Aziraphale/crowley - Tumblr Posts

AO3 Top Relationships Bracket- Round 3

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WE DID IT GOOD OMENS FANDOM!!! 50k!!!!

(and we were at 44k only a week ago...)

Good Omens: Summer's End by FeralTuxedo

Posted by: kingstoken

Fandom: Good Omens Pairings/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley Rating: E Length: 47,342 words Creator Links: FeralTuxedo Theme: no canon required, dystopia, zombies

Summary: 2095. Britain is a post-apocalyptic wasteland ravaged by droughts, the collapse of civilisation, and hordes of the undead. Despite that, Aziraphale’s life is actually pretty good. He has his caravan, his books, and his work, offering his services to the men who stop by Tadfield on their arduous journey north.

One day, a mysterious stranger knocks on his door. Crowley is charming and handsome and he appears to know his way around a vegetable garden. He comes with the tempting offer of a mutually beneficial arrangement. But it’s in Aziraphale’s best interest not to get too attached.

A dystopian cottagecore sex worker AU.

Reccer's Notes: This is probably the softest zombie apocalypse AU I have ever read; the zombies are much more of a background element, and, aside from one pivotal scene, they have very little to do with the story.  Aziraphale is a sex worker living in the post-apocalyptic British countryside.  Crowley and him meet and come to an agreement that Crowley can stay with him in return for helping with Aziraphale's withered garden, but only for the summer.  I think the author handles Aziraphale's sex work well, and it never becomes a major issue between them.  The story is more about the development of their relationship and Aziraphale slowly coming to trust Crowley and accept him as part of his life.  The author does a great job with the setting, I could feel the hot summer sun and hear the bees buzzing about the plants. They do such a great job of showing the beauty of a world that has been ravaged, but still continues to grow. 

Fanwork Links: Summer's End

comments & original content @ fancake

Good Omens: Lunacy by snae_b

Posted by: kingstoken

Fandom: Good Omens Pairings/Characters: Aziraphale/Crowley Rating: E Length: 57,077 words Creator Links: snae_b Theme: No canon required, science fiction

Summary: Gone are the glory days when space exploration was novel and exciting and respectable. When astronauts were revered as heroes. No more Yuri Gagarins or Buzz Aldrins or Neil Armstrongs. Two centuries after Sally Ride and Chris Hadfield were celebrated for their achievements, space had become the frontier of the working class. As opportunities went down and inequalities went up on Earth, droves of blue-collar workers flocked to the skies to make a living. They put their lives in the hands of money-grubbing CEOs so their families could eat and they could afford to live on the levels higher than the smog line. By 2210 there were operations on every planet and nearly half the two hundred moons in the solar system. In 2233 Dominion Mining had built Ambition on Styx.

A mining crew and a geologist and a moon on the edge of collapse. What could possibly go wrong? Turns out, pretty much everything. Reccer's Notes: I don't normally read sci-fi horror so this story maybe hit me harder then it would most, but I still think about this story a lot, even years later. Aziraphale and Crowley trapped on a Moon with a creature you can't really see, while they desperately try and find a way out.  The author does a great job ratcheting up the tension. 

Fanwork Links: AO3

comments & original content @ fancake

Fic: My Bonds in Thee by Nym - Good Omens (TV)

Aziraphale comes back. Their love was never in doubt but they still have different exactlys.

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Wordcount: 42,600 of (probably 80,000 - WIP) Rating: Explicit AO3 Archive Warning: No archive warnings apply Tags: Second Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49148341/

If you need an AO3 invite code to view fanworks set as 'visible to logged-in users only', just contact me at the e-mail address on my AO3 profile.

Excerpt from My Bonds in Thee chapter 8:

The world ended here just a few days ago. His world. He's not sure he feels good about returning, but Gabriel got one thing right (one damned thing in his damned smug damned charmed damned bloody Supreme existence). Home is wherever the heart is. And Crowley's already given his to Aziraphale. That's like Armageddon: You don't get a do-over when it goes pear-shaped. Push on, then.

Crowley scratches his head through the cloth of the hood, relieved to feel that he still has hair.

"How, um, deviant are we thinking? I mean," he gestures to the spiral staircase, upstairs, shocked to feel his cheeks and ears getting hot. "Physically?"

Aziraphale freezes while putting the front door keys into the top drawer of the desk. He clears his throat lightly and composes his features into his usual expression of placid warmth.

"If you can't choose your form, my dear," he says, with a facade of ease that Crowley really admires under the circumstances, "I'd say, 'very'. Not that one knows much about these matters, being an angel." He closes the drawer, slowly, and turns around. "Were you, um, hoping to find out now?"

Crowley pictures Aziraphale in Eden, hastily turning his back on Adam and Eve with a shocked little huff when they figured out what all the naked bits were for.

He still wonders what would've happened if he hadn't tempted Eve to try the bloody fruit. Suppose he'd seduced an angel instead—whispered visceral temptation in that innocent ear and stroked that sweet, soft, angelic hair until Aziraphale shivered and dropped his flaming sword?

That would've looked great in Genesis.

"One doesn't bloody know," he says, throwing himself lengthways onto the couch in a dramatic sprawl. "And one would like a bloody big drink now."

Aziraphale brings him a small drink, a careful measure of Scotch, but he has the decency to bring the bottle too.

For a moment, the angel hesitates about where to sit. Crowley sees the moment when Aziraphale remembers the park, the water's edge, and their kiss. It softens his whole face with wonder and quiet joy. This in turn makes Crowley stop breathing. He pats the edge of the couch beside his hip, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Aziraphale sits there, flustered, and hands him the glass.

"Can we really do this?"

"It's too late to ask that now." Crowley's not sure of much right now, but he's clear on that. They can only move forward.

"No. I mean, the other thing. 'Pillar of salt time'."

"Oh." Crowley empties the whisky down his throat in one gulp. "I've no idea. Can we? It's not actually written down anywhere, is it? 'Thou shalt not have carnal knowledge of an angel stroke demon'?"

"Carnal knowledge," Aziraphale echoes fretfully. "Sounds very bad when you put it like that."

"You'd blush if I put it any other way."

"I'm already blushing. They call it 'making love'. The humans, I mean. That's nice. I like that one."

"I think we..." Frowning, Crowley tries to think it over. He's not supposed to be out of his mind with temptation. It's been his job to do that to other people. But the possibility of the two of them, more together than they're already together... "We can be anything we want. Any shape, I mean. So I guess we can find one that, you know." He gestures vaguely with his glass, unwilling to sully the idea with what Aziraphale would call 'vulgar language', "Works," he finishes, awkwardly.

"Do snakes, um..."

"Don't go there."

"I'm a bit worried that we could accidentally destroy each other," Aziraphale admits. "With carnal knowledge."

"According to most humans, it's one hell of a way to go."

"Oh." Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. Crowley holds up his empty glass with a meaningful nod. Aziraphale ignores it, instead putting the whisky bottle down on the floor. "It's worrying me," he confesses, almost whispering. "I know nothing worries you, but—"

"You think that?"

"What?"

"That nothing worries me?"

"Well..."

"I'm terrified." Crowley slaps a hand to his chest as evidence of his thundering heart. "I'm absolutely scared out of my mind. Hence the empty glass," he adds, meaningfully. "I don't have the answers, Angel. I'm not sure I even know the questions."

Aziraphale takes the glass out of his hand and puts it down next to the bottle with a tidy little 'chink'. Crowley watches it go with a tiny pang of grief, the hint of a pout.

"I had no idea. I'm sorry." He lays his hand on top of Crowley's with slow care. "I assumed again. That you'd— Being a demon, with all the temptations and everything..." It tails off as the merest hint of a question.

Crowley wrinkles his nose.

"Humans?"

"Yes."

"Ugh. No. It was my job to get them doing it to each other without, you know. The love bit. Selfishly. Destructively. Unadulterated lust. Except when it's adultery, I suppose. Does that adulterate it? Does it get cancelled out if it's adultery but they love each other? Or if they love each other but do it selfishly? There's a few decades of temptation time I'll never get back."

Crowley realises he's babbling and stops.

"I see." Aziraphale's fingers curl around Crowley's unresisting hand, fingertips brushing his chest. Even through two layers of clothing, the sensation makes Crowley's toes curl. "And how exactly does one tempt a human to succumb to the flesh?"

"Uh..." Crowley blows out his cheeks. It's been a while. His temptations, halfhearted anyway, have been on a larger scale since the Industrial Revolution. Whole populations, technology, not furtive couples. "Well, you know. Rainstorms, shelter together under an awning, Jane Austen's balls. That sort of thing. They look uncertainly into each other's eyes, go in for the big, climactic kiss and... and Bob's your uncle. Carnal knowledge all over the sho—place." He fidgets uncomfortably, suddenly regretting the way he draped a nonchalant leg over the far arm of the couch. He's exposed everything, and Aziraphale is looking uncertainly into his eyes. His sunglasses, anyway. "It's programmed in for them. Some of them. A lot of them."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, making a devastatingly unsuccessful attempt to look naughty. "Take off your glasses. I can't kiss you if you're not looking at me."

Never, never, in the thousands of years since he invented the bloody things, has it taken Crowley so many agonising eternities to snatch the stupid bits of glass and wire from his nose.

Aziraphale plants a hand on either side of Crowley's shoulders and bends swiftly, pecking him on the lips and—Crowley gulps—chuckling in the back of his throat. It's a deep sound. It's the sexy, evil twin of Aziraphale's guilty, nervous titter.

"Oh, God," Crowley mumbles, kissing upwards, like it's programmed in. "If this doesn't work—" kiss, "—we'll be cringin—" kiss, "—cringing about it 'til mumnff—" kiss, open mouths, a shared gasp, "'til the heat death of the universe."

[continue reading on AO3]

why was crowley gender switching in the sex scene?

Crowley thinks he's having a demonic allergic reaction to using the L-word about Aziraphale for the first time, and is thus losing control of his form/powers. He's much more upset about the revolting tastebuds than he is about the unruly lower-down bits.

The author feels he's externalising his stress and existential panic as physical tics and needs to learn to articulate his deeply held Aziraphale feels using words. Or, failing that, diagrams and a Powerpoint presentation. (Give him a 'wahoo!')

But I'm all for 'death of the author', especially in the Good Omens-verse where it's right at home, and I'm not sure Aziraphale really realised anything unusual was happening to Crowley's nether regions anyway, not having tried giving anyone an orgasm before. He was just happy when it worked and they ended up all cuddly.

Aziraphale has the vague notion that Crowley's tended to opt to be human-male-shaped recently, possibly because he likes how it makes the skinny modern trousers fit, and that he doesn't usually have scales or long hair anymore, but that's about as far as his train of thought goes. He'll take Crowley exactly as Crowley comes.

(Er... So to speak.)

Was looking for some Ineffable husbands fics and saw this...

PART 1&2/?

White Walls and Dead Air

They were dying. They were dying and there was nothing Aziraphale could do to stop it. He had his orders, and he couldn’t interfere. He was the protector of humanity, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and all he could do was watch as they dropped like flies. He was touching them, mostly. No one else would. No one else could. He was smoothing his bare hands over their fevered and blackened skin. They would wheeze and cough and stretch out for him as he walked away to the next body, pride crushed long ago by hours of agony, but it was somehow even harder to leave the thousands of people he had yet to reach than it was to walk away.

He thinks this must be what starving feels like. To call out for something so desperately with every fiber of your being, something to end the pain. He hasn’t stopped praying in days. Begging. He thinks he’s dying with them--he feels it in his chest, seeping into his lungs with every breath of the rancid air. Flies buzz over the bodies, like vultures, and rats hold back in the corners of rooms and alleys, and Aziraphale can’t interfere. He can’t.

He doesn’t understand. No one told him why and he doesn’t understand.

It’s after the fourth day that he decides he hates God. He’s too tired to hold it back. Too miserable. Too busy dying. He knows he’ll go back on it later. He knows that he’ll repent later, and he’ll mean it, he thinks, once he gains some perspective, but there is nothing that could stop this bone-deep agony from churning and rising into something ugly. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s an angel, he really shouldn’t be thinking these things. Blind obedience is what they were created for. It’s in this moment that he can admit to a flaw in the Almighty’s design. If she wanted soldiers, she shouldn’t have given them the capacity to love.

It’s on the seventh day, and isn’t that ironic, that his saving grace appears. Crowley. Through the haze of sick and death and flies, Crowley emerges--Aziraphale can do nothing but watch after his eyes catch on Crowley’s form, purposeful and sure--walks to him through the maze of bodies, takes his arm and tugs him away. “Crowley, stop, please, let me go,” he’s protesting, but it’s weak. He’s not even trying, just letting himself go. He’s the protector of humanity. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate. He could destroy Crowley if he wanted. As much as they bicker about who will win in the end they both know hell will lose. God doesn’t say much, not anymore, but She did say this. Hell will lose. Aziraphale was built for that inevitable battle. He could tear Crowley apart. He doesn’t. He doesn’t do anything. In the end, even his protests die out in favor of silence and he just lets himself be pulled.

A part of him, a part of him that he hates, is glad to leave. He wishes he continued to argue. Wishes he didn’t want to leave with Crowley. Wishes he was a better angel, or maybe a worse one, depending on your perspective. He’s never thought in terms of perspective before. He doesn’t think he likes it.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been walking. It feels endless. Crowley is walking quickly, or he wants to, but every once in a while he’ll glance at Aziraphale and adjust his pace to the dragging of his feet. Aziraphale is so tired, and so, so full of hate. He’s starting to understand why Crowley sleeps so much. Is this what it’s like to be a demon? To be so full of bitterness?

It’s slow going. The streets are cramped and filthy, and weaving in and out takes time, despite the lack of people. They’re all inside. Hiding. Every once in a while they pass a cart stacked with bodies and Aziraphale doesn’t even have it in him to be horrified, doesn’t feel anything at all anymore. The sky is a beautiful blue, and there’s crying coming from an alley to their left, a woman, and Aziraphale isn’t going to check on her. He doesn’t even think he’s dying anymore. He thinks that maybe he’s finished, a wandering wraith, and Crowley has come to take him to hell for his sins. Except that heaven and hell are only for humans, and nothing is supposed to happen to angels and demons when they die. Maybe this is all he gets. This nothing. He wouldn’t be surprised if God didn’t want him anymore after this; if she just let him go, let him slip between the cracks.

It’s only after the streets have started to open up, only after the dirt turns to grass and things have stopped dying that Crowley lets them slow. He pulls Aziraphale up a grassy hill and sits him down under an apple tree. Aziraphale can’t help but laugh when he sees the apples. The laughter is rattling around his insides, bouncing off of his walls and coming out hollow, the way a voice sounds when it has nothing to echo off of. He’s changed his mind. This must be what a proper angel is supposed to feel like. He’s always hated the emptiness of heaven--the pristine white walls and the dead air--and he knows he’s never been quite right to think so, but now. Now look at him.

He’s still laughing the nothing laugh of an empty chapel and Crowley is looking at him like he’s the most terrifying thing he could have imagined, but the horrible irony of the Original Tempter taking him to an apple tree in this moment is cracking him open to reveal all of his cobwebs and there’s no stopping it. His wings burst out of the aether without his permission, powerful white sails that envelop his quaking corporation. His feathers are messy and dry, he didn’t think to groom them until it didn’t seem to matter anymore, and are so unkept that some feathers are starting to come loose in protest.

It’s like this, hunched over in sprawling laughter, that he feels the first touch. It’s tentative, shy, but undeniable. A hand on one of his primaries, straightening and smoothing it. His laughter dies at the touch, slowly sliding away to remind him of the exhaustion that’s been hounding him for days. His wings droop and open to reveal Crowley sitting parallel to Aziraphale, kneeling on the ground in front of him as if he would have waited patiently for Aziraphale to pull back the protective cover of his white feathers for centuries. His crimson hair is long, cascading down his back and over his shoulders in gentle waves, and his sharp features are softened by something flickering in his eyes, lending him a tenderness that Aziraphale hasn’t seen since Mesopotamia.

Crowley gets like this, sometimes. Lets his sharp edges fall away. Lets his defenses down for Aziraphale. He’s usually drunk. If he’s not drunk, he’s hurt. Or Aziraphale is. He’s… sweet like this. Peaceful. Aziraphale has caught him with children before, playing. The mothers would let him, smile at him, and slip children into his arms with ease and trust. It would make a throbbing pain go off in Aziraphale’s chest to see him like that and he’d have to look away. He’d then spend however long he could spare pretending he wasn’t stealing glances.

Crowley reaches forward, slowly, like Aziraphale is something wild that might run at the snap of a twig underfoot. His fingers are soft as he cards his them gently through Aziraphale’s hair, and his hands are warm, and there is something so knowing in this action that Aziraphale feels like he might shed his skin and slip into Crowley’s to get closer to it. He leans into the touch, a cat in the sun, and his eyes fall closed for a long moment before blinking open heavily. He doesn’t look up again--doesn’t need to when he has the touch to ground him in whatever this warmth is--instead his tired gaze stays on the grass and he lets himself feel: the rough texture of the thick blades beneath his fingers, the cool night air, so sweet after the miasmic haze of rot, Crowley’s hand on his cheek. Aziraphale lets his wings spread out around him, open and vulnerable and impossible to lift, he wonders how he ever managed to lift them at all, and he’s slumping forward into Crowley before he can stop himself.

Crowley moves forward to catch him with natural fluidity, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think, pushing up with his knees so that Aziraphale’s head is resting against his chest. Crowley’s arms wrap around him, one around his shoulders, another holding the back of his head carefully. Aziraphale wonders if anyone has ever been so very careful with him. He doesn’t know how long they stay there, but at some point he’s closed his eyes again and by the time he opens them the blue of the sky is streaked through with oranges and pinks and Crowley has wrapped his own sable wings around them both loosely in a protective shelter to block out the breeze, chilled by the sun’s impending disappearance over the horizon.

Aziraphale shifts against him, and when Crowley speaks Aziraphale can feel the soft rumble in his chest, “What can I do? What do you want from me?”

Aziraphale pulls himself up to press his eyes into Crowley’s neck, “Nothing.” There’s a long pause as neither of them move, “Stay.” His next word is a whisper, tentative and reaching, “Please.”

Crowley moves backwards, and for an awful second Aziraphale thinks he’s pulling back so that he can leave, but the catch in his breath is soothed by Crowley’s hand running down the length of his back, stopping to hold over the small of it, “Okay. Okay, angel. I’ll stay.”

Aziraphale lets out his breath in a gust of relief, and when Crowley continues to move he lets himself be maneuvered until he’s lying flat, cheek to the earth. He’s stretched out and pliant in the slightly damp grass and the soft sensations of the night are lulling the aching in his bones to a quiet hum. He thinks he should be surprised when he feels Crowley's fingers sink into his feathers but he’s really, really not. It makes sense that he’s there, that he saw the grime and the disorder to his feathers and he decided to make it right. He’s always been caring in a way Aziraphale has never managed. In an easy way, like giving these things to Aziraphale is nothing more than an extension of himself, like breathing.

Aziraphale can’t help but wonder what he did to deserve this from him. It feels like all he does is take from Crowley. He’s worried that there isn’t enough left of him to give after he’s exhausted so much of himself on heaven, on humanity, on all of the ways he’s tried to help and has come up wanting.

Crowley is working on his feathers properly now. He’s miracled up a damp cloth and is wiping each one clean of grime meticulously, pulling out any loose feathers and down he comes across along the way and dropping them into a forming pile at Aziraphale’s hip. It’s silent as he works. There are crickets, and frogs somewhere, but no one is crying, and no one is choking on their own life force, eyes wide and begging wordlessly for him to help. He’s so tired of helping. No. He’s not tired of helping. He’s tired of comforting. He knows he could stomach it all if he was helping, but he’s not, and he hasn’t in so very long, and what is even the point of him anymore?

Silent tears are slipping from his eyes and dripping into the grass and he’s shaking with grief and when did this happen? When did his emptiness start to feel like knives to his insides? Crowley makes a broken sound when he sees Aziraphale’s tears. Moves one of his steady hands to the center of his back and presses him down with it, just slightly, lending him comfort through the weight of it, tethering him. Crowley must decide this isn’t enough because he leans over his prone form and rests along his back, sliding the hand between his shoulder blades up to brush away the tears he can reach. Aziraphale can feel his breath on the back of his neck, cool and dry, and lets himself get lost in the sensation of the warm blanket of Crowley’s body. It’s sealing him up, whatever this is, patching his cracks and stoppering the holes that have been letting in water to drown him, and Aziraphale holds himself back from letting a low whine escape his throat before he can seem even more desperate than he already is.

After some time Crowley levers himself up again to continue, eventually tugging at Aziraphale’s shoulder, signaling for him to flip over and give him access to the underside of his wings. Aziraphale obeys ponderously, and it’s strange to feel the cold night air on his damp clothes, his skin still itching with indentations from the coarse grass. Crowley sets to work on the other side, and Aziraphale watches the pile of his discarded feathers grow.

His wings had been a constant discomfort, although he wasn’t aware of it, and having them groomed is akin to how he imagines Crowley feels after taking his hair down after a long day and shaking it out. Aziraphale hasn't seen this end-of-the-day routine often, but when he has the chance he always watches with fondness as Crowley runs his fingernails over his scalp and closes his eyes in pleasure at the freedom. It’s such a simple comfort. A loose relief.

Crowley touches his shoulder again, his fingers are cold now after being exposed to the chill of the air for so long, and Aziraphale rolls over onto his stomach, bringing his arms up to cushion his head. Crowley works the oil from the gland at the base of his wings, coating his palms, and sets to work on the second round.

He takes his time, laying each feather flat as he coats it with fresh oil. It’s another hour before he finishes, the sunset has brightened and faded, leaving new stars in its wake, but he never wavers. Crowley has taken care of him like this twice before, after both the flood and the crucifixion. Actually, they took care of each other after the flood: curled together in the corner of one of the few unoccupied roofs left to stand on. They were soaked by then, and it took a steady stream of miracles from them both to keep from being swept away by the current, but neither of them could leave. They didn’t discuss it, simply sat together in the perpetually rising rapids and listened. They took turns mourning, falling apart and putting each other back together as they watched the world die. It took days. The animals went first, then the humans. The last to go were the birds, but the two didn’t stick around to watch them drop from the sky in exhaustion. They didn’t mention it, would never mention it, would never let the horror of those days rise up from the secret places they buried them in.

The crucifixion was three days of agony. The Son of God gave up his spirit, taking his light, the light of the Almighty, with him into death, and for three long days and nights there was nothing but a devastation so complete the humans were left groping their way across the earth, helpless and lost. It pressed in and ate at them, a despair so profound children didn’t stop crying until the sun finally rose on that third day. Aziraphale was shaking with it, anguished and breaking apart. He was created to serve, to be in the presence of God, and her absence… he had never felt anything so horrible in all of his existence. Crowley held him through it, whispered to him, touched him, reminded him again and again, “I’m here, angel, I’ve got you. You’re not alone.” And he wasn’t. He clung to Crowley like a life raft in a storm, and for the first time comprehended what it would be like to fall. He couldn’t… he wouldn’t.

Never again.

By the time Crowley finishes Aziraphale hasn’t been able to focus on anything but his touch for a long while and his wings are sleek and perfectly ordered in the moonlight. When his touch finally leaves Aziraphale misses him, but he makes no sound, simply flips back onto his stomach and raises his wing in invitation. They’d done this before. Crowley knows what he is asking. Aziraphale is breathless with anticipation, with longing, with hope, his heart beating double time at his small offering.

Crowley doesn’t hesitate, but crawls forward and wedges himself against Aziraphale’s side. He’s freezing, Aziraphale feels horrible that he didn’t notice before and shifts so that he’s lying on his side. He should have known, should have realized. Demons run cold--so deep under the earth, so far from the light--and Crowley has nothing to replace that glow, nothing but skin and bones. He pulls Crowley closer against him and wraps him up in his warm arms. If nothing else he can provide Crowley with this comfort.

Crowley reaches out slowly in return. He attaches himself to Aziraphale in increments: first coiling his arm around Aziraphale’s side, keeping the other furled tightly between their chests, then sliding a leg between Aziraphale’s knees. Aziraphale hugs him tight. No one has ever been so very aware of him. Of his corners and cracks. Aziraphale tries not to think this way, tries not to think about Crowley at all when he can help it. About the reverent way Crowley treats him. The way he steals glances and touches. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his sharp cheeks and he leans towards Aziraphale like a plant in the sun.

The more he thinks about it the more he aches with the loss of him, and if Aziraphale lets himself feel the way his insides tear to pieces whenever Crowley leaves without saying goodbye he’ll never stop. So he doesn’t, even though the warm glow of being close is stealing his breath away and setting off a minefield’s worth of explosions in his head, he doesn’t think about it. He screws his face up tight and pulls Crowley’s shivering body closer and lets his wings thrum with the memory of his touch and he does not think about it.

He just doesn’t know what goodness is supposed to look like if it isn’t white walls and dead air. He hates it, he hates it with everything in him, and he thinks it makes him horrible, but the reality of his twisted existence is that he doesn’t know if he could stand without the crutch of heaven’s vague orders. So he pulls Crowley closer and tucks his head under his chin, letting his lips hover over the crown of Crowley’s head, don’t touch, careful not to touch, and he doesn’t think about any of it.

Crowley will be gone in the morning. He always is. Aziraphale can’t bear to think about that either. He thinks that if he feels Crowley slip out of his arms he might give himself up to it with wild abandon. Drag him back down. Beg him to stay, stay next to him forever, they’ll never have to untangle their limbs and no one will ever have to go, but he can't. He can’t make himself. Not after all this time. Instead, he lets himself drift off to the soft whir of the tender warmth in his chest, and he pretends that tomorrow he’ll wake with the sunrise, and everything will sparkle in the new light, and it will all be okay. Like this, Crowley curled close to his chest under a blanket of constellations, letting himself believe is as easy as falling asleep.

Aziraphale reached to push a strand of Crowley’s hair behind his ear. “I like that we’re different.” Crowley just stared in response. That just summed it all up, didn’t it?

We Can Have This is complete!!

We can have this (8228 words) by wahoostar Chapters: 4/4 Fandom: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) Characters: Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) Additional Tags: Post-Good Omens (TV) Season 2, Angst, Fluff, mental health, They're In Love Your Honor, I'm definitely not projecting here (I am definitely projecting), They are talking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Teasing, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, If You Squint - Freeform, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, Vaginal Fingering Summary: Crowley was anxious. Scared already into thinking he was being too much. Honestly, the feeling had been there for some part of their 6000 years of knowing each other, but it was more pressing now. More real; now that he was able to safely spend his time alongside Aziraphale. They ARE talking! They ARE caring for each other!!!!! They love each other !!!!!!!!!

@goodomensafterdark

Thank you to anyone who has been reading along!

This started as an idea I had after a rough day, which resulted in 4000+ words in one night. This is my first GO fic and second fic ever!

Overall I'm very proud of myself for seeing the story through and trying something new!!! <3

AHHH, Aziraphale is such a soft angel boy and he's my favorite! (He's Crowley's favorite too)

The ineffable miss fell-

A lurker no longer I am now an active participant in the Gomens fandom!

If I’m posting irregularly no I’m not hugs and kisses 💕

read this one post where crowley goes to bzb and gabriel and makes them remove his memories which manifest as a snake and then when aziraphale comes back he's so shocked and hurt so anyway sitting in my class head empty except season 2 brainrot and i thought. what if he comes back and crowley doesn't recognize him. he gets weirded out by this random pretty guy acting like they're long lost lovers but this time aziraphale is smarter. he drags him to bzb and asks them to give back his memories but when they try it doesn't work. why? wait and see

continuation of my little post

its only after he enters the cafe that he remembers why its a bad idea. for one its the cafe right across the bookshop whose owner keeps giving him sad looks. plus he has no memory of his ENTIRE LIFE which has made conversing with anybody very difficult this past year. and for some reason Anthony doesn't want this pretty man to think he's weird.

but for some reason its nothing like that. the man tells him he's a manager for some bigshot company and asks Anthony questions as if he's actually interested in the answers. and if for some reason he never asks about where Anthony's from he's too glad to really question it.