked once and the odd peculiarity of that smile vanished, leaving just a regular smile in its place. He must’ve just been imagining things under the harsh shadows of the dimly lit bar.

AND +2

Because I’m shameless, I’ll add my own two fics to the end, if you’re interested.

WHY R U?

27. Sorry A Thousand Times - Fighter/Tutor - ~3200 words, explicit - This is a canon divergence for the series finale. I needed more catharsis after the intensity of episode 12.

Tutor narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists at his sides. He took a deep breath. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone before you listen?” he asked. I don’t know how many more times I can bring myself to say it.

“Only once,” Fight said and then added, “if you mean it.”

Tutor crossed his arms over his chest and said, “What makes you think I don’t mean it now?”

The corner of Fight’s mouth turned up and he took a step closer. Tutor stumbled back until he was stopped by his legs hitting the edge of the bed. Fight reached out a hand and gently ran the back of his fingers over the line of Tutor’s jaw.

Until We Meet Again

28. Dream On - Win/Team - 8900 words, explicit - Takes place alongside show canon, so that we see how the bed sharing began and how Win and Team’s relationship developed over that year.

“Do you want to do well tomorrow?” Win asked, throwing one of his legs over both of Team’s.

“Yes,” Team said as he did his best to put some space between them on the tiny mattress.

“Then you need to get some sleep. I’m helping.”

“How is this helping?” Team demanded.

“Would you stop…” Win said, shifting closer every time Team pulled away. “Five minutes, Team. Just be still for five minutes, okay?”

113 notes · View notes

justkeeptrekkin · 5 years

Text

Hi M anon!! I’m so sorry this took me so long. I’ve played around with the idea a bit, hope you don’t mind. Tagging @a-shipping-life who requested something similar. Enjoy!!

***

“This is....”

Crowley’s voice trails off as he views his surroundings. When he’d imagined post-armageddon, he had always thought of fire and brimstone. Or, depending on how the war ended, sickening rounds of celestial harmonies, on repeat- listening to it all from behind bars in a pit. Instead, three years into the Third Testament, the New Era, the Age of Satan’s Spawn, and Crowley’s attending children’s birthday parties. Apparently.

The back garden of the Young family household is perfect for a party- according to Azirphale. A nice little closed off area, with some nice bunting and nice cake and a nice view of the Cotswolds rolling in the distance. Kids and family friends, together, having a nice time. All a bit too nice for Crowley’s taste, who’d preferred the bratty parties Warlock’d had, with nasty children and inappropriately dangerous presents (Nanny Ashtoreth had been the one to anonymously give Warlock a bow and arrow set).

Crowley takes his stand beside Aziraphale, wincing at the ensuing fourteenth birthday party. He needs a shot of insulin with how sweet this event is. He eventually manages: “This is. Ugh.”

“It is not ugh,” Aziraphale tuts, rolls his eyes. “Birthdays are nice.”

“Exactly. Nice is ugh.”

Aziraphale casts him a reprimanding glance, but a smile is pulling at the corners of his lips. He looks Crowley up and down judgmentally and passes him a plastic cup. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Punch.”

“I’m assuming not the alcoholic variety.”

“It’s a fourteenth birthday party, Crowley.”

“What? The Youngs could be more progressive than you think. What harm did a bit of vodka do a teenager. Do teenagers not drink nowadays? I find it hard to keep track.”

“Not till his sixteenth,” Aziraphale says. Eyes scanning the party with as much wariness as Crowley’s had. Adults eating cake from paper plates, teenagers sitting on the grass and sulking at how lame this is.

“I can- I can almost guarantee that lot will have had a cheeky WKD before sixteen,” Crowley mutters into the plastic cup of punch.

Their gazes find The Them, who are sat on the garden bench and on the grass, conspiring amongst themselves. And Crowley thinks that whilst a couple of them aren’t really that badly behaved, Adam has a mischievous streak about him, and the others follow suit. The Youngs are probably struggling to keep up with their teenage son. But then, better the little devil use his powers to make a fake ID to grab a six pack of Strongbow from the corner shop, than to destroy the world.

Just as he’s considering this, the four of them look up at Aziraphale and Crowley. As if they’ve been talking about them.

Crowley sighs, peering at them over the rim of his glasses. “Yep. That lot are trouble makers.”

“It- are they talking about us?”

“Looks like.”

Aziraphale pouts his lips. “Teenagers.”

For a moment, they simply stand at the periphery of the party and survey. Newt and Anathema are here, who they could probably hold some awkward conversation with (“So… world didn’t end then.” “Apparently.”), however, they’re currently occupied by some of the guests from the village. And there’s a lot of other people who’ve been invited by Mr and Mrs Young who seem to be here for their benefit rather than Adam’s.

“Why are we here again?” Crowley whines.

“Because we’re his godparents.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose, peers down at the red juice that’s calling itself punch and doesn’t have nearly enough rum in it. “Not officially.”

“You were the one who assigned us that term, remember?” Aziraphale prompts.

“Suppose.” Then, because he’s feeling brave. And he gets these bouts of bravery when he’s in Tadfield. “How’s about after this we find the nearest pub and pissed. You can crash at mine afterwards.”

There’s a moment when he looks like he’s going to argue, twisting his lips primly and casting fleeting glances at Crowley. All coy. Crowley loves every daft bit of him. “Yes. That does sound good.”

“We can wash down the niceness of this pa- uh-oh. Here they come.”

Aziraphale picks up the slice of cake that he’d laid on the table behind him. A forkful hovering just in front of his mouth. “Sorry?”

“Teenagers, twelve o’clock.”

Aziraphale reluctantly lowers the fork, puts it down on the paper plate and surveys The Approaching Them. Adam at the front. And then the others disperse- going inside to do something more interesting, Crowley supposes. Now, with just Adam, it feels less like they’re about to be ambushed. The boy looks at them with that quietly expectant look he has, and has had since he was eleven when they first met. Though he’s a few inches taller than he used to be.

Dog trots by Adam’s side, and looks up at Aziraphale, pleading silently. Aziraphale brings the plate of cake closer to his chest and narrows his eyes at Dog.

“Thanks for coming,” Adam says, though he doesn’t look massively excited.

“Are you having a nice time?” Aziraphale asks pleasantly.

Adam shrugs. “Not really. Mum and dad invited all their friends and none of mine. Apart from you two, and Anathema and Newt. And obviously Pepper and people. It would be a lot nicer if there weren’t all these annoying old people, too.”

Crowley nods in grim understanding, curls his lips in disregard for said old people.

“Oh,” is Aziraphale’s reply. Then, smile wavering, “Well, it’s nice to see at least that there are people here who care about you, no?”

“They don’t even really know me,” Adam shrugs. “They aren’t here for my birthday. They’re here for the free cake and to boast about their lovely little middle class lives. It’s the perfect opportunity for bourgeoisie posturing under the guise of a birthday party- it’s actually really shallow.”

So this is teenaged Adam. And no less, Adam as a teenager being influenced by Anathema. Aziraphale looks a bit lost for words, but Crowley’s grinning like a loon.

“Well said,” he drawls through his smirk. “Any good presents?”

“Got a Nintendo Switch.”

“Very good,” Crowley replies seriously.

“Anyway,” Adam sighs, “The others have gone inside to find lactose free snacks. I should go help.Brian’s lactose intolerant now.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Aziraphale says sincerely.

“See you later.”

Adam traipses inside, and Dog follows chirpily. Aziraphale and Crowley watch them disappear.

“He’s going to be…” Aziraphale shakes his head, exhales through pursed lips.

“Ball-buster, that one.”

“Yes.”

Some very nondescript music plays distantly. It looks as if Mr Young is attempting to hook up his phone to bluetooth speakers and is struggling, crouching on all fours to inspect the wiring. There isn’t any wiring, is the problem. It’s a wireless speaker system. But that doesn’t seem to have occurred to Mr Young- bum in the air and face buried in Apple technology.

“Oh- oh bother. Why am I like this?”

Crowley turns to see Aziraphale has dropped cake down his waistcoat. He’s holding out the offending plate of cake and frowning at the mess- multi-coloured frosting and sprinkles everywhere. Dog is absolutely delighted, eating the scraps by Aziraphale’s feet.

Aziraphale gives Crowley his sad, cherub eyes. Crowley looks back, pouts his bottom lip. Oh, diddums.

“Would you…?” Aziraphale asks. Looking at him through his lashes.

He gives it a long moment- gives Aziraphale a few seconds to enjoy himself, gives Aziraphale the impression that he needs to work to convince Crowley. He doesn’t.

Crowley snaps his fingers, cake gone. More than that, he turns to fetch him another slice.

And he makes that little flustered smile. The one that makes Crowley putty in his stupid angelic hands. “Oh, thank you.”

“Alright, alright,” Crowley waves a dismissive hand over his shoulder as he goes to get more cake.

There’s the cake- half of it left, at least eight slices. There’s the stack of paper plates. He looks up- no one around. He takes a slice as quickly as he can, not wanting to be cornered by any of the horrifically boring guests.

Then:

“Can I ask you a question?”

Crowley spins round to find Adam. Oh, that’s fine. Adam’s not a boring octogenarian. “Questions? Love questions. Shoot.”

“None of the others believe me,” Adam starts, hands in his pockets, expression as cool and collected as ever. “I’m pretty convinced, but it seems rude to tell them I know when I haven’t even asked.”

“Asked what?”

He’s busying himself with cutting a slice of cake, paying attention but not feeling the need to give Adam his undivided attention. That is until:

“You two are married. Aren’t you?”

A perfect slice of cake had been balanced on the knife in Crowley’s hand. And then Adam had said that. So now, he’s got a perfect slice of cake splattered all over the table. And Adam’s got a speechless demon, steaming from the ears. Literally, steaming from the ears.

“Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-”

“So,” Adam’s eyes widen a little, and he nods slowly. “You’re… not. Married.”

“I’m- you’re- what? Who- why’re- listen,” he says, pointing a paper plate at the son of Satan, “You have no- what did- did he? Where did-”

This could take forever, and they both know it. Crowley’s mouth is a broken record. His brain has disconnected itself entirely from the rest of his body. For a demon who can speak multiple languages, who can speak tongues, he can’t for the life of him speak any of them well. Thus, Adam makes the executive decision of saving him from this never-ending, hellish loop of inarticulacy.

“Sorry for making it weird,” he says, not looking that sorry, “The two of you are just so obviously in love, I figured you guys were married. And gay marriage was only legalised recently, cause, like, homophobia and stuff. So I figured that you didn’t have rings because- are you OK? There’s smoke.”

“What?”

“There’s smoke. Coming from your head.”

Right, so he’s progressed straight from steaming from the ears to smoking. Fantastic, perfect, excellent. It’s probably from the speed that his thoughts are spinning; his brain going so fast, so out of control that it’s generated enough mental friction to cause a fire. Thoughts like-

-me and Aziraphale married a wedding what would we wear where would we live would we live together perhaps we’d have a garden and I could cook for him and he could knit me socks like the socks he gave me for Christmas two years ago and oh holy fuck is it that obvious that I love him does he realise does Aziraphale know does he love me back he loves me he loves me not he loves me he loves me not he loves me-

-OK, he can smell the smoke now. Just wonderful.

Then, from across the garden, Crowley hears Aziraphale exclaim: “Married?”

Pepper is staring at him like he’s an idiot. Aziraphale’s staring back at her like he’s gone catatonic. Holding an empty paper plate. Mouth hanging open. Eyes widening slowly, like the THX theme music should be playing in the background.

And then Aziraphale’s head snaps round to look at Crowley. Looking, as far as he can tell, absolutely mortified.

Crowley stares back.

Adam stares.

Pepper stares.

Crowley puts down the cake knife and takes a deep, nerve-steadying breath. Because whilst the world hadn’t really ended three years ago, it feels a bit like it has now.

Time to face the music, he thinks.

***

Part two possibly will be written if people want one...

#Good omens #ineffable husbands #Crowley #Aziraphale #my writing #fic prompt #fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

fanfic-corner · 4 years

Text

A-Spec Across Fandoms

23/10/20 - I know I have already done an a-spec post for Destiel fics, but it is asexual awareness week next week, so I thought I’d read a load of fics with ace characters from a few different shows I like! We have some Supernatural, some Doctor Who, some Sherlock, and a couple from Good Omens. Happy ace week!

Supernatural

broken when I’m lonesome by SailorChibi on AO3. (7,015 words).

Tags: Asexual Castiel, Demisexual Dean, Panromantic Castiel, Biromantic Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Has a Sexuality Crisis, Angst, Fluff, Touch-Starved, Comfort, Platonic Cuddling, Castiel is Not Oblivious, comments that could be taken as ace-phobic.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: After being saved from hell, Dean's old methods of coping aren't working anymore: he's not sexually attracted to anyone, and he's not interested in sex no matter how many times he climbs into bed with hot, naked women. Sam is convinced that his brother is just depressed, but Dean knows this goes deeper than that. He still craves the intimacy that can make him feel safe. Fortunately, Castiel is there to both understand and provide.

Notes: This fic really hit home. I’m not sure if it is because almost every person I have ever talked to has had some form of this conversation, but it was still cute.

La Vie A Plus by K_K_TiBal on AO3. (6,260 words).

Tags: Punk Castiel, Asexual Castiel, College/Uni AU, Roommates, oh my god they were roommates, College Student Dean, College Student Castiel, Pining, First Kiss, Misunderstandings, Art Student Castiel, Love Confessions, Gabriel is a Little Shit, Tattooed Castiel.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester is hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with his best friend and roommate, Castiel. Castiel - with his blue hair, and his tattoos, and his artwork, and his perfect everything. Dean never stood a chance, really. It only sucks because, as far as Dean can tell, Castiel is definitely not interested. But love, much like art, has a way of being unpredictable. Even if you think you know where you're going with it.

Notes: The angst is strong in this one! Again, I feel like many aces have had this conversation or that fear that people (allos, especially) may not want to be with them.

Exposed to What You Hide by SailorChibi on AO3. (1,890 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Creature Castiel, Procubus Cas, Asexual Castiel, Established Relationship, Hidden Relationship, Assisted Suicide, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: "We think Cas is a procubus," Sam blurted out. Then he winced and yelped when Charlie kicked him under the table. "Ow!" "Smooth, Sam," Charlie snapped. Dean looked back and forth between them, realizing that they were both 100% serious. "A procubus." "Basically it's the sexless version of an incubus or a succubus," Charlie explained before Sam could. "It's... it's a demon that kills people by sleeping with them." She was chewing on her thumbnail now, eyes big and apologetic. Sam had done one better pasting on a truly epic kicked puppy expression of apology. "You think Cas is killing people by cuddling with them," Dean said, just to be sure.

Notes: Well that took a bit of a turn. I’m not sure why, but I love fics where Cas keeps bees, it was just so cute to see him that happy! (Even if he was crazy. Shut up).

Consolation by Trell on AO3. (1,195 words).

Tags: Aromantic, Aromantic Relationship, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, Asexual Character.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: In which both of them are ancient, and neither of them are in love with each other.

Notes: Okay, I would first of all like to say that I do not ship Cas and Ten. I was kind of curious though, and clearly whoever wrote this ships Destiel and Ten/Rose. That being said, I am here for some angst; poor Cas and his unrequited love, and poor Ten because all his friends are dead.

Doctor Who

don’t hold this war inside by WishingTree on AO3. (1,824 words).

Tags: Asexual Yaz, Pre-Relationship, Asexual Character.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: “It’s just - I’m scared,” she finally manages. “Scared?” the Doctor stills where she’s been trying to roll up the sleeves of her coat, shoving the material of one arm over her elbow and asking, “Scared of what?” Yaz doesn’t answer, can’t answer, and the Doctor goes to reach for her, aborting the movement halfway and only managing an awkward swaying motion. “...Scared of me?”

Notes: Thasmin is a ship that, had I not stumbled across it on Instagram, would never have thought of on my own. Much like Sabriel, however, now the idea is in my head, I ship it! Also, the author in this fic manages to perfectly capture the Doctor’s personality, which is quite an impressive feat.

Whatever fits my skin by lloydsglasses on AO3. (1,481 words).

Tags: Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Cross-Generational Friendship, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Canon Gay Character, LGBTQ Character, Aromantic, Pride.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: “So, does that happen to you a lot?” Bill asks once they’re safely back in the Doctor’s study, each cradling a mug of tea. “Getting snogged by gorgeous women as a thanks for saving their lives.” The Doctor sets his teacup down gently on the desk, mouth pursing in distaste. “Far more often than I’d like.”

Notes: Oh my god that was so (fucking) cute! Now I want more fics of characters going to pride. Maybe for next June. Also, I’m just saying that I hated Nardole and nothing you can say to me will make me change my mind.

Take It, Leave It (But you’d better believe it) by lloydsglasses on AO3. (760 words).

Tags: Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Cross-Generational Friendship, Asexual Character. Aromantic, Canon Gay Character, Coming Out, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, LGBTQ Themes.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: “I told my foster mum that I’m gay. Now she keeps trying to set me up with guys."

“Ah,” says the Doctor, with a frown. “That seems… counterintuitive.”

Notes: I’ve always loved Bill and Twelve’s relationship, and this is such a cute scene! It is a crime we haven’t got more River Song content, by the way.

Crescendo by tenscupcake on AO3. (6,013 words).

Tags: Fluff, Asexual Character, Romance.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: As her relationship with the Doctor slowly develops into something a little more than friendship, Rose starts to wonder what's holding him back. But one fateful night, he confesses something that makes her realize she never had any reason to worry.

Notes: Beautifully written! I don’t think I’ve ever read a Ten/Rose fic before, but I have always shipped it and it is adorable.

Sherlock

The Important Bit by Solshine on AO3. (9,984 words).

Tags: Asexual Sherlock, Platonic Relationship, Amarriage, Same-Sex Marriage, Bromance, Domestic.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Just where exactly is the line between “to love” and “to be in love”? What difference is required between “flatmate” and “husband”? (Besides the rings, obviously.) No, the important bit is that they have each other. Thirty years, give or take, in an atypical marriage. Basically a long bit of platonic domestic fluff.

Notes: Oh, this is absolutely one of my favourite Johnlock fics now. Absolutely adorable (because I love domestic Johnlock okay), I nearly cried, and now I want all the art of Sherlock with a fancy old cane!

the art of getting by (isn’t really so artsy at all) by stupidmuse_hatesme on AO3. (6,521 words).

Tags: Asexuality, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Romance, First Time, First Date, Slash.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: “He's treating things like they're normal! Things are not normal.” Sherlock drags his hands from his mussed up hair and covers his face. “You aren't helping much,” he mumbles into his palms. “I hope you know that.” The skull only grins from his perch and says not a word. “Really, you're supposed to do more than just--sit there.”

Notes: John is so unbelievably sweet in this, but Sherlock was bit OOC.

what does the world get by coloredink on AO3. (2,302 words).

Tags: Asexuality, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: A women's magazine quiz leads Sherlock to investigate the nature of love.

Notes: A cute lil’ fic about exploring your (in this case, lack of) romantic and sexual attraction.

Surprisingly Simple by heeroluva on AO3. (855 words).

Tags: Asexuality, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, First Kiss, Touching, Fluff, Cuddling and Snuggling. My Rating: 3 stars. Description: In which John is asexual, and Sherlock never asks. Notes: Pretty cute, and it is always nice to see a character who is just cool with it, without some massive explanation. I can dream.

Good Omens

An Honest Surrender by Kedreeva on AO3. (4,107 words).

Tags: Ineffable Husbands, Post-Apocalypse, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Marriage, First Kiss, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Soulmates, Soul Bond, Aziraphale’s True Form, Crowley’s True Form, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: "For six thousand years," Crowley said, voice cracking, "I have wanted something I couldn't have, because I asked the wrong questions. But I'm asking the right one now. The only one that matters." In which Aziraphale follows Crowley home after the nonpocalypse.

Notes: Seriously, reading Good Omens fics always makes me so relaxed and sleepy it is unreal. I need to read them more often. Anyway, this is such a cute explanation for the final episode, and I loved it!

You’re the Only Prayer I Need by Kedreeva on AO3. (5,507 words).

Tags: Ineffable Husbands, Wingfic, Angel Wings, Angel/Demon Relationship, Wing Grooming, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexual Relationship, Snake Crowley, Love Confessions, Trust, Non-Sexual Intimacy.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Crowley had, in the six thousand years Aziraphale had known him, shed his skin exactly twice that Aziraphale knew of. Both times he had disappeared without a trace, having retreated somewhere very safe and very, very unknown to hide while he was so vulnerable, and Aziraphale had never thought to ask beyond that information. Everyone was, he had supposed at the time, entitled to their secrets. The problem was that he had stumbled directly into this secret now, and there was hardly a graceful way out of it.

Notes: The sheer level of trust is adorable, and I’m always here for snake Crowley.

A Little Less Celestial by Kedreeva on AO3. (2,360 words).

Tags: Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual, Sharing a Bed, Ineffable Husbands, Literal Sleeping Together, Wingfic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Aziraphale accidentally falls asleep, and Crowley teaches him sleeping isn't so bad, really.

Notes: Oh my God, this was so calming to read in a way I really can’t describe? Also, now I want a bookshelf bed.

Just One Yesterday by Kedreeva on AO3. (1,952 words).

Tags: True Form Crowley, True Form Aziraphale, Ineffable Husbands, Angst with a Happy Ending, Love Confessions, Post-Apocalypse, Time Travel, Time Loop, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Compliant, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Missing Scene.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: Crowley and Aziraphale didn't stop the apocalypse on the first try, but you know what they say... try, try again.

Notes: I could not tell you the plot of this, but that image of Crowley’s true form was beautiful (and the artwork was phenomenal!).

So, there we have it! I hope you enjoy them, and have a nice week. By the way, if you have instagram, please would you consider following @justaceofficial? They are trying to get funding for a TV series which focuses on an asexual main character, and they ran an asexual advent running up to this week!

#spn #doctor who #good omens #sherlock #johnlock #ineffable husbands #ten/rose #destiel #asexual #aromantic #twelve

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awkward-penguin-in-a-trenchcoat · 4 years

Text

Supernatural and Good Omens Crossover

“Hey, Cas!” Dean shouted, a strange excitement clouding his voice (and judgement). Sam and Dean locked eyes for a moment, and Sam could’ve sworn for that brief second, he saw the corner of Dean’s mouth beginning to form a small smile. “Cas! You comin’ or what?!”

Castiel entered the bunker’s hall to see Sam and Dean standing in front of the table, a bowl perched hastily, surrounded by some very common ingredients for spells. A virgins blood, the bone of a saint, goat liver... you get the gist.

As Cas edged forward, a blinding light shot up from the bowl, forming a beam-like shape right next to it. “Dean,” Cas said gruffly, and so very tiredly, “what are you doing?”

“Hey, c’mon man,” Dean replied, pouting, “you can clearly see our own personal witch Sammy has the spell book. Not me.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, causing both Cas and Sam to simultaneously roll their eyes.

“We got him,” Sam spoke finally, much to Dean’s content, and further, to Cas’ dismay, mostly because Castiel knew exactly what Dean was doing and he was very much, as the youth say, done now.

Cas recalled a recent incident about the fight he had with Dean. It was late and Dean had just come back from a very exhausting demon hunt, which had turned out to be quite disastrous, what with all the involvement of Hell Hounds.

Sam had gone to bed early that day, saying that he’d catch up on some research to help beat Chuck, but Cas and Dean both knew that whatever Sam was catching up on, it wasn’t research. Dean could hear dialogues sometimes, coming from Sam’s room. Most often, it was “Title of your sex tape”, which always intrigued Dean very much, and googling it turned out to be a very bad idea.

So, Cas and Dean were relaxing in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of whiskey, talking about everything and nothing. Dean suddenly started talking about how Crowley had turned out to be not such a bad guy for a demon. Then Dean thought about how Heaven, Hell, the Empty and the Purgatory were all in utter chaos, which led his train of thoughts towards resurrecting Crowley. Cas had made a mental note that day: late nights, whiskey, demon hunts and exhausting days always gave Dean the stupidest, most idiotic ideas of all time.

“Sammy can bring him back,” Dean had said, to which Cas was certain he had put up quite an argument but the fight turned slightly vicious and both Cas and Dean spent the following week shooting daggers at each other. Cas eventually forgot what he had said, but Dean stood by his statement.

This was the reason why Sam and Dean had been trying to bring back Crowley for several weeks now; trying different spells, different ingredients, different places and hell, one time, different clothes too (if you must know, Dean insisted that they wear a black suit. Yes, it had been a long day and Dean was down two glasses of Whiskey; why do you ask?). Everytime it didn’t work, Dean would spend days on end in his room, eating nothing but stale pizza, watching reruns of The X-Files. Cas was worried it would happen again.

“Cas? You there, buddy?” Dean pushed Cas back to the present with a small but sturdy tap on his shoulder. “We got him, Cas, we got him.”

Cas tilted his head in confusion and frowned, then looked at Sam, who nodded in agreement. They all focused on the bowl in front of them as the light grew warmer and brighter, until a figure began materialising from the beam.

Crowley opened his eyes to see himself in a strange place, a place he’d never seen before, nor considered running away to. Three men stood in front of him, tall and very well built, wearing an absurd amount of flannel. Crowley looked to his left to see a blinding light, and for a second, he thought he was in Heaven again, with that purple-eyed monster.

“Which poor sucker are you wearing as a meatsuit, Crowley?” The man with the scruffy, short, light hair said.

“Wait, wait, what? Meatsuit? Don’t be stupid--” Crowley sat up straight, looking around frantically, he said, “what the hell did you do with Aziraphale? Where is he?”

“Uh, Dean,” Cas began, clearly suspicious, but Dean cut him off.

“Just hold on to your horses for a second, Cas, let me handle this.”

Cas sighed.

“WHERE IS HE? And, and, did you just say Crowley? Nobody, in all of six thousand years, has ever called me “Cr-ow-ley”.” Crowley spoke angrily, then in exasperation.

“Where’s who?” Sam said, understanding something was definitely off.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley hissed, but it wasn’t an angry hiss, it was more of a habitual, slurring-of-words-hiss.

“Who’s he, your side chick?” Dean joked, but by now he was certain that whoever this person was, it was not Crowley. Sure, he had the accent. And if Crowley had been more focused on looking like an overdramatic sass queen, then maybe the black attire too. But this man, or whatever he was, he was not Crowley.

The blinding light grew brighter still, flashing an almost heavenly glow now, as another figure materialised from the beam.

The figure was more angelic than any form Castiel had seen. Michael could never. Cas could feel the figure’s aura deep inside him, resonating with his own grace, a soft humming of something divine.

“Oh, my, you seem to have caught us in quite a compromising position,” the heavenly figure said, his voice lilted, and apparently apologetic.

“You two are holding hands?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself. “If you think that’s compromising, boy do I have news for you.” Dean subsequently made a mental note to never talk again.

“Well I grew impatient and--” Before the figure in all shades of beige could complete his sentence, the man calling himself Crowley jumped to his feet.

“Angel! Where were you?” Crowley had gathered his senses and he was not going to let his angel go anywhere again. “Aziraphale, you gave me quite a fright, you bastard.”

“Wait, can someone explain to me what is happening?” Sam said, his hands raised, angel blade in one and holy water in the other.

“Is that...that’s holy water.” Crowley mellowed down, a frown making its way up his face.

“Now, that isn’t very kind of you, sir. There is absolutely no need to bring in weapons. That would be simply preposterous!” Aziraphale, replied calmly, miracling away the weapons from the tall man’s hands. This seemed to cause a chain reaction, making more weapons surface. Now all three men were clad with some sort of weaponry; very nifty ones too.

“There is,” Aziraphale began again, more sternly this time, “simply no reason to be feral, dear boys.”

“If you’re wondering, I am Crowley. Crow-ley. I am a demon; didn’t fall, though; sauntered vaguely below. And this is Aziraphale. Now boys, as much as I’d like to stay here and make your lives miserable by, I dunno, replacing all the real bacon with vegetarian bacon, I’d rather wrap this up quickly. We just dealt with an apocalypse and I have the alarm set for a decade of sleeping. And trust me, you don’t want to wait for Aziraphale to start with his magic tricks.”

Dean made a face at the thought of vegetarian bacon but quickly got over it, concentrating instead on the fact that this was Crowley too. Crow-ley, apparently.

“So, you’re not Fergus? You mother’s not Rowena? God Dammit Sammy, what’d you do?”

Sam looked as confused as everyone right now, but he could’ve sworn he had called Crowley from this universe. Something must’ve gone wrong.

“Just give us a moment to talk,” Sam said to the angel and the demon, and turned to Cas and Dean.

“And no monkey business,” Dean added, causing Sam to roll his eyes in disappointment again.

“So, my dear, before we go back, don’t you think it would be wonderful if one could, you know, miracle the one with light hair and the one with the trenchcoat together? I would, but it has become a little--” Aziraphale began suggestively, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“What? Angel, they are just friends! Like us,” Crowley replied.

“My dear, we are married,” Aziraphale sighed, deadpanning.

“Wait, we are?! Since when?” Crowley screamed, obviously taken by surprise.

“Since you went to talk to Holmes, quite an interesting chap, about your secret admirer?”

Crowley shook his head, still confused.

“We got married the next day, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed again.

Crowley shook his head yet again, much to Aziraphale’s disbelief.

“You proposed!”

Sam coughed, interrupting Aziraphale and Crowley’s very important conversation about if they got married or not.

“So, here’s the thing: we think that while we were trying to contact Crowley of this universe, you, Crowley, from another universe were summoned here instead. This could be because of two things: Chuck is going insane and he no longer has control over the veils between universes, or two, because Jack (he’s a nephilim), is back, his powers might have overwhelmed the spell. We also think that because of your “compromising position”, both of you got summoned, instead of just Crowley. Either way, you are free to go.”

“Or you could stay for a couple of drinks, if that is okay by you,” Cas said, hoping they’d stay, just so he could get to know them better.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a knowing glance, coming to an agreement.

“It is noon presently; would you have cocoa by any chance?” Aziraphale chimed happily.

_______________________________________________________________________

Hey y’all! I am sure this has been done before but I am currently practicing escapism by writing silly fanfics so please bear with me through this phase.

I’m gonna tag some awesome people: @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @petrichoravellichor @all-or-nothing-baby @telefunkies @jensenackles-ismyreligion @mystybloo @thedepressedexpress

Tell me if you want me to tag you or if you don’t want me to tag you.

Thank you for reading uwu

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shipaholic · 3 years

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Omens Universe, Chapter 11 Part 2

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 11, cont.

Crowley purred upon seeing the Bentley. It was a little obscene, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t had a day off in ten years. Going for a drive was one of Earth’s greatest pleasures, as far as he was concerned,[1] and he’d been sorely neglecting it. He stroked the door lovingly before letting himself in.

“Don’t get anything on the seat,” he told Adam.

“Er,” Adam said, peering through the back window.

Crowley leaned back to wave him inside and saw somebody already sitting in the back seat.

“Hello,” she said.

Crowley’s mouth dropped open. “Who the Hell are you?”

Aziraphale leaned his head in through the passenger door. He blinked at the woman in the back, as if unclear whether Crowley had left her there by accident.

“My name is Anathema Device,” the woman said.

She was wearing a dramatic green coat and prim, thick-rimmed glasses. Despite the Wiccan-ish aesthetic, there was something stern and school-teachery about her. Crowley had the impression he was about to be told off.

“You’re two minutes late,” she said. Ah. There it was.

Adam decided he might as well sit down. He slipped into the back beside Anathema. She smiled at him.

Crowley made a decision there and then. No more tagalongs. Whoever this person was, she could get lost.

Anathema leaned forwards, business-like. “I’m here about the Antichrist.”

Adam looked offended. A lot of the people he’d met today seemed to have spoken to his mother.

“Nope. That’s it. I’m done with this. I’ve already processed everything I’m willing to hear today. Whatever revelations you’ve got, you can keep. I’m content not knowing everything, I don’t need whatever you’re selling. Get out of my car.”

“You’re going to want to hear this.”

“I definitely won’t. Angel, get in.”

Aziraphale got in the passenger seat. He gave Anathema a polite smile. “Hello, my dear.”

“She’s not your dear. She’s a woman who’s broken into my Bentley and spread patchouli everywhere.”

Anathema sighed. “Please. I didn’t break in, it was unlocked.” At least, it wasn’t locked very well.

“I don’t lock it for a reason. Because nobody touches my car.”[2]

“I remember you,” Adam said to Anathema. “You came round the house. You were trying to give us magazines. You talked to the head of security for ages. Most people don’t get that far.”

Anathema brightened. “Um, actually yes. I was trying to speak to you.”

“Oh. I was round the corner on my Gameboy,” Adam said.

Anathema had spent an interminable forty-five minutes keeping the security guard talking, hoping to catch a glimpse of Adam. “...Oh.”

“I read the magazines, though. They were cool.”

“Oh! I’m glad.”

“We’re actually in a hurry, if nobody minds,” Crowley said, to no-one in particular.

Anathema straightened up. “Right. Allow me to explain. I’m here to prevent the End of Days.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances.

“Oh, that’s not a real thing,” Adam said, confidently. “That’s just stories an alien told me when I was a kid.”

Anathema looked up, sharply. “An alien? There are aliens in the Book…”

She hefted a much-thumbed, elderly tome onto her lap and flicked through it. Aziraphale’s bibliophilic senses rang a faint bell.

“Yeah, I like books with aliens,” said Adam. “This alien was real, though. Actually, there were lots of them. They kept telling me I was going to grow up and destroy humanity and burn the planet to a crisp. And then Hell would defeat Heaven and blah blah blah. I was a bit worried about it all.” Adam scratched his head, near his gem. Anathema’s eyes zoomed in on it. “But it all makes way more sense now I know it was aliens.”

“Oookay. This is pretty big, actually,” Anathema murmured. She was staring at Adam like a rare specialist who had just made the find of their career. “I wasn’t positive, even after everything… but it’s really you, isn’t it?” Her eyes shone with various emotions. Awe was in the mix. So was fear.

“Nanny was definitely an alien,” Adam said, darkly.

Anathema’s eyes flicked down to the open Book on her lap. They fell onto prophecy 1011, And the devile dide saye: we doe notte have time for alle this nonesense.

“We don’t have time for all this nonsense,” Crowley said.

“I know who you are,” Anathema blurted. “Agnes says you’re going to take the Antichrist away. The family don’t all agree where, there are a few different readings, but the important thing is that you won’t succeed. Listen to me. Armageddon will happen here, at this house.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged tense looks.

“No human prophecies have come anywhere near predicting any of this.” Aziraphale craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the Book. “Did you say Agnes, my dear -?”

Crowley didn’t like this. Who cared what a prophecy said? He didn’t need strange women popping up and putting him off before they’d even set out.

“You two are in this whole batch of prophecies. You can set things right if you just listen to me and don’t leave. Your only hope to save the Earth is if you do exactly what I say -”

Crowley snapped his fingers. Anathema vanished.

“Crowley!”

“She was wasting our time. And we haven’t got much of that left.”

Crowley gunned the ignition. The Bentley sputtered to joyous life. He jerked the steering wheel and veered out onto the road. He almost took out a pillar box that mysteriously leapt into the air and settled safely a few feet down.

Aziraphale shook his head. “All her things are in the back seat. What if she needs them?”

“Should have thought of that before she touched my Bentley.”

Crowley took a corner at an alarming speed. He mumbled something about the emotional violation.

“I’ll be very cross if you’ve sent her somewhere bad.”

Crowley waved the concern away. He tore down the street. It had been too long since he’d done ninety in central London.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

Aziraphale finished crossing himself and clutched the roof of the car in the apparent hope that he could jimmy himself in place in the event of a crash.

“My old bookshop, if you would be so kind,” he said.

In the back seat, Adam picked up the Book and flipped through it.

~*~

Newton Pulsifer, Witchfinder Private, perched on the edge of the discoloured sofa belonging to his employer, Sergeant Shadwell. He was just starting on his third hour of daily newspaper clippings when a woman tumbled out of the air and landed on top of him.

There was chaos. There was screaming (mostly from Newt). There was shouting (from Shadwell). There were accusations of foul sorcery and witchcraft (from Shadwell; for once in his life, he was spot on).

Eventually, things calmed down enough that Newt noticed the woman was rather attractive, and that she seemed annoyed but not surprised to have teleported to a first-floor flat in Tower Hamlets.

Her name was, apparently, Anathema Device. Well. Why not. Newt recently learned he had an ancestor called Adultery Pulsifer. He wasn’t about to judge.

Anathema surveyed her new lieutenants in her stand against Armageddon. A cigarette-charred man with an ambiguous regional accent and a scowl that could cut rocks. A nervous young man who was vaguely threatening her with a pair of scissors, but who was obviously likelier to injure himself with them than her. And some kind of “painted strumpet” (not Anathema’s words) across the hall who hadn’t shown up to the proceedings so far, but who they could tag in later if things went badly. Not a promising start. Lieutenants might be too strong a word. Sidekicks, then.

It frustrated her, leaving all her possessions behind in the car. Losing the Book would have devastated her, but Agnes had predicted it, so Anathema was prepared. She had compensated for its loss by memorising the remaining prophecies that seemed relevant.

“OK, guys. Is everything clear so far?”

Shadwell glowered. He held something that was apparently a Thundergun. It slightly resembled a bass trombone. He made no move to shoot her, and she doubted anyone had reloaded it any time in the last century, so his grip on it seemed to be for comfort. Newt had put down the scissors as a gesture of magnanimity.

“I think I’ve followed so far,” Newt said. “The world’s going to end. Um, there’s a boy called Adam Dowling who’s the key to everything, but he’s out of range now and there’s nothing anyone can do about that - er -”

Anathema nodded encouragingly.

“- And our job is to take care of stuff here, and hope that the people with this, er, Adam do their part, because otherwise the Earth is doomed,” he finished. Luckily, he’d passed through the barrier of absurdity and into the vista of calm that lay beyond.

“That’s about it, yeah,” said Anathema.

“So - what should we be doing now?”

“Now we need to stop the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”

“Great,” Newt said, weakly.

Anathema nodded, satisfied. It was coming together. She hoped.

It was the two men, or men-shaped-beings, with the Antichrist she worried about. They had to do the next part on their own. And if that went wrong…

She’d known there was no genuine hope of diverting them from their course to escape… wherever they were planning to escape to. But Agnes said she would try to stop them, so she had to try, no matter how vain the attempt. She had hoped to see more evidence that her words were sinking in before the goth one banished her from his equally goth car.

What they did next was out of her hands, so there was no point in worrying. She turned to her new sidekicks. There was work to do.

---

[1] Specifically, speeding.

[2] Crowley got pretty far, normally, assuming that no-one would dare break into the Bentley. He was mostly correct. Witches, however, were unimpressed by demons.

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #steven universe

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pengychan · 4 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - 1 Corinthians 13:13

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

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

A/N: Gabriel keeps missing the point by a mile but what else did you expect.

***

The funeral of Daniel Brown was a simple, dignified matter.

Still, Gabriel found he was not overly fond of the Anglican rites; they just lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. But then again, he’d never quite understood why the humans in that island had bothered with the Schism: as far as he was concerned it had simply caused a lot of paperwork Heaven could have done without, and anyone involved on either side he might have questioned about motivations - if he’d cared - was in Hell. Their descendants seemed to have a thing for schisms, too, though this one seemed somehow even more senseless than the last to him.

But considering that he’d fought in what could be considered the first Schism, maybe he wasn’t in a position to talk. Holding back a sigh, Gabriel let his gaze wander across the church. He knew a good chunk of people attending, most of them co-workers he’d managed to free up that day by working a miracle on their schedules - or rather asking someone else to work a miracle on their schedules. Gabriel stood among them, in the third row, wearing his best suit.

On his left, Fabrizio was wearing a much cheaper one he still somehow managed to look elegant in; somewhere on their right Łukasz still looked like he’d just come out of a pub, but with a jacket and tie on he had borrowed from Rajiv - a noticeable effort, as he absolutely loathed wearing ties. Daniel would have appreciated that.

On the other row, there were a few people Gabriel had never seen but who clearly must have known Daniel long before he did, in another life. Daniel did tend to say he’d had a life before losing his wife and home, and a life after that.

“What they don’t tell you about becoming a widower is that half the people you knew fall off the radar,” he’d told Gabriel in a rare moment of talkativeness on the subject. “A lot were couples and you know, it’s awkward to invite the guy who just lost his wife. I’m sure they had good intentions and to be honest, the few times they did invite me I made up an excuse. But then we just drifted and by the time I lost the house as well we hadn’t spoken in months.”

Gabriel didn’t know how many of those people were among those who had drifted away, nor he had any idea how Lawrence had found out about them and gotten in touch, but he had and there they were, and he supposed that had to count for something. He glanced ahead, towards the front row where Lawrence and Berenice stood. Lawrence’s head was bowed, and something ached in Gabriel’s chest.

The unfairness of it all was staggering. The two brothers should have been reunited, shared what was left of their mortal existence; and instead Daniel had only returned in Lawrence’s life as a corpse to be buried. All that Gabriel had been able to give him of his brother were tales, some of them second hand. It was all he could give but ah, it couldn’t possibly be enough.

If only he’d asked for help earlier, maybe they might have. But he hadn’t and there stood Lawrence, for the last goodbye. It was difficult not to think that none of those present, him aside, had the certainty of a life after their mortal one. That all they had, as they said their goodbyes to an empty vessel in a wooden casket, was the hope Daniel was not entirely gone. Faith that he was not entirely gone, amidst the grief.

And if he were in their place… Gabriel didn’t think hope alone would be enough for him. He didn’t think he could have that blind faith at all. He tried, but now he only felt more lost than ever.

You are the Archangel Gabriel no longer. God asks of you what they ask of every mortal. Faith.

When Gabriel bowed his head and his shoulders trembled, no one questioned it.

You’re expected to weep at funerals, after all.

***

“More weeping.”

“Lord Beelzebub?”

“I said, this place needs more weeping. Weeping and gnashing of teeth, what happened to that? I don’t hear any teeth gnashing and barely any weeping! And why is the soul over there looking like it’s enjoying this?” Beelzebub demanded to know.

The damned soul chained to the ceiling lifted its head and grinned. “Because I am,” it said.

The Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies sighed, lifted a hand to smite the insolent soul. The grin widened expectantly. They rolled their eyes and let the hand drop, much to the damned’s chagrin. Masochists were the absolute worst. “Remove that one from my presence and put it on paint watching duty for the next century.”

Their words were met by a horrified scream as demons moved in to unchain the soul and drag it away. “No! NO! ANYTHING BUT THAT!”

Ah, yes, that was more like it. Beelzebub nodded, and turned to the demons around them. “See, this is how it’s done. To each their most dreaded punishment, that’s what Circles are for, for Satan’s sake. The guidelines are there for a reason. You don’t just group them all in a few rooms and whip them. Since when has the lot of you grown so lazy and uninspired?”

A demon of slothfulness opened his mouth, only to snap it shut when Beelzebub dismissively waved a hand. “Except those whose job description requires it,” they clarified. The demon gave a very obvious sigh of relief as Beelzebub turned their attention on the others. “The rest of you have no excuses. Or do I have to further motivate you?”

Most demons on Eternal Torment duty were not precisely a shining example of intellectual prowess - it was the main reason why they were on Eternal Torment duty in the first place, not much else they could be used for - but even they were able to guess those words were meant to be a threat and reacted accordingly, shaking their head and bowing and mumbling excuses.

Except, of course, That One Demon that simply didn’t get it. “That would help, really.”

Several heads turned towards the demon who had just spoken, in a sudden silence. Even the cries of the tortured stopped, as did the buzzing of flies around Beelzebub’s head. That would have made even someone dumb as the dumbest rock realize they had fucked up, but this one was clearly dumber than the dumbest rock and spoke again rather than groveling for mercy.

“I mean, we’d been preparing for war since… always, and then suddenly no war. Doesn’t help motivate us a whole lot.”

Not since always. There was a time we didn’t even have a word to describe war. We created it when we rebelled and then forgot we did.

Now that was exactly the kind of thought Beelzebub had come there to ignore, and to have it back at the forefront of their mind made their already foul mood… fouler. Considering that they were always in a foul mood, and that those days it was twice as foul, right in that moment said mood was about four times fouler than normal. “I’ll give you motivation,” Beezelbub buzzed.

They snapped their fingers and a swarm of horse flies materialized out of nowhere, surrounding the demon as he screamed and uselessly shielded his head. Everyone took a step or two or twenty away from him and the swarm of biting, bloodthirsty flies. Now that made the Lord of the Flies feel better again. Which was to say, in a mood that was only about twice as foul as usual.

“Once the flies are done, move that one to janitorial duty,” they ordered, and left without a word, leaving those lowly demons properly cowed. It was a good distraction, at least.

For now.

***

“Gabriel.”

Lawrence’s voice reached him as he took a few steps away, after watching the casket being taken to the hearse. He’d meant to leave quietly, but it seemed that Lawrence wouldn’t let him go without a word. Gabriel swallowed, tried to fight back the guilt - if only you’d swallowed your fear and asked for help finding him sooner - and turned.

Lawrence was walking up to him, eyes still damp, leaning on the cane more heavily than he had last time they had met, as the reality of seeing off his brother’s casket had been a physical blow. He held out a hand. “Again, thank you. For bringing him back to me.”

Gabriel swallowed again, his mouth dry, and took that hand. “I wish I’d been able to find you sooner.”

“You did more than you had to do,” was the reply. “And I will be forever grateful. If you ever wish to spend some time on the seaside, our home is open to you. We’d love you to visit sometime.”

This time, Gabriel managed a smile. “I wouldn’t want to impose--”

“We insist,” Berenice cut him off, seemingly materializing by her husband’s side, and held out her own hand. When Gabriel took it, he found himself pulled suddenly into a tight hug. Gabriel had read up the definition of a motherly hug somewhere, and couldn’t quite guess what that was supposed to mean - he’d never had a mother in the sense mortals meant it, although his current form did have a belly button for accuracy’s sake - but he suddenly thought that maybe, for a moment, he could understand.

Ridiculous, that: he’d been created out of God’s will and was unfathomably older than the woman holding him. And yet.

“Do keep in touch,” Berenice said, pulling back, and Gabriel could only nod, through tight.

“... Of course.”

A smile, a pat on his cheek, and they were off in a car following the hearse; it occurred to him only later that he had no idea where they were taking Daniel, where his grave would be. But then again, it hardly mattered. He could ask later, he supposed; not that Daniel would be there.

“Oi, Gabriel. You coming with us?” Łukasz called out, snapping him from his thoughts.

“We’re going to have a drink at the usual place.”

“For Daniel.”

“Make it two.”

“Both for Daniel.”

“Of course.” Gabriel managed a weak smile. “You go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”

“If you don’t make us wait too long, we'll even pay your first round.”

A chuckle. “Sounds like a deal,” Gabriel said, and watched them go with a faint smile that died down a few moments later. He glanced back, at the small crowd before the church, already beginning to disperse, and sighed.

So, it was done. Lawrence had been found, and he’d been able to say goodbye the only way he could. The mission he’d taken upon himself had been accomplished.

What now? What do I do now?

He bit his lower lip and dared glance up at the gathering rain clouds, hoping for a sign, instructions, anything. Of fucking course, none came. Humans don’t get instructions.

Gabriel lowered his gaze with a scoff and began walking, not even trying to shield himself as the first raindrops fell. He would join the others for a drink, he decided, and then… then…

“Sorry, mate - have you got any change?” The voice rang out suddenly, causing Gabriel to recoil. He glanced up to see a man sitting on the pavement, back against the wall, an upturned hat in front of him and a dog curled up by his side - a small scruffy thing that looked nowhere as elegant as Doyle, but the man was in the process of taking off his coat to lay it down on it.

He looked barely in his twenties, of slim built, hair reddish-blond and overall looked nothing like Daniel had when they first had met - but there was a peculiar weariness to his voice that was the same. Gabriel watched for a moment as he shielded the dog from the rain, which was beginning to pick up. It didn’t look like he had another coat.

The tent, Gabriel remembered, he let me sleep in his tent and didn’t even know me.

“Of course,” he found himself saying, and reached for his wallet. At least, this time he knew what the value of the bills and coins in his wallet was. The young man gave a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank you,” he muttered. “I hate to ask like that, I usually sit quietly, honest. But if I can pay for something in a cafe we get to stay out of the rain for a while.”

Gabriel glanced up at the sky, only to get a drop of water right in the eye. He rubbed it, frowning. “Have you got someplace to stay the night?” he asked. He knew heavy rain was expected through the next couple of days.

A shrug. “Not really. I used to sleep in a shelter from time to time, but then I found Chip.” He patted the dog’s muzzle, causing it to open its eyes and lick his hand. “And there isn’t a single bloody shelter that will let her in. I can sneak her into a motel if I get enough money during the day to pay for the night, but it doesn’t happen often. Most people go cashless these days. But it’s not too bad, until winter comes.”

“Unless it rains.”

“Unless it rains. But I’m saving up for a tent.”

“I see.” Gabriel opened his wallet. He was no expert on motel rates, but he estimated the cash he had on him would be enough to pay for a couple of nights. “Here,” he said, handing over the bills. “Hope it helps. For a motel, or for the tent.”

The young man’s thin face opened up in a startled smile. “Thank you, sir,” he said, taking it.

“Gabriel. Name’s Gabriel.”

“Thanks, Gabriel. I’m Noah.”

Gabriel hadn’t meant to laugh, but it still escaped him, causing Noah to blink and Chip to lift her head, tilting it on one side. “Heh! Sorry, sorry - I shouldn’t have laughed. I just… remembered a guy I met once.” Gabriel gestured up to the sky, to the rain that was falling and beginning to soak their hair. “It’s looking like you should get to work to build that Ark, no?”

The puzzled expression on Noah’s face turned into a chuckle. “Ah, yes. Heard that a few times,” he said, and stood. “I’ll be getting us out of the rain, then. Thank you, mate.”

“You’re welcome.” Gabriel turned to walk away, hesitated, and turned back. Noah was tying the sleeves of the coat beneath Chip, so that she’d be dry as they walked. He cleared his throat, telling himself that the pub he was heading into was only a short walk away and some rain wouldn’t kill him. “I think you could use this,” he said, taking off his coat. “I have another home.”

He didn’t, but he could buy one. After some insistence, Noah accepted the gift and Gabriel walked off to the pub, letting the rain fall on him, once again wondering what he ought to do to please God.

Gabriel never was the brightest bulb in the box.

***

“So, have you given up on getting to the fallen Archangel?”

I’d very much rather forget about that idiot, but here you are making yourself an absolute pain in the ass and reminding me.

“I have not,” Beelzebub said, sprawled on their throne and making a point not to bother looking anywhere in Asmodeus’ general direction. One of the most annoying parts of having a fellow Prince of Hell show up before them was that they couldn’t tell them to shut the Heaven up without things getting quite ugly. Not that they generally minded things getting ugly - they were in Hell, all things were ugly all the time - but it would likely turn into a full-blown feud.

Which, with the demons still rather put off by the lack of Apocalypse and subsequent war, things could get out of hand rather quickly. “You have not? I’m told you have not left Hell in weeks.”

“And…?”

“Have you assigned someone else to winning him over? I thought it was meant to be a personal project,” Asmodeus said with a shrug, his mismatched, sunken-in eyes glinting in malevolent glee. “One would think you’d have won him over by now. Out of practice, are you?”

Beelzebub scoffed, finally turning to look at him. “What do I owe the displeasure of your visit?” they asked, cutting the chase.

A shrug. “I want us to get the archangel for ourselves, is all. With no war happening in the foreseeable future, a small victory is better than none to keep the spirits up. Or down, depending how you look at it. It would be quite a feather in your hat, taking his soul. Is that not what you wanted?”

“He is an idiot,” Beelzebub scoffed. “And an archangel no longer. His soul is worth no more and no less than any other human’s.”

“But he was God’s messenger.”

“Who he was doesn’t matter for him as it doesn’t matter for us. We are who we are now.”

Asmodeus shrugged. “Points of view. Well then, if you’re dropping the project, I’ll be picking it--”

“I didn’t say I’m dropping it,” was the sharp reply. Truth be told they did have every intention to do just that - best not to see him, best not to remember, best not to think - but something about the idea Asmodeus or anyone else could claim his soul for Hell rubbed them all the wrong ways. The former Archangel Gabriel in Hell, with Asmodeus as his liege lord. That wouldn’t do at all.

As for the reason why it wouldn’t do, Beelzebub would rather not speculate. They settled on the thought it would amount to leaving that particular feather in someone else’s hat, and of course they couldn’t do that. They were the Lord of the Flies, the one Prince of Hell Satan had tasked with preparing for the War, and therefore they had a certain standing.

The fact they couldn’t get that war started, while not blamed on them for obvious reasons, had been a loss of prestige. They were not looking to hand someone else an easy victory over them.

“Oh?” Asmodeus tilted his head. “You’re not?”

Beelzebub waved a hand. “I’m waiting for him to lower his guard. Think he’s safe. His soul is worth little, but Hell shall have it,” they added. Then they’d assign him to some task well away from them, so they wouldn’t have to see his stupid face all the time and remember what was best forgotten. But, of course, they didn’t say that part aloud: they couldn’t bring up knowledge they were not meant to have. It would be… unwise.

Although, come to think of it, what had been brought up may very well give them just the leverage they needed to sway that fool on the road to Hell.

***

“We are… not certain we are meant to consume any of this.”

“Well, it’s going to look rather odd if I’m the only one eating out of all four of us, wouldn’t it?” Gabriel put down his menu, which he had picked up despite knowing full well what he was going to order. “The trick is going through the menu once, pick a dish, and if you like it you keep ordering it whenever you come to the establishment again.”

Sandalphon looked confused. “Then why did you read all the dishes again just now?”

“Ah, that’s just something you do. Etiquette, I suppose. I usually have a double bacon cheeseburger and chips,” he added.

Approximately eight miles away Aziraphale made a face, causing Crowley to pause on his piece about the absolute necessity of a proper wine cellar in the cottage. “What is it, Angel?” “Oh… nothing at all, dear,” he said, waving a hand. “Just a moment, already passed. Concerning the wine selection, I think we absolutely ought to have…”

“... Chips?”

“That would be potatoes. They’re also served with fish.”

“What fish?” Uriel asked, eyeing the photo on the menu. “There are approximately thirty-four thousand species of fish on Earth, and this looks like none of them.”

“I’m not sure. I guess we could ask,” he said, knowing full well that was likely going to end in a chorus of ‘we’re having what he’s having’ right after he uttered his order, which was… exactly what happened.

“Well,” Gabriel said as soon as the waiter was gone with their rather monotonous orders. “How are things going in--” a pause, a glance towards the next table over, which was entirely too close and well within earshot. “... At work?”

As expected, everything in Heaven was pretty much business as usual, aside from the fact they no longer had to prepare for an all-out war for victory or destruction. The war to end all wars, to be fought with more than just swords or spears - holy water and hellfire were to play a part, too. At the very least, they had prepared to use holy water, and had expected hellfire. Complete and utter destruction. They had never thought they might lose, and hardly ever paid any mind to the idea some of them may be destroyed, victorious or not.

Nor had they spared a thought for the demons they would extinguish, of course; they were meant to be destroyed, having sealed their fate the day they chose to rebel... only that now he found he was relieved it had not come to that. He'd known them, once, though the memory of the angels they had been was still beyond his grasp, as he hadn't tried to bring up more. The agony caused by bringing back up everything Ba'al had been to him was painful enough.

He'd done his best not to think about Beelzebub at all over the past few weeks, and it had… sort of worked. If he ignored it hard enough the sting was muted, duller, lost in the background. He was almost good enough at lying to himself to believe that nothing at all had happened, no memory that mattered had been brought up, and surely it would get easier as more time passed and Beelzebub no longer showed their face.

He could tell himself it was a relief, that he did not miss their presence, as Ba'al or as the Lord of the Flies. Maybe in time he would come to truly believe it, but somehow he doubted it. Once the veil has been ripped in two, it is hard to mend. It would have been easier if it was never ripped, if everything went according to the Great Plan; nothing to question, nothing to fear.

And even so, God, he was glad the war had not come. He was glad that Beelzebub had not been destroyed, that humanity was still there, that no angel had perished. And all thanks to a rebellious child turning against his Father.

Ironic, that

"... And that's about it," Sandalphon finished over a mouthful of double bacon cheeseburger, which he seemed to appreciate after all. Uriel had eaten the chips, at least; Michael still seemed rather unconvinced and had simply moved food around to make it look like she had eaten something. "What about--" Sandalphon trailed off, and went very still, eyeing around. "Something smells evil," he muttered, his voice low, causing Gabriel’s hair to stand on end.

He turned - they all did - to glance around, as discreetly as they could, but none of them noticed anything. Gabriel did a fly buzzing close by, but they were sitting outside to eat and… well, maybe it was just a fly. He hoped it was just a fly.

Do I really?

“Ah, it’s gone,” Sandalphon was muttering. “It was a whiff, but I can’t smell it anymore.”

“... Probably a passing human with evil intent,” Gabriel said, keeping his voice.

“Probably,” Michael conceded, and looked back at him. “We can take you home and take turns to watch, just to be on the safe side.”

That would probably be excessive, Gabriel mused, because the fly was probably just a fly. But what concerned him was something else - how part of him hoped otherwise, that it wasn’t just a fly, against all logic and common sense.

“I am sure it won’t be needed,” he finally said, and took the last bite of his meal, faintly wondering if somewhere on another plane of existence there was now a file about him to record deeds good and evil, and if the lie he’d just uttered was already being written on it, placing him just a tiny step closer to Hell.

***

Beelzebub did not like dilemmas.

That discovery was unpleasant as it was recent; as prior to that mess - at least in their recent memories - they had never truly found themselves faced with one; in doubt, which was not often as evil accepts little doubt, they simply went for the bigger evil and that was it. But now the decision was whether or not they should use the knowledge they had gained of themselves and Gabriel to sway the former archangel and it was, indeed, a dilemma of the worst sort.

It would be best to never bring the past up again and try with all their might to forget again, they knew that. However, that would be as good as admitting themselves that the discovery did bother them, for all their claims that it changed nothing… and they didn’t want to do that either.

They thought back of that night, how Gabriel’s eyes leaked and theirs didn’t; focused on that only, ignoring the overwhelming sense of love cloying their throat, the ache somewhere at their very core that they could not and wished not name. None of it mattered.

Gabriel had wept. They did not.

It changes nothing for me, Beelzebub mused, but it might change everything for this fool. Hell shall have him and it shall be my doing, Asmodeus be blessed. I only need to change strategy.

And with that thought, their mind was made up. The Lord of the Flies took wing, and followed Gabriel home. They had to talk.

Alone.

***

“So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” 1 Corinthians 13:13

***

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#good omens #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #winging it

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sincerly-kate · 4 years

Text

Falling Skies: Part 3 (Crowley x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Here’s your part 3 just as promised, and i hope you all have a merry Christmas (if you celebrate it, if not then happy holidays :) ). The next part after this is most likely going to be the last, unless you guys want to see more storyline explored with this kind of reader.

Just let me know!

P.S: Also this one is a little shorter than the others, but I swear that the next part will make up for it!

-Kate 💙😁

“Holy fire.” you mumbled under your breath in shock, you then began to smirk once the shock wore off and Gabriel for once in his long life showed an expression you’ve never seen before; fear.

“What the hell?” you mumbled under your breath, completely confused by what was going on yourself, but you didn’t want Gabriel to know obviously so you quickly changed your reaction to a smirk.

“Ho-how? What are you?!” Gabriel screamed at you, quickly backing away as if he’s seen a ghost.

“Do you really want me to answer that? What do you think I am!” You yelled, seeing if he could give you insight into what the hell was going on.

“It all makes sense… it’s obvious!” Gabriel then looked to you with an expression that was less fearful and more amazed by you.

You were confused by this since obviously now the two of you weren’t on the same page. What does he know that I don’t? you thought. This one minute of confusion you had was one minute too long, since you heard two familiar voices behind you, and one pair of hands hold you by your wrists. The owner of these hands started to hiss in pain.

Crowley.

Holy fire!!

You immediately calmed down felt the heat leave your hands, you looked down to see your and Crowley’s hand intertwined. You slightly turned your head to see his face merely a few centimeters apart.

“You alright angel?” He said in a hushed voice, you turned your whole body towards him and took both of his hands into yours.

“I think I should be asking you that.” You said with concern in your eyes and a slight laugh, you moved his slightly burned hands to your face for a closer look.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” You said with a bowed head and his hands close to your face as you kissed them both carefully, trying not to hurt him anymore than you have.

“If this is what it took for you to not kill the bastard, as much as I would’ve loved to see that, and to stop your suicide mission; it was worth it.” You then looked towards the pillar that Gabriel was cornered into, to see now nothing there.

“What did you do?!” you yelled at him, pushing him away. “I could’ve finished this! I didn’t need your help!” Before you tried to fly away, Crowley grabbed your wrist again and pulled you into a hug.

“Love, this isn’t you, you could’ve killed him. Is that what you really wanted? You would’ve been stuck without ever knowing how to fix your wings.”

You then froze at this realization. You could’ve killed him, hell, you would’ve if Crowley and Aziraphale didn’t show up when they did. You then backed away from the two of them and walked away

But this time; he let you.

-Crowley’s P.O.V-

“We need to find Y/n, she needs us right now; I can feel it.” I’ve been trying to explain to Aziraphale for the past two days that we need to go and find her, he seems to be completely against the idea of finding her, wherever she is right now, which is completely out of character for him.

“Well Crowley, if you haven’t noticed over your own feelings towards the girl; she’s scared. She’s scared of herself and doesn’t want us to get hurt in the process, the girl simply needs time.” He said looking back at his novel that he’s probably already read at least 5 times by now.

Frustrated at this point, I simply left him in his bookshop and headed towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Aziraphale finally looks up from his book, now showing a face of concern for me.

“Doing the one thing you’re not willing to do; I’m going to go find her.”

-Y/n P.O.V-

You were sitting in your flat once again, books surrounding you on your living room floor. Books from topics such as the supernatural to even some version of religious books in different languages. Your hair looked as if you hadn’t brushed it in months and the bags under your eyes would’ve had the darkest depths of space jealous. You didn’t understand what was happening to you exactly, but unfortunately you knew deep down what it was, but you refused to accept it.

‘No, I can’t be. How could they ever look at me the same if I am one?’ These kinds of thoughts were spinning through your mind. You also that you needed to confront them, but you were scared that they’d reject you.

‘You know they wouldn’t, especially those two. They’ve been with you through thick and thin; why would they give up on you over something you can’t control?’

After letting your thoughts linger for a little longer, you decided that now was the time; you needed to talk to Aziraphale and Crowley about this.

-Crowley’s P.O.V-

I was about to head out when I ran into a girl.

“Sorry love, gotta go.” T he mystery girl then grabbed onto my upper arm and pulled me into the back of the shop.

“Excuse me, who in the HELL- “I froze once I finally saw her face; it was Y/n, my angel.

“Crowley, I think we need to talk.”

“I think we do angel.” We then went to the farthest part of the bookshop, where I knew Aziraphale would’ve still been reading his bloody book.

“Okay, so I think I know what’s going on with me, and just before I say anything, I hope this doesn’t change the way you see me.” Y/n said, playing with her hands while looking at the ground.

I stood next to her and held her hands, while Aziraphale placed his book down and gave y/n his complete attention.

“Why would we ever look at you any different? No matter what’s going on with you, you’re still our Y/n and we will always love you.” I said as I saw Aziraphale nodding out of the corner of my eye.

I saw her slightly relax at this and she made eye contact with both of us and took a deep breath.

“I’m a Nephilim, and I think I know who the only person who can tell me how this happened is.”

We both stood there shocked but nodded to her to encourage her to continue.

“Who is it angel?” I say without skipping a beat.

“The same white-winged bastard I nearly killed earlier.”

“Gabriel.” The three of us said all at once.

Tag List:

@carry-on-my-wayward-stark

@ourownsideimagines

if you want to be tagged in my writing, just let me know :)

#Falling Skies #crowley x reader #anthony j crowley x reader #crowley #good omens fanfic #good omens x reader #good omens #Aziraphale #kate writes

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belacoded · 4 years

Text

Prompt Fill

for @flyingsuperleaf

Thank you for the prompt, it was so much fun and I hope you like it!!

Since you have GO and Percy Jackson tagged, perhaps you can do a crossover where Aziraphale and Crowley are demigods and go to camp?

Read here, or you can head on over to my ao3 to read it there.

If you were to ask Crowley, he would say that being on the run from monsters trying to kill you is tiring, and he would much rather be back at home where he didn’t have to worry about things like staying alive and finding food.

He doesn’t have that option, however, which leads him to his current predicament: three freaky looking ladies with flaming hair, one donkey leg, and one bronze leg have him cornered in an alley with no escape.

“You don’t want to eat me,” he says, putting every ounce of conviction he can into his voice.

“We don’t want to eat you,” the freak-lady in the middle says.

“We want to drink your blood,” says the one on the left.

Crowley nods shakes his head at them. “Oh, you don’t want to drink my blood, either. See, my blood is really gross, I’ve got this disease—”

Luckily for Crowley, he doesn’t have to keep up with telling this lie, as suddenly there is someone behind the three ladies, knocking each of them out with a well placed trash can to the head. Left standing there, pouting down at the unconscious monsters, is a boy about Crowley’s age with wavy, white-blonde hair and just enough baby-fat for Crowley to momentarily question if this guy is really just a tall kid.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says, and Crowley looks at him in shock.

“Sorry? You saved my life,” Crowley says.

“I only wish there was a better way I could have done this. They don’t deserve this,” the boy says.

“They don’t deserve—they were trying to kill me!” Crowley exclaims.

“Yes, well…” the boy trails off, looking at Crowley curiously. “You’re a demigod too?”

Crowley splutters for a second before regaining his composure. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘demigod’,” he says, using air-quotes when he says the word. “All I know is that I got kicked out of my house and now I’m being chased by monsters and it’s not going to be long before those ones wake up, so I’d like to get out of here now, please.”

“Right, right,” the boy says, quickly backing out of the alley and acting like he expects Crowley to follow him. Of course, Crowley does, because the alternative would be to still be here when those monster-women wake up. “What’s your name, my dear boy?”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Crowley says. “But just call me Crowley.”

“Crowley,” the boy says, trying the name out. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Crowley comments. “Also, what’s with calling me your ‘dear boy’? You sound like your eighty and look like you’re twelve.”

“That would be a rather long story, but, for all intents and purposes, I am about twelve, yes,” Aziraphale says.

“‘For all intents and purposes,’ he says. You’re one strange kid, you know that?”

“I’ve been told, yes.”

They walk in silence for a few blocks before Crowley starts getting impatient. “Where exactly are we going?” he asks

“A camp,” Aziraphale answers, and Crowley raises a single skeptical eyebrow at him.

“A camp.”

“Yes, a camp. A camp for kids like us, if you are what I believe you are. Demigods. If you are a demigod, like me, then you can get inside camp,” says Aziraphale.

“You keep referring to us as ‘demigods.’ What’s a demigod?”

Aziraphale purses his lips for a moment like he is thinking about how exactly to answer. “Someone who is half-god and half-mortal. For example, my mother is the goddess Hecate, Greek goddess of magic. Do you know whether your godly parent would be your mother or father?”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a blank look and stops in his tracks, the only thing going through his mind being I’m following an asylum-escapee through the streets of New York.

“You’re telling me that one of my parents is a god or goddess,” Crowley deadpans.

“That would be right, yes, assuming that I am correct in thinking you are a demigod. Tell me, what did those empousai look like to you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Huh? You mean the crazy demon-ladies with flaming hair that wanted to drink my blood?” Crowley asks.

“Yes,” says Aziraphale. “They are called empousai. They were originally created by my mother, and I can normally control them, but for some reason it wasn’t working.”

“Huh. I can control things, too,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale gives Crowley a curious look. “What do you mean you can control things.”

Crowley shrugs. “I just have to suggest to someone what I want them to do and they do it.”

“Oh, Piper won’t be happy.” Aziraphale frowns.

“Why? Who’s Piper?”

“Your sister,” answers Aziraphale. “Up until now, she was the only child of Aphrodite currently at camp who could use charmspeak, but it seems like you, dear boy, can use it as well.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Charmspeak? You’re telling me that my mother is actually the goddess of love and that because of her, I can speak to people to charm them into doing things.”

“Essentially, yes,” Aziraphale says.

“Wicked.”

“Come, we need to hail a cab in order to get to camp.”

#fan fic #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #prompt fill #good omens #pjo #percy jackson #crowley #aziraphale #prompts are open

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aziraphales-library · 2 years

Note

Hi guys! I’m sorry, I’m sure you’ve been asked this before, but do you have any recs where Aziraphale thinks demons/Crowley can’t love? And he gets proven wrong, of course. Thank you for all that you do!

Hello. We have some fics in which Aziraphale doesn’t believe Crowley loves him here and here on our #not actually unrequited love tag. And here are some fics in which Aziraphale doesn’t think Crowley loves him and is proven wrong...

Find It in the Dictionary Under 'L' by his_infinitevariety (G)

Demons can’t feel love, but Aziraphale can’t help noticing how much Crowley’s suddenly flinging the word around.

A feather to guide you home by IneffableDemon (T)

"I found the feather the day we met, okay? You were…" Crowley waved his hands around, trying to find the correct words. "I don't know, kind, nice, but not the usual cold angelic nice. You were actually nice. And you were different."

Believe Me, I Love You by AnonymousDandelion (G)

“I’m sorry," said Aziraphale. "It’s just that it’s been a rather long time since anyone…ah, never mind that. It’s a pleasant feeling, that’s all.”

“A pleasant feeling,” Crowley echoed. There was a very, very strange expression on his face. “A pleasant feeling. To be… loved?”

That’s Not Funny by cyankelpie (G)

Aziraphale has never sensed even a shred of love from Crowley, which is perfectly alright. It isn't Crowley's fault demons can't love. But then Crowley makes what must be a cruel joke at his expense, and Aziraphale can't control his emotions as well while drunk.

Luckily, he doesn't remember the confession in the morning. Crowley doesn't see why the angel was so upset over something he probably knew all along, but he'll make sure it stays forgotten.

Thy Cup Runneth Over by childrenofthesun (M)

A few decades before the Apocalypse, the Archangels discover that Aziraphale is irreparably in love with Crowley.

Rather than smiting the demon, they take pity on their Earthbound operative, and remove the obstacle by giving Aziraphale exactly what he wants.

But obviously, a demon would never be able to feel love on their own, so they have to do something to ensure that Crowley will reciprocate Aziraphale's feelings…

Somebody to Love by Bookwormgal (T)

Everyone knows that demons can’t feel love. It was one of those well-established facts that no one even bothered to doubt anymore. The sky is blue, the Ineffable Plan was beyond comprehension or understanding, angels do not question or doubt Her commands, and demons can’t love. Angels could sense love and none of them ever sensed love in the presence of demons. Everyone considered that to be conclusive evidence and moved on. Believing otherwise was foolish and a waste of time.

But while it was considered an unquestionable fact of the universe, it wasn’t quite accurate. Demons were perfectly capable of feeling love. Any form of love. Despite common knowledge and despite the fact that the Fall ensured that they could no longer sense Her love, demons can experience love.

What demons can’t do, however, is feel love and survive.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #aziraphale can sense love #not actually unrequited love #love confessions #mod d

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lady-divine-writes · 5 years

Text

In Trade - Part 2: The Night They Don't Talk About (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley comes up with a plan to break Aziraphale free of the demon bordello.

But it may just break the two of them as well. (4495 words)

Notes: I was content originally to leave this at one chapter, but this part kept eating at me, and I had to write it. Mind the new tags. Also bear in mind that I know this isn't a healthy way necessarily for these guys to handle this situation, but I see this as a rock-and-a-hard place. You don't know how you would actually react unless you were in their shoes.

Warning for angst, implied non-con/rape, and memory erasing.

Read on AO3.

“I … I can’t see anything.” Aziraphale’s eyes shift in their sockets, blindly searching the confines of the dark room. “They did something to my eyes, but I … I don’t know what.”

Crowley puts a hand over them, unearthing the particulars of the magic, and sighing with relief when he identifies it. “Don’t worry, angel. It’s temporary.” There’s nothing new in this one. It’s common – a parlor trick used to frighten humans. Crowley didn’t know it would work on angels. Then again, he never thought to try. “It should wear off once you leave here.”

“I was in my shop …” Aziraphale explains, the act of making casual conversation with a friend reassuring to him. Crowley hears the chains above him jingle as Aziraphale tries to fold his wings, hears him hiss when the damnation on the chains singes him.

“Don’t move,” Crowley says. “Those chains … they’ll tear your wings apart if you move too much.”

Aziraphale nods stiffly, his shoulders and back becoming rigid with that knowledge. “It was after hours, a-and I heard a knock at the door. I felt demon energy, but I was preoccupied. I was unboxing a shipment of Hawthorne first editions I purchased from an estate in Norfolk. I’d been waiting weeks for them to arrive. I thought the demon at the door was you so I opened it.” He chuckles nervously. “Why wouldn’t it be you? You’re the only demon who’s ever been by my shop. I didn’t think Hell even knew where I was.”

Crowley curls his hands into fists, digs claw nails into the palms of his hands to keep from cursing out loud and frightening Aziraphale. No, Hell shouldn’t have. And even if they did know an angel owned a bookshop in Soho, that information shouldn’t have concerned them, not to this degree.

The only reason it does is because of Crowley.

Crowley is why Aziraphale is down here.

Aziraphale turns his head left and right, sniffs the damp air. “Where … where are we anyway? I thought they were taking me to Hell, but this doesn’t feel like Hell.”

“It’s not,” Crowley says. “But I don’t want to tell you where you are.”

“Why not?” From somewhere above their heads, a whimper and a cry ring out. Aziraphale gasps, clenching his teeth tight around his tongue, trying his best not to move.

“Because you shouldn’t be here!” Crowley growls. “If there’s one place on earth you shouldn’t be …” He stops, grinds his teeth, fights his anger at himself to regain his focus. “Look, I don’t have the time to explain. I need to get you out of here now. Right now.”

“Great!” Aziraphale flashes a soft smile and Crowley knows he’s trying to make him feel better. He wishes Aziraphale wouldn’t considering what has to happen next. “Capital idea! Let’s do that! These chains are beginning to chafe unmentionably.”

“It’s not … it’s not that easy.”

“Why n0t?”

“Measures have been taken. Precautions specifically to keep you here. And in order to break them, we need to … I have to …” Crowley’s hands find his own hair and pull hard as he tries to explain.

Tries to come to terms with the next step, and how he’s going to accomplish it without hurting Aziraphale emotionally or physically.

Those chains.

Those Godforsaken chains!

Those were a bitch move if ever there was one.

“Have to … what?” Aziraphale sounds scared. Calm but scared, and he should be. He put his trust in the wrong person. They have that in common. It’s what got Crowley into the position he’s in - hanging out with the wrong crowd. The difference is, in Aziraphale’s life, there is no right crowd. Everyone around him sucks.

The blue light surrounding Aziraphale fades a hair. It’s subtle, but Crowley doesn’t just see it. He feels it, as if the sands of Aziraphale’s existence are slipping through his fingers – a tangible object he’s doing a shit job holding on to.

“I’m going to try something …” Crowley goes as slowly as he can for Aziraphale even with an eight ball staring him straight in the face “… and if it works, I’m going to have to keep going. You may not like it …”

“It’s … it’s all right,” Aziraphale says, resolve making his voice thick. “Go ahead. I trust you.”

‘Urgh! Please don’t say that!’ Crowley thinks, moving closer. Hearing Aziraphale say that doesn’t make this any easier.

In many ways, it makes this harder.

Crowley sees a spattering of marks on the angel’s cheek – grotesque symbols made up of dagger-sharp edges that look punched-on. He chooses one that looks particularly harsh, embedded so deeply it has started to bleed. Carefully, he kisses Aziraphale on the cheek over that mark. Not a peck, but nothing too suggestive. He hears Aziraphale make a small noise of surprise. When he pulls away, the mark is gone. Crowley tries again – another kiss, the same way, over a different mark. ‘It can’t be this easy,’ he thinks, heart racing. ‘Please tell me it’s this easy!’

But it’s not.

The second kiss has no effect.

‘Shit!’

That’s what he was afraid of.

It only escalates from here.

‘Dammit! God fucking dammit!’

“Oh my goodness!” Aziraphale mutters, a giddy blush rising to his cheeks. “That was … wh-hy did you do that?”

“In order to get you out of here, I have to get rid of these marks you have on your body. They’re demonic marks. They lock you down here.”

“And they go away when you kiss them?” Aziraphale’s smile after that breaks Crowley’s heart. “That’s oddly … sweet.”

“It only worked the once, I’m afraid.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Like I said, I have to keep going.”

“But I thought you said it didn’t …”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale on the lips. He doesn’t warn him. He’s running out of time. He can’t put this off any longer.

But, selfishly, he needs to shut him up.

Every word out of Aziraphale’s mouth, every expression on his face, is slowly and painfully discorporating him.

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s body thrum as he deepens the kiss, but when the angel’s mouth begins to move against his, he shakes his head.

“Don’t … don’t kiss me back.”

“Why not?”

“I have a theory. A way to break these locks and keep you from falling in the process.”

“And that is …?”

“You … you can’t be a willing participant in this.” Crowley can’t bring himself to tell him what this is, so he alludes to it – puts a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, slides it down his neck, drags it down his chest towards his stomach, creeping lower …

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as he struggles to understand. But when Crowley’s hand reaches the junction of his hip where it touches his upper thigh, his eyes widen with fear. “Crowley, you’re not suggesting …”

“Yes,” Crowley says with a hard swallow. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Aziraphale’s body begins to shake, the chains above him shuddering with this movement he can’t control. The smell of burning flesh fills the room and a few white feathers rain down around them, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

His wings burning off their bones is the least devastating thing going on at this moment.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale begs. “Please? I … I …”

“You what, angel?” Crowley asks, so beyond defeated he doesn’t feel real anymore. Nothing about him is real, therefore nothing about this is real. That should help, shouldn’t it?

Whether it should or it shouldn’t, it doesn’t.

“I … I love you.”

Crowley’s head drops to his hands, his body sinking so low onto his heels he might as well be one with the ground beneath him. “I love you, too, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brighten, sparking with hope. “You do?”

“Yes, I do. I have for the longest time. Which is why I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t! You don’t have to! There has to be another way!”

“There isn’t any other way, angel! If we don’t get you out of here soon, there won’t be any saving you.”

As if to prove a point, his aura dials down a bit more. Crowley zeros in on it, pushing his disgust at himself aside and uses that dying light to force his hand. He grabs the frayed edge of Aziraphale’s neckline and pulls, ripping it straight down the middle. Aziraphale jerks back, shivering when the moist air hits his skin. He scoots a foot away and Crowley warns, “Don’t!” but those chains above him tighten, having no intention of letting him go. The only way he could remove himself from their hold would be to tear his wings off at the shoulder joints.

In the heat of this moment, it’s something he considers.

“One lassst thing …” Crowley says, his hands returning to Aziraphale’s shoulder, his demon warmth cruelly comforting against goose-prickled flesh.

“Wh-what’s that?” Aziraphale’s voice trembles – those wobbly edges cutting Crowley like razor blades.

“It might help …” Crowley’s head hangs from his shoulders, the weight of the next three words too heavy to bear. He closes his eyes against them, tries to swallow them down … but they just won’t go “… if you scream.”

***

“Here ya go. Chamomile. Your favorite. I even remembered the honey this time,” Crowley says, setting the tea service on the table in front of Aziraphale. He does his best to make his voice soothing, his volume low and pleasing, his movements smooth and predictable. But regardless, Aziraphale - eyes glued to a book he’s not even pretending to read - slides away from him, huddling so close to the wall on his left he’s about to become a pattern in the wallpaper.

Crowley looks at him, hunched over one of those Hawthorne books he’d been so excited to receive, still as a stone statue. He debates letting Aziraphale prepare his own cup but decides in the end to do it for him, to prove that he knows him, that they��re still friends.

That he’s still the same old Crowley, despite what he’s done.

He pours the steaming water from the teapot into Aziraphale’s favorite cup, then drops a tea bag in. During the course of adding the honey, Crowley’s hand brushes Aziraphale’s. The angel yelps, leaping so violently out of his skin he nearly upends his cup.

“Oh … oh God. I … I didn’t mean to touch you,” Crowley says, putting his hands up and backing away. “I’m sorry, I … I’ll let you finish … by yourself.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale answers voicelessly but he doesn’t acknowledge the tea. He leaves the cup to cool, content to let it waste away and become unpalatable.

It took over two hours for Crowley to unlock all the locks, make the marks disappear. Two hours of kisses and touches that should have been romantic, should have been sensual, should have been a consensual act of love and affection.

That’s how they started.

It’s not where they finished.

In order to pick the harder locks, Crowley had to delve into areas he and Aziraphale had discussed a long time ago - acts Aziraphale said he could never see himself doing.

But the more Crowley explored the taboo, the faster the locks unraveled.

When all was said and done, the chains evaporated, their spell extinguished, and Crowley didn’t hesitate. With a snap of his fingers he was able to transport the angel back to his bookshop, locking the door and every window with his sigil so that no one – demon or angel – could come inside. They materialized on the floor of Aziraphale’s back room, a shivering Aziraphale cradled in Crowley’s arms. When Aziraphale opened his eyes, they were no longer red and he could see. He gasped with joy and surprise at being free, but when he saw Crowley …

… Crowley will never forget the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face, not for as long as he exists. Aziraphale pushed away from him, hard enough to send Crowley flying backward. He scrambled to his feet and ran to his bathroom. Crowley didn’t move, rooted to the spot on the floor where Aziraphale had shoved him, but he could hear the angel’s muffled wailing through the locked door. Aziraphale didn’t emerge till close to sunrise and when he did, he was clean and healed, dressed from head to toe, clutching the book he’s been staring at to his chest like a talisman against Evil.

A talisman against Crowley.

Aziraphale’s bookshop is no longer the place of safety it once was. It won’t matter how many protections Aziraphale sets up, how many blessings. Crowley knows he won’t ever feel safe here again. Not the way he used to. Crowley chose to stay with his angel even though his body begged for sleep in the hopes of helping Aziraphale feel safe, be there for him if he needed him, but he can’t dodge the feeling he’s making things worse.

Worst of all, he doesn’t think their relationship will ever be what it was again.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Crowley asks, backing away till his legs hit the arm of the sofa across the room. “Anything else I can get you? Just name it and I’ll do it.”

Aziraphale closes his book, not bothering with a bookmark since there’s nothing to save. “I … I think … maybe you should leave.”

Crowley drops his hands to his sides. He was afraid Aziraphale would say that. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

Crowley nods but he doesn’t move. He can’t make his feet go. He’s not ready to leave yet. Aziraphale may need space, may need time, but Crowley needs Aziraphale.

“There was no other way, angel. I couldn’t think of another way. We had no time …”

“I know that.” Aziraphale tries to smile. “But I can’t … I can’t look at you right now without remembering …” He wraps his arms around his torso and squeezes, the rest of his sentence a messy jumble in his throat. He doesn’t want to say it, because if he doesn’t say it, maybe it didn’t happen. It’s foolish and childish and irrational, but it’s all he’s got to keep him from disintegrating into a ball of white light. “And I don’t know how to forget.” Aziraphale hugs himself tight, makes himself small, his voice no more than a hiccup of sound. “That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, Crowley. That wasn’t how we were … supposed to be together.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I wish I could fix it for you.”

“I know you do.”

“Would it make you feel better if I …” Crowley scrambles for an idea, any idea, anyway to make this better, even a tiny bit “… let you hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” Aziraphale’s brows pull together. “How?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want … short of Holy Water, that is.”

Aziraphale pauses like he’s considering it, but shakes his head. “I can’t … I can’t do that to you. I can’t hurt you. You did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not true. Not if you’re asking me to leave.”

“It is true! And I swear that I understand that! I just … I need some time. I need to find a way to wash this from my brain if I can, and I think that might be easier if you’re not around.”

Crowley sighs. “Okay. I’ll go. But can I ask for one favor?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Sleep,” Crowley commands and snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes close obediently, and Crowley immediately hates himself.

It’s a dirty trick. A dirty, rotten, filthy trick.

He’s not using Hastur’s ploy against him. He’s using his own unique brand of demonic power.

He doesn’t know whether or not that’s worse.

Crowley raises a hand and rests it gingerly on Aziraphale’s head.

“Forget,” he whispers. “Please. Forget all about it. Erase it from your mind. Keep it under lock and key and then toss that key away. For Heaven’s sake just forget. And please … please … don’t push me away …”

During the time he and Aziraphale spent underground, Crowley figured out how Hastur managed to trap Aziraphale. They incapacitated Aziraphale with a poison Crowley had never seen before. One he couldn’t identify.

But he could taste its bitter tang on Aziraphale’s skin.

The substance they used, Crowley feels it beneath his fingers now. And as he touches his angel, he purges it from Aziraphale’s system and replaces it, regretfully, with a bit of his own power, in the hopes that it will make Aziraphale immune. It should. Demons can’t enslave other demons this same way, not that he’s aware of. Of course, he doesn’t spend much time in Hell. Things could be going south down there and he might not know about it until it’s too late.

Like tonight, for instance.

But as soon as he can, he intends on popping back down there and going on the hunt for it, eliminate every vial of the stuff he can find, or at least taint it so it won’t be effective. He has to keep Hastur and any other demon from doing this again, especially to his angel.

With the poison gone, Crowley siphons through Aziraphale’s most recent memories, looking for any remnant of the time they spent underground, all the way back to the arrival of the demon (fucking Ligur! Crowley will have to remember that …) at his bookshop door. When he finds no trace of it, he removes his hand and snaps his fingers. “Wake.”

Aziraphale’s eyes open. He looks up into the face of the solemn demon standing before him and startles.

Then he smiles.

“Oh! My dear boy! Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, all semblance of emotion gone from his voice. He just doesn’t have the strength for it. “Yes, I have.”

“When did you get here?”

“I’ve been here all night.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows bounce up. “Have you? That’s funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Well I … I can’t seem to remember what we were doing a moment ago.” He taps a finger to his chin and thinks on it hard, but from his scrunched nose and pensive expression, Crowley knows he’s drawing a blank.

Thank God.

“I’ve just been hanging out in a corner. You’ve been doing paperwork or something,” Crowley lies. “I never know. But you don’t seem anywhere near done so I should leave you to it. Don’t want to be a distraction.”

Aziraphale laughs. That should make Crowley glad, but it pierces his heart something fierce. “Since when do you not want to be a distraction?”

“Since now.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale finally catches on to the demon’s seriousness and looks at him with concern. “Are you sure? I was hoping that we could talk a little more about this antichrist bother over a drink or two … or seven? But I’ll understand if you want to go.”

Crowley didn’t want to leave before, but now it’s all he wants - go back to his flat, climb beneath the covers of his bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels, and pass out for a year. Maybe two. But what if Aziraphale relapses? What if his magic doesn’t do its job?

Wouldn’t be the first time one of his plans went pear shaped … obviously.

He has a responsibility to Aziraphale – one that didn’t end when he erased his memory.

After last night, it may never end.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley runs a hand through his hair, taming down the red locks he’s been tugging in frustration. His hand comes close to Aziraphale’s face when he raises it but he doesn’t flinch. It worked. Crowley’s magic worked. But that doesn’t absolve any of his sins. Not a single one. Because as clever as he thinks he is, he wasn’t clever enough to come up with an alternative solution. “Why not? I could use a drink.”

“Great!” Aziraphale says, happily patting the tabletop, then gesturing to the seat across from him. “I have a brand spanking new bottle of cognac with your name on it, my dear!”

That my dear nearly does him in. As it is, it sprouts barbs, wraps around his heart, and pulls taut. “Brilliant.”

***

The thunderous rapping of a fist on wood wakes Aziraphale from a restless sleep, and he jars upright in his seat on the sofa.

“Is it open then?” a muffled voice asks as curious green eyes peek in through the window.

“I don’t think so,” a different muffled voice responds. “It’s impossible to see anything through these grimy windows. Has A. Z. Fell never heard of Windex?”

“Dang it! I was really hoping to see if they had that new Donner novel. It’s sold out everywhere!”

“Yeah, that’s a drag,” the second voice says, followed by, “They never seem to be open, though, do they? He doesn’t even post his hours up.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s not a proper bookshop at all.”

“You’re right. It’s probably just a front for drugs and prostitution.”

“Molly!”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing, Jillian!”

Aziraphale smiles as the two women laugh, their voices fading as they pass the shop by on their way to the bus stop, another potential sale thwarted.

‘Yes, ladies. Spread the word,’ he thinks as he raises his arms over his head for a stretch. ‘A. Z. Fell is a façade for organized crime. No need to be back.’

Regardless of how he woke up, this might actually turn out to be a good day.

He arches his back and stretches some more, glancing across the sofa at the sleeping demon, arms folded over his chest, stoic in sleep, his closed eyes aimed at the front door as if he’d fallen asleep standing guard. He’s amazed Crowley didn’t wake up when those two women tried to break down his front door. That’s what it sounded like inside his hungover brain anyway. Poor dear must be exhausted.

It was quite a long night.

Aziraphale grabs an afghan from the back of the sofa and pulls it over Crowley’s body. He relaxes the moment its warmth sweeps over him, sliding down on the cushion and resting his head against the arm.

“Sleep,” Aziraphale whispers, tucking the blanket in around him, “for as long as you’d like. And dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley doesn’t smile after Aziraphale says this but he looks more at peace, falling deeply under and snoring softly. Aziraphale pats his arm, then rises from his seat. His back through his hips and straight down to his rear feels stiff as a board, a sure sign that he’s sat plenty.

Time to get on his feet.

Aziraphale pads, lock-kneed, across the floor, sneaking away to his bathroom to splash water on his face. He has paperwork to finish – a whole day of logging in the new Hawthorne books he got in, as well as a few other odds and ends. He stands in front of the sink and takes a long look at himself in the mirror - from his wine-flushed cheeks to his hair sticking out in all directions, the fine lines across his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. Worry lines he’s heard them called, and even though he’s not human, he thoroughly agrees with that assessment.

He’s been worrying a lot these past couple of weeks, and even though he controls his human visage, he wouldn’t be surprised if a whole new crop of lines sprouted overnight.

He washes his hands, then scrubs his face, paying close attention to his skin and his eyes, examining the pale blue irises with particular care.

No red eyes.

No demon locks.

No ligature marks.

Only a trace of pale pink burns from Crowley’s kisses left on his skin.

He runs light fingertips over them, trying a second time to heal them, but they refuse to magic away.

They’re stubborn, like their bullheaded maker.

His memories came back sometime before he woke, and they came back with a vengeance – the demon at his doorstep, grinning at him with dark, chapped lips, a bizarre lizard creature resting atop their head; having a burlap sack thrown over his head; being dragged kicking and screaming underground, then injected with a substance that burned through his body like acid.

He remembered Crowley finding him, trying to comfort him, his voice leading him out of the dark haze he’d been locked in.

He remembered Crowley’s plan.

Crowley had been right about one thing – the way they went about it, Aziraphale didn’t fall.

He made it out in one piece, and he was still an angel.

When Crowley transported them back, between the time he snapped his fingers and they arrived on his bookshop floor, Aziraphale had wondered if God had seen. Had She seen what they’d done, what they’d had to do to make it out?

To save him?

Had She been there?

Aziraphale usually feels God’s presence all around him no matter where he is, watching over him, embracing him with Her love. Even when it’s difficult to sense Her, he knows She’s there. But he can’t recall whether he did in that place or not. She wouldn’t abandon him, would She? Ineffable plan or no, he’s still Her servant. She wouldn’t leave him to the wolves, let him purposelessly be devoured.

Of course, and he’s pondered this several times before, perhaps that’s why Crowley was there, why he’s always able to find him whenever Aziraphale is in trouble. Maybe there’s something more divine behind those grand rescues of his, something more than simply being in the area.

But those are questions he’ll have to save for another time, when his brain isn’t screaming inside his skull.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to overcome this. For the few hours he didn’t have to think about it, he was fine. Effervescent really. He didn’t have a care in the world. He would ask Crowley to give him that again, help him forget, but he doesn’t want Crowley to know his magic wore off.

He doesn’t want to burden Crowley with more guilt than he already feels.

Aziraphale doesn’t like lying to Crowley, but like he said, this isn’t Crowley’s fault. It may not have sounded like he meant it at the time, but he did. Aziraphale didn’t want this, but there was nothing else they could do. And as much as he hates remembering, he can’t leave Crowley to bear the burden alone. It’s a punishment Crowley doesn’t deserve.

And Aziraphale, standing alone in his bathroom, clutching the sides of the sink to keep from crumbling to the floor and crying his eyes out, has discovered over the past 6000 years that he loves Crowley too much to hurt him that way.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #frankie writes

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ancientstone · 4 years

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Fic Rec List (A Tag Game!)

I was tagged by @iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid - Thank you!!

Rules: Post links (Ao3, ff.net, etc.); specify fandom/pairing/etc; don’t answer the same fic twice - spread the appreciation; tag other people; you don’t have to answer all the questions, but leave them in the list so the next person can answer if they want.

Fandoms mentioned are: Transformers, The Umbrella Academy, M*A*S*H, Over The Garden Wall, TMNT, Good Omens, Sherlock, Ducktales (2017)

(I’m going to cheat a little and ignore the *this month* parts because we’re only 2 days into 2020!)

1. Favourite complete fic you’ve read this month (multiple chapters/parts):

Transformers: Auf Nimmerwiedersehen by @morethanmeetstheass I love everything about this story (and series) and you know a fic is good when all you want to do is shake some brain cells into the characters *side eyes Blitzwing and Ratchet*. I often come back and reread this!

2. Favourite complete fic you’ve read this month (one-shot):

The Umbrella Academy: little white lies by @in-tua-deep because I adore everything they write and this one made my entire week when it was published! Just...A* Five analysis! Brilliant writing!! Great pacing!!! I love all of it! Also Klaus deserves extra kudos for being The Best sibling to his complex gremlin of a brother

3. Favourite WIP you’ve read this month:

The Umbrella Academy: If That’s Love by cylikkious Just...oof. So much oof. Major oof. Amazing character and relationship analysis between Five and Dolores and a take on them which you don’t see all that often. It’s simply *chefs kiss* Also drunk Five is always fun to read (and by fun I mean gut-wrenching!)

4. One fic/series you’ve read which you keep coming back to again and again:

Sherlock: The Elephant In The Room by flawedamythyst This is the fist fic I ever bookmarked back in 2013 and it feels like it only gets better each time I revisit it. Super writing, great at capturing the characters, and a good mix of sweet, tender moments and pure, painful angst!

5. Most underrated fic you’ve read this year:

M*A*S*H: The Very Model by the_aleator Yep, I cried when reading this. The pain. The angst. The tears. It just hits you right where it hurts and OW be prepared to be thinking about it for the rest of the day! Great writing and pacing as well!

6. Most underrated fic you’ve read EVER:

Over The Garden Wall: Secret Santa by skimmingthesurface Basically all of their otgw fics are awesome, but this one? Amazing, spectacular, incredibly winter-y and Christmas-y and festive! I love how they write Greg, and his relationship with his brother as well as Sara and all of Wirt’s other friends.

7. Favourite whump/angst fic of the year:

The Umbrella Academy: And Then There Was Five by maremote Five and Klaus running a plant shop? It’s more painful then you’d think! I love the way they write the brothers, and the brothers’ relationship with the plants, and all the pent up emotions Five has throughout. Another fic I’ve constantly come back to!

8. Favourite hurt/comfort fic of the year:

The Umbrella Academy: The Moons Laughs by @ladyorigami Me?? Crying constantly over this fic?? Nope, it’s just people cutting onions I don’t know what you’re talking about. I certainly don’t think about this fic every night, and how much Five needs a hug. Nope. Not me. Must be someone else.

9. Favourite fluff fic of the year:

Ducktales (2017): Peace and Quiet by DrummerGirl231 It wouldn’t be a fluff fic without some feels, but Scrooge is the best in this and I love him with his tiny niece and nephew. I recommend all of DrummerGirl’s Ducktales fics, because they’re excellently written and deserve to be swamped with kudos!

10. Favourite gen fic of the year:

TMNT: Hanging By A Turtle by @camsthisky Soft turtle bros? Check. Brotherly moments? Check. Hurt/comfort? Check. This fic has everything I’d ever want! I love Donnie’s p.o.v. and the way the feels. just. keep. hitting. It’s perfect, and I’ve read it so many times now that I’ve lost count!

11. Favourite smut fic of the year:

Nope, not my thing!

12. Favourite fix-it fic of the year/ever:

The Umbrella Academy: Contagious Hope by @tripleforte This will never not make me sad and the ending’s so bittersweet but that’s exactly how I like my fics so I’m actually happy through the tears! I love the alternative lives of the siblings, and how Five just?? Plonks down in the middle of all of it?? Like come on guys let’s become a family?? Perfect!

13. Favourite crack-fic fic of the year:

I searched around with the ‘tags to include’ bar on my bookmarks and according to that no fics I bookmarked this year had that tag, so I’ll leave this one be

14. Favourite sick-fic this year:

The Umbrella Academy: Get Me Out Of My Head by UnrememberedSkies Poor Five suffers in this fic and I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hug a non-existent person more? Also give them some medicine. And a blanket. And a pillow. This fic deserves more love and I think it’s been pretty overlooked, so please check this one out because it 100% deserves it!

15. Favourite kid-fic this year:

The Umbrella Academy: Something Domestic by @gentlemenpaws Teeny, tiny, adorable Five being cared for by a Who-Let-Me-Care-For-An-Infant Klaus? I’m in. Klaus’ panic is so sweet and he just?? Wants to do his best?? And also has several heart attacks because of Five’s powers?? Poor guy. I’ve read this enough to know parts from memory!

16. Fic this year which you didn’t expect to love as much as you do:

The Umbrella Academy: It Comes and Goes (In Waves) by hujwernoo Not to say I thought I wouldn’t like it, but going into this I didn’t realise how much I would adore this series. It’s so amazing and I have to pace myself reading it otherwise I start skipping lines in an effort to read it all at once. if you haven’t already checked it out, do!

17. Fic which convinced you to ship a pairing:

Guardians of the Galaxy: Blue on White by @bluesocksandfluff I honestly can’t remember when about I boarded the Yondu/Kraglin train, but I’m pretty sure it started with this fic! The hurt/comfort is A* and small Peter is everything, and Yondu is a grumpy grump to can’t admit he has a heart and I love him for it! This is another fic I’ve read to the point of remembering lines!

18. Favourite AU you’ve read this year:

The Umbrella Academy: the ballad of but first, coffee by deerie I was loving this fic anyway as I was reading it but what completely sold me was how they did Grace, and Five’s interactions with her. Just...Don’t mind me, crying in the corner because FEELS HAPPENED. Also Klaus being part of a knitting group? 10/10 if it doesn’t happen in season 2 I’ll riot

19. Longest fic/series you’ve read this year:

Good Omens: Inverse Omens by @amuseoffyre This series is so sweet and sad and lovely and painful and heartwarming and goddamn it Aziraphale sort out your panicking boyfriend!! I look forward to every update, and I love all the little historical moments and tidbits of information! Also the author updates super fast and I need to know what writing deity they made a sacrifice to and if that deity will accept a can of Dr Pepper and Walker’s crisps because that’s all I’ve got

20. The last fic you’ve read:

The Umbrella Academy: a life still permanent by @iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid By complete coincidence I am halfway through rereading this fic and I’m kicking myself for forgetting how goddamn good it is. I adore Claire and anyone who lays a finger on her head will face my wrath, and Allison’s siblings being awesome aunts and uncles? Yeeeeeeessss!!

21. Wildcard fic you haven’t mentioned but deserves a shout-out + why:

The Umbrella Academy: Beyond the Fire by DenDragon14 Soft Luther? Five dealing with his trauma? A setting we haven’t seen before with these characters? Klaus taking a picture he totally won’t use for blackmail later? Yep, this is my kind of fic! It’s just SO. SOFT.

Tagging: As long as you want to, all the authors I mentioned!!

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tisfan · 5 years

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Title: The Power of Positive Thinking Written by: @tisfan Square: B4 - Library AU Rating: G Triggers/warnings: none Tags: rude patrons, customer service, angel!librarian, customer service is hell Created for: @ineffablehusbandsbingo Word count: 688

Aziraphale, more commonly known to his human friends as Ezra Fell, and Mr. Fell to the library clientele, was binding a book back together. It wasn’t the delicate task, the way restoring an antique might be. This was a circulation copy that someone had gotten a little too enthusiastic about, but a simple bind and tape job. Some of Aziraphale’s colleagues were just as apt to slap duct tape on the back and re-affix the circulation sticker and call it a win.

Aziraphale was a little more particular than that, preferring to make sure the book was a well kept as possible. Bent pages and broken spines might indicate love for a book that resided on one’s own shelf, but the library copy shouldn’t look like someone dragged it through the mud. Why, the front cover was barely hanging on by a thread!

Fortunately, he owned an exacto knife, and while flaming swords were what he’d trained in, he knew his way around a pen blade or two.

“Excuse me,” someone said from behind him. More polite in words than tone. “I’m looking for a book.”

Aziraphale put on his best smile. “How fortunate for you that you happen to be in a library.” He carefully removed the spine, preserving it for the rebinding. It was a little cracked here and there, but an extra dab of glue would do the trick.

“The er… person at the front desk said you would help me,” the man continued on. “Mr. Bub?”

Beelzebub. Well, they were all but useless in the stacks anyway. “They did, did they? Well, if you’ll wait just two shakes of a lamb’s tail, this is a tricky bit of--”

“I’m looking for a specific book,” the man said, talking over Aziraphale. He no longer wondered that Beelzebub had sent the gentleman back to Aziraphale. He only marveled that they hadn’t bitten his head off and spat it down the stairs. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

“Oh, perhaps I can be of some assistance,” Aziraphale said. “Wonderful thing, card catalogs. What’s the title?”

“Don’t know,” the guy said. “It had a green cover.”

“That extends to an extraordinary number of books. I’m afraid you’ll have to be rather more specific. Author?”

“Who cares? It’s not like he was important.”

“Well, what was it about?”

“I haven’t read it,” the man said, sounding offended. “That’s why I’m looking for it. Friend recommended it.”

“Astonishing that they didn’t offer to lend it to you,” Aziraphale said. “Do you, in fact, remember anything about it that might assist in locating the book?”

“It was green. Think the first word of the title was The. Michael recommended it to me.”

“You’re too kind,” Aziraphale said. Right. Minor miracle time. He took a breath, touched his temple. “Ah… I think I have it for you, sir. The Power of Positive Thinking. This way.” He patted the book being repaired. You stay right there, please.

He led the man into the self-help section and pulled the book down from the shelf, offering it to him. It was not, Aziraphale noted, green. In fact, it was quite a disturbing shade of orange, with yellow swirls.

The man in the white suit glanced at the book. “Oh, well, yes, that’s…” He whipped out his phone and took a picture of the cover, turned around as if to walk away.

“Sir, your book?”

“Oh, don’t be stupid,” the man said. “I’m Gabriel, I don’t read books. I certainly don’t borrow them from dingy little libraries. I’ll order it on Amazon and put it on the shelf.”

And he left without saying thank you or anything.

“Well, he doesn’t need you, does he, dear?” Aziraphale said to the book and put it back on the shelf. “I’m quite positive that he was an arsehole.”

Well, if nothing else, it would make a fine story to tell Crowley when he got home from work. No doubt, Crowley, who worked in the nursery just down the block, would have several grand stories of his own. Customer service might not have been Hell, exactly, but sometimes, it was close.

#ineffablehusbands bingo #aziraphale #library au #customer service is hell

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moveslikebuckywrites · 4 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Good Omens (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ellen Degeneres Additional Tags: Crack, Memes, I have no excuses, shenanigans with the "fuck shit up jacket", because of course it is, never thought I'd tag Ellen in a fic Summary:

What happens when a demon decides to use old memes from 2010 and his "fuck shit up jacket" to cause a ruckus in Soho?

This, apparently.

~~~

I have no excuses this is a crackfic that came about from a conversation in the Ineffable Outliers Discord with myself, @apple-duty, and @cassandrasummer xD

~~~

An undetermined Friday, post Armageddon. Mayfair, London

Anyone walking down the street in Mayfair that night would hear shouting. Or at least they would, but the walls of the flat knew better than to let any sound out without permission. If one were to look through the window, one would see an iPhone slam against a concrete wall1.

Crowley had been trying to get a hold of Aziraphale for well past two days, with no answer. He’d driven by the shop, but the angel had been out both times. He, of course, did not want to appear like he cared so scoping out the shop more than necessary was completely out of the question2.

He sat in his ostentatious throne seething; how dare Aziraphale avoid him like this. Two could play it this game, and he could play very demonically if he wanted to.

Crowley stood and went to the closet in his bedroom and pulled out two very specific items. A black jacket with reflective orange tape and a large, oddly shaped black case.

Yes, two could play at this game. And if the angel wanted to ignore him, he’d make that task impossible.

---

6:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London

“C’mon, Linda, just pop on back to mine for a bit, yer mum ain’t gonna know!”

“Danny ya absolute toss, I’ll do no such thing!”

The young couple swayed through the near empty streets of Soho, drunk on wine and each other’s company.

“But Linda-“

“Don’t ‘But Linda’ me Danny Williams,” Linda says, pointing a shaky finger in his face with no real bite behind her words, “We ain’t been dating but a fortnight and you ain’t gettin’ me in the bed that easily!”

“But Linda, when I’m with you I can…I can…” Danny grasped for something, anything to say, “I can hear music!”

“Cheek!” she said but looped her arm back in his anyway and leaned against him as they started back down the street.

“Really can, ya know?” Danny said with more than a little bounce in his step, “Really snazzy saxophone music!”

“Danny,” Linda pointed towards a tall ginger man in a utilities uniform, “I think it’s that man in front of old Mr. Fell’s.”

Sure enough, as they got closer, the man was playing on a saxophone. At six am outside of a bookshop. This would seem to have no discernable reason, but the great thing about the human brain in the way She made it is that when there is no reason, that’s reason enough.

“Well I dunno why he’s doing it, but for a telephone worker he sure is great at those few bars of whatever that is.”

“Sounds familiar though, don’t it?” Linda said quizzically, “Wonder where I’ve heard it before?”

“Either way, it’s Soho on a weekend, he’s probably just a sloshed as we are.”

“Probably so, now walk me home you old buffoon.”

Danny and Linda strolled off arm in arm and the obvious utility worker kept playing on.

---

8:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London

Bill Waters was a patient man. An upstanding member of the community. A lawyer. He dressed in smart suits and was never seen without his pork pie hat. He had an image.

They had scoffed when he’d opened his practice in Soho. They’d laughed. But now? Oh, now, he was one of the most respected litigators in London.

He prided himself on his work ethic, his attention to detail, and his meticulous methods. He prided himself on his patience with his clients, with his family, and with anyone who he met. The community loved him, his neighbors loved him, his family adored him.

Which is why several people milling around the early morning streets were shocked to see him jumping up and down and yelling at a street performer.

“Sir, I demand in the name of common decency that you stop this at once!” Bill shouted, face turning a rather embarrassing shade one could liken to a tomato plant, “It’s been two bloody hours!3”

If the man from the utilities paid any mind to him, he didn’t let it show. Just kept playing the same four bars over and over again.

“I will call your superiors! What are you even supposed to be doing?!”

The man just continued with his smooth beats and rhythmic dancing. Was it dancing? Could barely call it that in the first place. Like something out of a bad 1970’s instructional video.

Bill continued to yell; the man continued to ignore it.

This just wouldn’t do, Bill resolved to phone the utilities company at once. He threw his hat down in frustration and stormed back across the street to his offices.

---

10:00 AM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London

“D’you think he lost some kind of bet?”

“Dunno…sounds familiar though, doesn’t it?”

“Ain’t this that shit from Eurovision like ten years ago? The saxophone guy?”

Nathan, Alice, and Jude were gathered around the strange man with the saxophone. They’d already tossed some money in his hat and were waiting for him to get around to taking requests. They were also by far not the only ones in the crowd.

“It is!” Alice said pulling up YouTube on her phone, “It’s the Epic Sax Guy music!”

“Christ that meme is older than dirt,” Jude said grimacing, “Why you reckon he’s doing this?”

“Maybe Mr. Fell pissed him off,” Nathan said, laughing, “He’s pissed off enough people around here with those weird hours.”

“Dad said he’s been at it since six this morning,” Alice (last name of Waters) said, “That’s four hours ago! That’s insane!”

“We oughta put it up somewhere, do a live stream or something. See how long he goes!”

“You know, Nathan, maybe we should,” Jude said, pulling out his cell phone, “Hell, I don’t have anywhere to be.”

The saxophone man played on.

---

11:00 AM Saturday morning; the news offices of the BBC

“Christ, William, it must be a slow day if this is what you’re giving me.” Margaret, producer for the BBC Weekend News said angrily into the phone receiver, “You really expect me to send reporters out to video a street performer in Soho? As if they aren’t a dime a dozen?”

She listened to the murmuring on the other end of the line, “Five hours? The whole time? And he’s dressed like what? A utilities worker? What do you mean Twitter?”

Margaret pulled out her phone and opened the app, clicking through to the trending page. Sure enough, there at number one: #UtilitySaxMan.

“Well, it is a slow day. Fine, send someone, just try to find me something real to put on the air by tonight, yes? I can’t just be putting Twitter fluff on the air!”

Margret slammed the phone back on the receiver and shook her head. What was the news world coming to these days? She blamed the millennials.

---

11:30 AM London time (3:30 AM California time). The Montecito home of Ellen DeGeneres

“I’m just saying we need this guy on the show. You know how much the audience loves an internet celebrity. Yes, that’s why I called you, because you’re in London.”

To the dismay of her wife who just wanted to sleep, Ellen was on the phone at 3:30 in the morning with one of the show’s associates in England. Once she got the idea to have someone on her show, there really wasn’t much anyone could do to stop her.

“So, no one knows who this guy is? He just showed up with a saxophone and started playing? Well that won’t stop us. Just go down there and talk to him when he stops playing. I just need him on my show, he’s trending like crazy, the memes are ridiculous!”

“I should probably go, but don’t let me down! This guy is insane, he should be a star!”

She hung up as Portia throws a pillow at her.

---

1:00 PM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London

“Play Single Ladies!” A voice from the gathered crowd shouted.

“Shut up, he’s not taking requests!” Jude shouted back at them.

“What are you, his agent?”

“I might be after this is over, you don’t know that!” Jude hissed from behind his phone, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this up.

The livestream was an immediate hit. He’s been inundated with new followers and reaction memes4. Even the BBC was here, along with several people in strange getups. He’d gotten three direct tweets from Ellen DeGeneres already, though he couldn’t answer. Not while the livestream was going.

This dude was insane. He never stopped; he was like a damn machine. Just kept playing and dancing (badly) and playing. He ignored everyone around him, ignored that his hat was now full past capacity of spare change and 1£ notes.

It was like he was on a mission, though what that mission could be was anyone’s guess.

“Young man, have you any idea who this fellow is?” one of the men, this one wearing a monocle, asked him.

“Nah, can’t say that I do,” said Jude, “I mean, he hangs out at Mr. Fell’s shop a lot, seems to know him. Dunno why he’s doing this though.”

“Did you hear that?” the man in the suit said to another, this one with a two-tone wig, “He knows the bookshop owner! That’s our in!”

---

3:00 PM Saturday morning; the sidewalk outside of A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London

“It is clearly a performance showing the prevalence of man over the subjugation of the corporate world! He celebrates his union job by playing this jubilant music!” said the man in the two-tone wig.

“I beg to differ; it is quite certainly a cry at the unjust conditions faced by workers!” said the man with a monocle.

These two had exactly three things in common: They were art critics, they were insufferable, and they had been arguing about this for the better part of two hours.

“How can you be so daft? The rawness and realness and power of this performance can only be described as euphoric!”

“Ah but you fail to take into account the monotony and the repetitive action! This man is in a prison of his own creation! A brilliant metaphor for the world under capitalism!”

The two men continued arguing and were approached by a man in a tan coat that was about one hundred and fifty years out of date.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” the man said, “But could you possibly tell me what all of the commotion is outside of my bookshop?”

“Oh, my goodness, you must be Mr. Fell! And you haven’t heard?!” shouted the first critic, acting as though he might faint, “The art world is completely a buzz!”

“It would seem, my friend, that the next great performance artist of our times has taken up residence outside your bookshop! Please, please introduce us to him!”

Mr. Fell looked confused as he tore away from the art critics and through the crowd. Past the young man with the camera, past the BBC News van, and past some Americans speaking very loudly into their cell phones.

“Crowley, what on Earth are you doing?”

The saxophone music stops abruptly. All eyes turn and focus on Mr. Fell.

“Oh, hello Angel…” the saxophone man stammers, “Just..uh…”

Before anyone can say anything, Mr. Fell storms forward and grabs the saxophone man by the arm, ushering him into the bookshop, behind a sign that clearly says “CLOSED”.

The crowd disperses, first the news van, then the passerby, then the art critics and the Americans. Jude stands there for a moment wondering what just happened.

He soon forgets why he was there in the first place, and if Twitter held any clues for him, they’re long gone now. Later, he'd look in his book-bag and find it full of loose change and 1£ notes.

Just an ordinary Saturday in Soho.

---

3:15 PM Saturday afternoon; inside A.Z. Fell and Co. Soho, London

“Would you care to explain, dear,” Aziraphale says as he unpacks his leather satchel, “just why you’re playing saxophone on my front stoop? And the news vans? And the art critics. You know how much I hate art critics!”

“You wouldn’t answer your phone,” Crowley says sulking on his favorite couch, “Got mad.”

“And did you conveniently forget dinner last week when I told you I’d be in Munich for a book auction for a few days?” Aziraphale shoots him a pointed look, “or were you just not listening in the first place?”

“Ngk.”

“I see,” the angel says, turning back to his books in a huff, “and how long were you out there?”

Crowley mumbled.

"Didn't quite catch that."

"I said ten hours," Crowley snapped, "Doing very demonic things, ruining everyone's weekend. Can take the demon out of hell but not hell out of the demon and all that." He crossed his arms over his chest and sulked lower into the couch than should be possible.

Aziraphale smiled to himself as he put away his new books, “Yes of course, my dear. Is that why you brought out the 'mess stuff up' jacket?Brightening everyone’s day with a bit of music, giving the BBC something to talk about? Such a demonic level of happiness out in the street today.”

“I-well-well,you-I-“ Crowley stammered, jumping up to stalk behind the angel to prove his point, “I made an old bloke with a pork pie hat have a fit, right in the middle of the street!”

Aziraphale sighed, Crowley was never quite as smooth as he pretended to be, and the angel saw right through him.

“My dear you are quite ridiculous, next time just come with me then you won’t feel the need for this nonsense.”

Crowley shoved his hands back in his pockets, trying to look aloof and failing, “I mean…I guess. Could use a vacation. Plenty of demonic wiles to get up to outside the country. Gotta keep you out of trouble...of course.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, clasping his hands together, “There we go then, problem solved!”

If the angel knew it was an excuse on the demon’s part to spend more time with him, he didn’t say. Nor did he mind in the slightest.

-----

1 – The iPhone, of course, knew better than to break. Just who’s apartment do you think we’re dealing with here, hmm?

2 – Least of all because he was scared of a certain angel picking up on a certain demon’s propensity to be what the kids referred to as a stage five clinger.

3 – In Bill Waters’ defense, he’d been late at the office the previous night working on a particularly challenging case. He’d been so exhausted, when the saxophone started up at around 6 am he’d thought himself hallucinating.

4 – Some choice memes that were shared on twitter:

#link #good omens #my fic #aziraphale #crowley #epic sax guy #special guest appearance of the 'fuck shit up jacket'#this is ridiculous y'all can blame the discord xD #sorry not sorry #I made memes for this #I went on meme generators and made MEMES for this

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